Chapter Twenty-Four
“Small steps, that’s all we’re trying to achieve here,” the counsellor said, as he peered through his spectacles at her. Sasha really was sitting on a therapist’s couch now. The counsellor’s office was situated in a townhouse. When she rang the bell, a man answered, smiling. He looked surprised. She wondered why. Did she not look like his average depressed patient?
She had made an effort to apply make-up; the first bit of effort she had made in a while. Her hair was carefully coiffed; recently highlighted and accurately straightened. One of the luxuries she’d afforded herself was regular trips to the hairdresser. Her recent state of apathy was such that even the effort of hoisting herself into a bath had started to feel like a mountainous task. How much easier it was to let a hairdresser gently caress her hair over a sink and then effortlessly style it into a sleek bob in under fifteen minutes. Ten pounds later, she felt like a new woman with more of a spring in her step.
“Hi, I’m Sasha,” she smiled. “I’m here for my session?”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise and his lips followed with a smile, then a keen gesture to ‘come in, come in.’
She wondered what his depressed patients usually looked like. Old, perhaps? Overweight? Wearing comfy trackie bottoms, no make-up visible? Dark bags under the eyes, signifying major lack of sleep?
He led her into a room which could easily be mistaken for her granny’s front living room. Comfy sofas, low lights, pictures on the wall, a coffee table displaying a box of tissues. In fact it was a living room really. This was a residential townhouse converted to a therapist’s room, which gave it a lovely cosy feel.
It was only on this, her second session, that he was already suggesting ‘small steps’. Sasha hadn’t expected to hear practical action tips about how to move forward. Sasha expected to talk more about her problems; to regale the counsellor with terrible stories about her time with Kirk; not to mention her horrific childhood and the deep emotional scars she must be hiding. She wanted sympathy, empathy, and long conversations with depth and weight.
“Just small steps,” he repeated. “I mean things like: setting your alarm to get up at a certain time each day, having a shower, taking a short walk.”
Sasha squirmed in her seat. She wondered if she had washed that day? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps she hadn’t. Oh dear.
He handed worksheets to her. Pages of bullet points and diagrams. Pointers like ‘have a wash’, ‘go for a walk’.
Surely it couldn’t be this simplistic? she thought. Surely the doctor hasn’t put me on a six-month waiting list just to be told, ‘have a wash’?
She stared at the worksheets in horror, unable to lift her eyes to meet the therapist’s gaze. Was this for real?
However, something must have stuck, because several days later, she found herself sitting down to write a plan.
• Long-term goals
• Short-term goals
What I could do this week
What small steps I could take today
“It’s like this,” the therapist said. “If you keep doing the same things, aren’t you going to get the same results?”
He had a point. If she spent an entire year comfort eating, going to bed late, waking up late, feeling groggy all day, surfing the sofa, working her way through copious reality shows, wasn’t she likely to get the same results? Weight gain, depression, apathy, pushing people away, loneliness?
If she took small steps every day for a year, wasn’t she likely to reap some results at the end of the year? Weight loss, experiences with friends, dates, a new partner, a published novel? You reap what you sow.
Taking out a piece of paper and a pen, Sasha wrote the following:
• Long-term goals
- A relationship with a man who loves and accepts me as I am
• Short-term goals
- Sign up to an online dating service
- Sign up to social events
- Set aside time for exercise sessions
• What could I do this week?
- Sign up to an online dating service
- Sign up to a social event
- Set aside Sunday to exercise
• What small steps could I take today?
- Sign up to an online dating service
Sasha set her pen down and looked back at the exercise she had just completed. How was it possible that, after only 20 minutes, when absolutely nothing had changed in her life or her circumstances, she immediately felt better? She felt she had more energy, more zest for life, and above all, more hope. She did not want to retreat to the sofa today. She did not want to pull her comfort blanket over her. She did not want to binge out on chocolate and popcorn and reality TV. She did not want to feed herself medication which would slow her down and zone her out. Nor did she want to guzzle back copious glasses of wine or drag desperately through a packet of fags. She did not want to slump into a depression today. She wanted to take one small step. One small step that would take her closer to her visualisation. If she could get her head on the pillow tonight, putting a tick next to the box for ‘one small step taken’, she knew she was on her way to a better life. It made her feel in control. It gave her power back. Which was a far cry from the last list that Kirk had written and asked her to sign.
She wondered, briefly, if she and Mr Counsellor would hit it off and have a relationship. He was good looking, to be fair. Though verging on the nerdy side of the spectrum, with spectacles, and an over-keen air, he seemed nice; reliable, trustworthy, pleasant. She imagined, for one brief moment, that over the course of their sessions they might fall in love. That their weekly slots of intimate discussions could lead to a feeling that they were closer than they actually were. She’d be baring her soul, opening herself up, becoming vulnerable. He, in turn, was being protective, manly; helping her to cope with her problems. He’d be like a strong shield and she’d be the one who needed to be rescued.
She caught her line of thinking and scoffed at herself inwardly. How silly to fantasise about her therapist! Wasn’t that the oldest cliché in the book? A well-worn stereotype? Transference – that’s what it was called. She’d learned that from Kirk. Kirk, the therapist; the one who should’ve known better. How ironic that Kirk had been talking down to her all that time; telling her that she should change. And now here she was, being sent to a counsellor by her doctor; being told she needed help. Had Kirk been right all along? She dreaded to think so.
But this new counsellor – Jim – he seemed different; nicer, more genuine, kinder. Not up his own arse like Kirk was.
She shut the thoughts off and tried not to worry about it. No, Jim was not future relationship material, of course not. He was a therapist. He was doing his job. It would be entirely unethical. Besides, she was being silly. She needed to get out more; meet new people. So that she would wouldn’t be fantasizing about the first guy she laid eyes on.