This is another of my different looks at life. You may not agree with what I've written and there are probably plenty of nits for you to pick, but it is a piece of romantic fiction and, unlike my previous posting 'A Chance Encounter' where the romance was short-lived and probably one-sided, in this one it is implied until right at the end.
CM.
*
I lay here searching for a reason to get out of bed, it was a sunny day and the birds were chirping outside my window, no that won't do it for me because it was pissing down with rain outside my window and the smart birds were sheltering somewhere safe and warm. Work, no that won't do it for me, I did have a job to go to but there was nothing to excite me there, in fact work was the cause of my troubles. A year ago I would have bounded out of my comfortable bed after kissing my warm wife good morning, headed for the shower while she prepared breakfast for me, kissed her good-bye and headed for the job that I loved almost as much as her. That was twelve months ago, nine months ago I was interviewed for a promotion that I was sure of getting, only to lose out to that arse kissing bastard James (call me James) Saunders.
The smirk on his face when the boss announced the result was almost too much to bear, but then the bastard decided to rub salt into the wounds by hitting on Heather, my former beautiful, warm wife and now the two of them are living together, a fact that he never ceases to rub my nose in. "Heather and I went to the theatre last night to see Hamlet and we got invited back stage to meet the cast for drinks." He announced yesterday loud enough that I had no option but to hear him. Slimy Bastard
Depression is like being at the bottom of a deep well. It's cold and wet and miserable down there, but you can see the top inviting you to climb up and out of it, so you set off. At first it's difficult, the walls are slime covered and there are few hand-holds, but you persevere. It's hard work, finding a solid purchase and pulling yourself up, finding a toe-hold so that you can reach up for the next hand-hold. Slowly, millimetre by agonising millimetre you climb until, finally you are within reach of the top, you feel the warmth of the sun on your face and reach up with both hands to pull yourself up and out of this depression, and that's when that bastard James, slimy turd, Saunders stomps on your fingers and you find yourself back where you started from. It's cold and lonely, and wet, and miserable down here, and getting the motivation to begin the climb back up is getting harder and harder.
I remembered that I wasn't actually going to work this morning, I have an appointment with yet another useless fucking Psychologist. This will be the third that work has sent me to speak to in an effort to get me functional again. This one will also be my last, if this one can't help me I've been told I will be fired. The first one gave up on me after three sessions because he was unable to motivate me. The second one was near enough to fucking useless. I always thought that Psychologists were supposed to recognise non-verbal cues and react to them. This useless prick put his hand on my knee and said to me, "Yes I know where you're coming from." This without a doubt the most cringe-making of the 'programmed responses' that are taught to psych students. Up until then he'd given no indication of understanding where I was coming from, where I was at, or where I was going to, he was merely parroting the words that he'd been taught in Psych 1, that were supposed to show just how empathic he was. The glare that I gave him should have been enough, but no. The intake of breath should have been enough, but no. It wasn't until I grabbed his hand and took it off my knee that he realised that I was uncomfortable with its presence on my person.
From that moment on I refused to co-operate with him and he gave up. Now I was going to see number of three of this 'three strikes and you're out' scenario.
I got out of bed without even bothering to pull the bed clothes up, had a shower and shave before dressing and heading for the kitchen. Breakfast took around the same time that it took for the kettle to boil and me to pour water over the instant coffee and chuck some milk in. I brushed my teeth, put on my jacket and left the house that I used to share with the beautiful Heather, climbed into my long overdue for a service car and coaxed its reluctant motor into life.
It took a while to find the Psych's office, the shit heap doesn't have Sat Nav or anything like that, so I had to rely on the street directory that was five years old. I managed to find it on time and walked through the door and up to the reception counter. The Receptionist looked up as the door closed behind me, and then looked at the appointment pad on the desk in front of her. "You must be Mr Street." I nodded confirmation. "Come with me." I went with her down a passage to a room. She held the door open for me and followed me inside. "Sit down." She indicated a comfortable chair at a coffee table. Closing the door behind us she sat down in the other chair. "I'm Stephanie Browning, your new Psychologist."
I was speechless, don't ask me why, I know women are Psychologists, and by all accounts very good ones, but I never expected one this young and good looking, not that I'm complaining mind you.
"I've read you case notes from your previous two Psychologists, you don't think much of us, do you?"
"You could say that, the last one, honestly, if he'd left his hand on my knee a second longer I would have shoved his teeth so far down his throat that he would have to stick his toothbrush up his arse to clean them."
"I gathered that you weren't happy with him. I promise not to put my hand on your knee or say anything stupid like, 'I know where you're coming from'."
"Did he actually write that on my file?"
"No, but I know him and he doesn't have the imagination to come up with anything that he hasn't been taught."
"And you don't agree with what's being taught, is that it?"
"Only some of it, much of it is worthwhile, but there are things that make my skin crawl when I hear them, and that is one of them. Clinical modelling doesn't always relate to reality."
"I gather from that you didn't always see eye to eye with your Lecturers."
"No, and I was consistently marked down on my assignments, but I got through and here I am. And here you are, and the last thing that I'm going to ask is that you 'tell me a bit about yourself'. Another useless question from the hand-book. I presume that you've gone over in your head a thousand times what triggered your present condition, if you'd like to share that with me we have a starting point, the rest of your life story you can keep to yourself, unless you think that it is relevant to now."
This was someone that I could like, and that got me looking at her and what I saw interested me. She would have been a few years younger than me and was neatly, but not expensively dressed, wore little if any make-up, and her hair appeared devoid of chemical manipulation, in other words the colour appeared natural. My memory of following her down the passageway was still fresh in my mind and did nothing to dissuade me that she was a very decorative Receptionist and not a Psychologist. Looks can be deceiving.
"I guess that the starting point for me was when I missed out on a promotion to a 'brown nose', someone who spent more time sucking up to the boss than actually working. This was a blow to my self-confidence, not a major blow, but enough to start me doubting myself. Then this wonderful person goes behind my back and hits on my wife. She now lives with him, something that he continually rubs my nose in."
"I can see how that would piss you off."
'Piss me off'? This is definitely not Psych-speak. "Are you sure that you're a Psychologist? I would bet major body parts that I would not find 'Piss off' in the index or even the glossary of terms of any Psych text book."
"Just as you'd never find a silver spoon in my mouth, very much a working class girl I am, I believe in calling a spade a fucking shovel."
My third look at her revealed a new facet to her; her finger nails were short, oh they had nail polish on them, but they were not talons like Heather wore, and I bet if I scraped under them I'd find some dirt. "From what I've seen of you so far I would never pick you for a Psychologist, you don't look the part, your don't act the part, and you certainly don't speak the part."
"Do you always try to compartmentalise people?"
"Only when they don't seem to fit into the stereotype, whatever made you take up Psychology?"
"If you keep asking the questions I'll get the feeling that you'll bill me at the end of our time together."
"Touché, I'll stop asking questions now, shall I?"
"Good, so the world as you not it came crashing down around your ears and you haven't been able to climb out of the hole it left you in. Are you having trouble sleeping?"
"Sleeping, what's that?"
"Are you taking anything to help you?"
"No, I don't believe in those sorts of drugs, I hear that they're very addictive and hard to kick."
"They're pretty much a last resort think as far as I'm concerned. Have you tried anything?"
"I've tried reading until I get sleepy, the problem with that is when I reach the point of going to sleep the book hits the floor and wakes me up"
"There's something that you could try, it worked for me. I want you to make yourself a hot milk drink, I add a spoonful of a mixture of honey and malt extract, drink that and go to bed. The other thing I do is to turn on my IPod and listen to soothing music, I put mine on sleep mode so that it turns itself off after forty-five minutes, and I can't remember the last time I heard it click off. I think you'll find getting a good night's sleep will help your outlook on life."
"You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"You could say that, I've been there and done that. I thought that I was coping on two hours sleep a night, but I wasn't and it took a major jolt to get me to realise that. That was what led me to my solution. It may work for you. And one more thing, drinking alcohol to try to get to sleep is just plain stupid, The quantity needed for temporary oblivion will leave you with a massive hangover the next morning, (Tell me something I don't already know) and smaller quantities will leave you dehydrated and needing a drink of water badly enough in the early hours to wake you up."
"That's well and good, but what I need to get over this is to either find another job, which I don't really want to do because it used to be a good job, or to find some way that I didn't have to put up with the constant rubbing of my nose in it by 'Slimy Bastard'."
"What sort of things does he do?"
I told her the one about 'Hamlet', she wrote something on the pad she had on her knees. "Last month, now that he's my boss, he had to do a performance appraisal on me. Not to put too fine a point on it, the whole report was negative and what made it worse was that everything he wrote was partly true."
"What do you mean?"
