Her Greatest Mistake by Sarah Simpson (10)

Cornwall 2016

I eventually arrive at the Mevagissey surgery. It gripes at me being late, especially as I’m seeing a child. As if they’re not feeling nervous enough. I squeeze in beside the brand-new Audi, belonging to the new GP, Sandra divulged on my last visit, thinking it would interest me. She was wrong. I breathe in to inelegantly cuddle my car, climbing out in the eight-inch gap I’ve left. Pristine paintwork is an overrated liability living down here. I turn and catch a glimpse of my reflection in his glass. Thank God, it’s imperfect. My cheeks are flushed from my overwrought journey, I feel dishevelled. I throw off my personal hat, replacing it with my clinician’s.

Composed, I walk towards the seventies brick building. Leave it all at the front door, Eve. The words, fit to practice, spare capacity, echoing through my silenced mind. I shove them away. Life equals experience and experience equals a better clinician. Besides, I have no choice. Sometimes though, the responsibility of my work feels all too heavy and burdensome. Thankfully, most of the time, I’m a master of displacing my personal angst, boxing it away in the attic. Usually for night-time perusal.

I bundle through the heavy glass door, stealing a cursory glance around the waiting room, in desperate need of some TLC. I spot mum and daughter waiting, a partnership of apprehension. I smile in their direction then hurry on to sign in at Reception. I have the word ‘psychologist’ stamped on my forehead. I try my best to blur stereotyped suppositions. But we’re still witch doctors for many. I’m not sure who looks more nervous, mum or daughter. The paradox, this child possibly feels so in control and mature partaking in self-harming behaviours, yet she now emits fragility and immaturity. Mental health symptoms proposing a mode of control, yet the truth is the absolute opposite. Lies, all lies. The conditions deceive and conquer, twist and distort the truth, then deactivate the mind they have thieved.

In my temporary room, I haphazardly abandon my briefcase in haste so to return to the waiting room. Taking to the edge of an inflexible seat, I perch next to the small girl. Blimey, these clinics don’t always help; if I had to wait in here, I’d feel depressed too. I face the young, all-eyes expression, and smile. She looks to mum, as reality hits. I need to speak to mum but only once Milly has engaged with me. Knowing I’ve a very small window of time to build rapport, no second chances here. Her toned-down green eyes regard me before preferring to ogle her shoes. She is only a little younger than Jack, yet she already appears to hold the responsibility of the world on narrow shoulders. As does Jack at times. I feel a shooting pang in my heart for mum and daughter. Both of them wondering how they’ve got to this.

‘Hi. Milly?’ I ask, despite knowing.

‘Yeah,’ a falsely confident voice bounces back.

‘I’m Eve, this must be mum. Clare?’ I smile at mum. Milly nods after a swift peep at mum; as if to check she’s still here.

She wishes for mum to take over, to speak with me instead, so I keep the conversation moving in her direction. A few moments later, Milly agrees to join me alone, wishing she hadn’t agreed to being here at all. How can she explain to a stranger something she doesn’t even understand? I make meaningless chat as we walk the corridor, her nerves buzzing around her like static energy. What connects us right now is the acknowledgment of her not wanting to be with me.

We sit opposite each other; her nails are bitten to the point of being sore, obscured by the chipped emerald-green nail varnish. Fleeting glimpses between me and clenching anxious fists. She has what look like marker-pen tattoos covering her right hand, and reaching up her left arm, as far as I can see. I’m thinking, Milly is not normally an unconfident girl. Low self-esteem maybe, but not shy of craving attention. The nail-biting implies she is anxious, out of control of something. It’s not just because of me, the undesirable stranger standing over her natural sureness. Her hair is cut in a modern style, requiring a degree of nurtured styling. She clearly cares about her appearance, yet chooses to disfigure it. Though, she may not view this as a choice, yet. A cry for attention, of any form. Insecure, definitely. Trauma, a possibility. Historic patterns, age, biology, behaviour and or environment? Last week, I visited a child of the same age, a mathematical genius, but her extreme left-brain dominance made normal daily social interactions so painful, she too turned to self-harm to escape her hostile world. Milly is different; her tattoos and subject biases communicate creativity, right-brain strength.

Confident enough to scribble all over her body, to wear bright green nail varnish, but she is at the moment insecure about something, someone. Did mum appear anxious? Has she learned this? She struggles with direct eye contact; this is in part her age, and also these unusual clinical circumstances. But mostly because she doesn’t wish to be discovered, not by me anyway; only by the rest of her world. Her new temporary world. Often the most outwardly confident prove to be the individuals who seek the most affirmation and security. A confidence in acting the part, even the jester, paired with a low self-esteem. Confidence versus self-esteem. Often mistaken as the same. I’m confident in my ability as a therapist but my self-esteem hangs on something else, and has been smashed over the years. Milly is confident, but her self-belief system is on the floor.

I smile at her.

‘Okay. Milly, tell me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure you’d rather be anywhere else than sitting here with me right now.’

Wide eyes stare at me. Am I setting her a trap? I nod to assure her I’m not.

‘Yeah, probably.’ She nibbles on her non-existent nail.

‘Yep, I think I’d feel the same too if I were you. Completely understandable, I promise you. Still, at least you’re missing some time from school. That’s got to be a good thing, yes?’

She allows the smallest of chuckles to escape.

We continue a little longer with informal chatter, until I receive a few more grins and nods. I already know a little relevant information to break the ice; I asked her mum to email me Milly’s interests. Eventually the mature façade drops sufficiently for us to begin. Milly’s hands have unclenched; she’s gaining eye contact, despite shuffling in the uncompromising chair. But there is something else behind those eyes, an undisclosed heaviness. I have my concerns.

‘Milly, can I just say, this is not the same as being at school. There are no right or wrong answers. I don’t expect you to say or behave in a special way. I appreciate I’m a stranger, but I’m hoping, with time, you’ll be able to talk to me about anything you want to. If I say something you don’t understand, stop me, if I say something you disagree with, tell me, please. Deal?’

‘Okay.’

‘Great. So why do you think you’re here today, with me now?’

She looks slowly to the ceiling, before back to me. Wondering what she is supposed to say, rather than saying what rolls off her tongue.

‘Whatever comes first to mind, Milly.’

‘̛Cos they… think I need help.’ She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I think.’

‘They?’

‘Yeah, Mum and her boyfriend. Miss James. They do.’

‘Miss James, she’s your school nurse?’ I ask, making a mental note she referred to her mum’s partner as her boyfriend. I already know they all live as a family, together. Does Milly not get on with him? I’ll ask mum about this one, at some point. It could be Milly’s way of reaching her mum’s attention, or something more sinister. Or pure defiance.

‘Yeah, she used to be, like, nice. But then she rang Mum. And it’s caused loads of trouble at home. So I kind of don’t think she’s nice any more. She should have kept out of it.’

‘Ahh, right, okay, I see. Do you think she may have been worried about you, though, Miss James? It’s a difficult situation for her, Milly. I’m sure she thought she was helping you, that she was doing the right thing.’

‘That’s what Mum said, yeah.’ She shrugs again, adjusting her seat. One thing I dislike about not being at the Lemon Street clinic. It’s really hard to relax when you’re so uncomfortable.

‘Okay, we’ll come back to why perhaps mum and Miss James think you need help. I’m only really interested in you and what you think. This is about you, Milly. This is your time. Do you think you need help? This is what is important to me.’

Milly’s body language and demeanour tell me the answer; the words are almost irrelevant now. But then again, she needs to hear herself say it.

She shrugs, looking to her feet, inspecting them as they flex backwards and forwards.

‘Milly, are you happy at the moment? As happy as you used to be? If you can think back to maybe last year?’

‘Sometimes.’ She pauses. I wait. ‘But… no, not really. I’m not, no,’ she divulges to the floor.

‘Well, I’m guessing, it must be pretty horrible for you to feel unhappy?’ I should know, I cannot help thinking. ‘Even if it’s only for some of the time. No one wants to be unhappy. But if there is a chance I can perhaps help you with this, Milly, would you like me to try, and help you? Together we can attempt to undo things, the bad bits, I mean. You needn’t be alone. I will try and help you all I can. But this has to be something you are okay with.’

She nods, just a small child. I notice her algae-green eyes grow moist with tears.

‘What do you do when you feel unhappy?’ It’s not always so obvious, when covered by layers of protection. Sometimes this is the first time the client hears themselves speak the behaviour; until this point, it is easier to ignore.

‘I do stuff.’

I nod. ‘Okay, what kind of stuff?’

‘I hurt myself.’ She subconsciously touches the tops of her thighs.

‘So, when you’re unhappy, you hurt yourself,’ I repeat softly. ‘What do you hope to achieve? What do you think hurting yourself will give you?’

‘It makes me feel better about stuff.’ She uses pain to relieve pain.

‘Does it last, this feeling better?’

She shakes her head. ‘No.’

‘Do you believe it does help? You know, with whatever it is making you unhappy?’

‘No.’

‘This is what most people say, Milly. That little voice in your mind, the one that tells you you’ll feel better if you hurt yourself. It tells you lies. It’s nothing more than a bully. It cannot help you. It will only make things worse. But still, it convinces you each time, that it can help? Are you saying, it’s the thinking about hurting yourself that sometimes makes you feel better, rather than hurting yourself actually stops you from becoming unhappy?’ I expand in more detail on the difference.

‘Yes,’ she agrees.

‘Who would you have turned to before, Milly, whenever you were unhappy, before this bully came along?’

‘Mum.’

‘So what has changed? Why not talk to mum now?’

‘I can’t tell her what I need to say.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I don’t want to hurt her.’

‘You think if you talk to mum, she’d be upset?’

‘Mmm.’

So pain is better than the truth. How bad does the truth have to be?

‘And by hurting yourself, Milly, do you think maybe that may upset mum, even more?’

‘I suppose.’

There’s something else she’s not saying. Something she believes is even worse than self-harming. I feel sure. The things she won’t talk about when I probe, I’m guessing are the root to her pain. The self-harming is a red herring. A very proficient one. It’s not what we see with Milly that worries me.

Eventually, having explored other possible ways of seeking help, and prodding at potential triggers, I see Milly out and return to gather my belongings. Just as I’m refastening my briefcase, I notice the inside zip is open. I always keep it zipped; it contains business banking details and other personal information. I open the compartment further, to ensure all is still there. It is, but, strangely, so is an alien A4 envelope. Where’s that come from? I remove it to investigate, but I’m interrupted by a resolute knocking at the door. Milly’s GP pokes his head around the door for an update. I replace the envelope; it must be something I’ve forgotten about.

*

Following many more appointments and a particularly stretched day at various clinics along the English Channel, I finally retreat for home. Just as the dark is threatening to creep over, with the early stages of a most spectacular red and orange sunset fighting it for prime position. The coastal waters have taken on an almost charcoal colour and the intermingled sky, cast off the sunset, is coloured with pinks, silvers and pale blue hues holding on for dear life. The pinky aspects remind me of Milly. Earlier, having discovered the name of Milly’s mum’s boyfriend, I made a note to ask Ruan to do some digging. I could be wrong, but Milly’s eyes were unusually bloodshot, especially given her age. She didn’t seem to have the focus of someone I know to be bright, either. I’m hoping I’m wrong. But everything is caused by something.

Then, within an instant it all floods back, the issue of the PTSD guy from Warwickshire. I’d pushed it to a dark far corner of my mind. I need to speak with Ruan. I make numerous attempts to reach him on his mobile – no joy. I envisage him either propping up the bar in our local, The Wheal in St Agnes, or off contemplating waves. But then, with countless reliable haunts for mobile quiet time, where there is zero chance of finding a signal, and the reliable ‘emergency calls only’ words conveniently cover your tracks, the chances of reaching him feel hopeless.

Can I detach until morning? I’m so tired too, but an underlying protest from my belly impels me to deal with it. I refocus on driving, all the time willing Ruan to gain a signal. Until then, just because I’ve a referral from someone who’s relocated from Warwickshire, doesn’t mean it has to be you. Does it? Am I totally losing all perspective? What will Ruan think of me quizzing him at this hour, especially as I practically ignored his earlier attempt to discuss it with me? But if I don’t get hold of him, some point later, in the pitch-black dark of the night, my rationale will bail on me. I leave Ruan a voicemail, requesting him to call or text me. At the end I add, ‘Ruan, this is important. I really do need you to call, tonight, please. Not your usual sometime soon. Oh, and I’m sorry for disturbing your evening.’ Going on Ruan’s past ‘chill, everyone’ demeanour, I thought I’d better communicate my urgency.

I cut away from the main route, opting to take the inland, ‘have to be local or mad to drive’ route. My wing mirrors are now outwardly devoted to both left and right hedgerows. Bracken scraping at my paintwork. I jump as my mobile buzzes from the passenger seat. With no obvious other traffic, I grind to a halt, relief daring to flash through me. Ruan must have received my message; he’s texted me back. He’s probably already swaggering up the hill away from the pub, plodding his drunken way to mine. I feel a tad guilty. He’s so good-tempered – just as well with a neurotic boss.

I illuminate my screen. Strange, why is Ruan’s caller ID displaying as an unstored mobile number? I don’t recognise this number. Something to do with the poor signal? Fumbling to press the message icon, my fingers like sloppy sausages, I open it. My heart rate fast-tracks to the next beat. I impulsively fling my handset back to the passenger seat, as if it’s on fire. Shit. The words trouncing my chest. The screen remains lit. I re-read the text, over and over, in case I’ve misread.