Switching off my phone, I got the best seat in the Abbot’s Quarter and watched my ducklings file in. Trassa was first. God love her, she was carrying so much pain, but she’d had a peaceful weekend.
Dennis, however, seemed buoyant as he swaggered in. Too buoyant, actually. I suspected he was engaged in high-wire cognitive manipulation, convincing himself that, despite all the evidence, he wasn’t an alcoholic. This wasn’t my first rodeo.
Apparently, Ella had spent the weekend stomping around, badmouthing Jonah and Naaz, but she was still here, so she obviously didn’t completely believe she was innocent of all their accusations.
Giles, leaving today, radiated wisdom and compassion. You could find it irritating, if you were that way inclined.
Speaking of which, here came Chalkie. He’d smashed a tennis racket on Saturday, another one yesterday and he’d hit the punchbag so hard it fell down, bringing half of the shed ceiling with it. All excellent stuff!
At least some good had come out of poor Gemma Kaye’s visit – because Harlie still hadn’t cried. In a small, quiet way, I was actually starting to panic. She had only two weeks left and if she stayed locked into anger for much longer, I’d have failed her.
Sometimes it happened – that a client only got so far in the process, and stayed stuck. Not often but when it did, it sort of killed me.
Here came Bronte, cool and slightly inscrutable. She was a challenging one, no doubt about it, very skilled at protecting her addiction. Probably because she already knew so much about it.
Her relapse was interesting. It was undeniably hard when an addict had to re-engage with medicine they’d once been addicted to. In so many ways it was easier to be an alcoholic – you just didn’t drink. There was never any reason for medicinal vodka （no matter what Claire might tell you）。
Bronte had exaggerated the pain of her broken ankle, I was fairly sure of that – but I was just as sure that it genuinely had hurt. That’s what made it so tricky – the fact that it had been real. Same as with me, when I hadn’t been able to sleep. And in those situations, the right doctor was vital.
Carlotta had been so kind to me. So too had Dr Gagnon – the psychiatrist I’d found, on her orders.
One of his reviews had described him as: ‘A doctor who really gets it, who knows what real insomnia looks like.’ When I’d read that, my heart lifted in relief. Immediately, I’d picked up my phone to make an appointment.
I’d sat in front of him and told him my terrible story. I didn’t have to exaggerate – I really was broken.
‘Oh boy,’ he’d said, ‘what a trauma. So, acute insomnia? You know about sleep hygiene? No electronics in the bedroom? Wearing glasses to reduce blue light?’
‘I already do all of that.’ I gasped, suddenly terrified he was going to recommend warm baths and camomile tea. ‘I do mindfulness. Yoga. Eat a banana at bedtime. I do absolutely everything everyone recommends.’
He frowned. ‘It also sounds as if you’re experiencing anxiety.’
Well, I certainly was then, as a recommendation to start Yin Yoga （most boring of all the yogas） looked increasingly likely.
‘But you’re finding the Ambien helpful?’
‘A lifesaver.’ Once again I wasn’t exaggerating.
‘Taken as prescribed, they’re non-addictive. Even for a person, such as yourself, with a history of addiction.’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’ For over thirteen years I’d thought differently, but the previous few weeks had changed my mind.
‘Should I add an anti-anxiety medication into the mix?’ he said. ‘How are you with Xanax?’
Suddenly nervous, I said, ‘No, please don’t.’ I didn’t need tranquillizers but I might have taken them anyway. Having them felt dangerous. ‘Just sleeping tablets.’
He seemed surprised. ‘… Okay.’
Next thing, he was printing out a prescription, scribbling a signature and handing it over. ‘You can pay outside.’
It appeared it was time for me to leave. ‘When should I come back?’
‘In a month.’
The reviews had said he was brisk – and he was certainly that. Also expensive – my insurance wouldn’t cover all of his fee. But he’d listened to me, he’d heard me.
I was back out on the street before I saw that he’d doubled Carlotta’s dosage – and I was surprised. But also very grateful. I remembered, then, one of the reviews which had criticized him for ‘throwing pills at the problem’。