Sometimes I call my therapist just to check she’s doing OK. ‘Hello!’ I said cheerily when she picked up. ‘Hi,’ she replied cautiously. ‘So,’ I said cajolingly. ‘What have you been up to?’ My therapist is oddly reluctant to talk about herself, which leads me to believe that she has done lots of dreadful things. I like to help her by randomly mentioning this when we speak. ‘So you know when you flunked out of college?’ I ask her. ‘And that’s why you’ve come to live in London?’ My therapist laughs. ‘Oh sorry,’ I correct myself. ‘I meant when you had to leave New Zealand because you didn’t want to pay taxes.’ ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’ my therapist asks politely. ‘Classic deflection,’ I think to myself. My therapist is so textbook. (I know this, because I have bought an ‘Introduction to psychology’. Well, ‘bought’ might be an overstatement. But I certainly read at least 2 Amazon reviews of the book, so I’ll probably be setting myself up in private practice pretty soon).
‘Oh no,’ I replied. ‘I was just calling for a chat.’ (My therapist likes to play hard to get, and pretend that she sees other patients and has a ‘real’ job and so on. I’m still looking on Wikipedia for the correct term for these delusions). There is audible sighing on the other end of the phone. I assume this is a sigh of relief, that precedes the inevitable unburdening of her troubles. ‘So, how’s the writing going?’ she asks me. (My therapist finds sharing difficult- probably because she comes from a large family. I am still working on this). ‘Oh,’ I reply. ‘Yeah, pretty well thanks. Done something on fatness. I’ve called it fatness: being and feeling. They’re different things you know.’ ‘Um,’ my therapist replies. ‘Yes, I do know a little bit about that.’ ‘Is it because your adolescence was ravaged by an eating disorder?’ I inquire politely. ‘No,’ my therapist replies. ‘Probably more from graduate school, and being a clinical psychologist.’ ‘And a bit because there were so many children your parents couldn’t afford to feed you?’ 
I ask sensitively. My therapist changes the subject. ‘So,’ she says. ‘Have you had a good week?’ ‘I really have,’ I tell her. ‘I might go on a date with someone I met yesterday.’ My therapist asks me a few questions about this chap. She is unconvinced. ‘It’s only a date,’ I explain kindly. ‘You know you don’t have to marry someone just because you go on a date with them.’ My therapist is silent, and I remember that she herself has recently got married. ‘Um,’ I say awkwardly. ‘I probably should have mentioned this earlier. Sorry about that. Well, I think we both have a lot to think about. Speak soon!’ My therapist tells me that she’s at a conference for the rest of the day. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say reassuringly. ‘This is a safe space. I’ll call you tomorrow.’ (I know that when people feel threatened, they tend to retreat into established patterns. For my therapist, this is pretending she is an actual therapist). It’s early days, and we’ve still got a lot of work to do, but I think we’re making progress.
I return home with my friends to pack. (They have already packed, as have been booked into this trip for months). ‘Do you think she wanted to be invited?’ I ask them as I throw bikinis and books into my suitcase. ‘I don’t think so, no,’ my friend replies, as she tidily packs some clothing more suitable for a sailing trip into my case.
‘Hmm,’ I wonder as I throw in some dress shirts. ‘No, honestly,’ my friend says, quietly removing the shirts. ‘She’s probably just checking because it’s a fairly impetuous decision.’ ‘I see what you’re saying,’ I say. ‘I will call and let her know she is more than welcome to join us.’ I call my therapist. ‘Don’t worry!’ I say gaily down the phone. ‘Hi, is everything OK?’ she replies slowly. ‘Everything is great!’ I tell her. My friend shakes her head despairingly and repairs to the kitchen to grab a beer. ‘There are brownies,’ I call after her. ‘Sorry?’ my therapist asks down the phone. ‘Oh, not for you. No brownies for you,’ I tell her. This phone call seems to have started badly. I hope my therapist doesn’t think I’m telling her she’s fat. ‘I was just calling,’ I begin, ‘to reassure you.’ ‘Oh, thank you very much,’ she replies politely. ‘I’m actually just off to a meeting, but be safe, and I’ll see you when you get back.’ ‘Oh, OK then,’ I say. She hangs up. ‘I was going to invite her, but you know, I’m not sure she’d cope. Culturally, I mean,’ I shout downstairs to my friend. My friend says nothing. I am worried she has seen through my cover up. ‘I mean,’ I shout desperately, ‘She didn’t even know what Mark Warner was. I’m not sure it’s fair to inflict her on the group.’ My friend returns upstairs. ‘Anyway,’ I continue bravely, ‘I think it will be good for her to cope without me for a few weeks. It’s important for her to learn about boundaries.’
(I have a sneaking suspicion that my therapist would be a really effective and tenacious ghost. I start to send strong ‘stay away’ thoughts to her. I quickly modify these to ‘stay away if you are a ghost, otherwise reply please’ thoughts).
unfashionablylost 