My Pear-Shaped Life: The most gripping and heartfelt page-turner of 2020!

by Harrington, Carmel

  ‘You get used to the herbal stuff. Try a peppermint. Will help with your stomach,’ Sam said.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my stomach.’

  ‘Just wait,’ Sam said.

  Greta didn’t care for the doom-and-gloom forewarnings. She was scared, and she felt rubbish. If she ran out the front door, she wondered if she could hitch a lift home to Dublin? Knowing her luck, she’d be picked up by a serial killer. Could she get a message to Uncle Ray? He’d get in the car and come and get her. She could hide in his house. But when her family had staged their intervention and insisted she come here he’d ignored her pleas for help and agreed with her parents. She was on her own. The loneliness floored her. She’d never lived away from home before. She wanted her mam. But most of all she wanted to go home.

  ‘I think I’ll give it a miss. Nice talking to you all,’ Greta said, waving goodbye to them. She walked, half jogged back to her room, throwing herself onto the bed, panting. Then she sobbed until there was nothing left inside of her. She blew her nose and realized that she was alone, with only her thoughts for company. She wondered if Dylan had sent her any more messages. She hadn’t told him where she was going, just that she was sick and wouldn’t be in work for a while. He must be so annoyed with her. And she couldn’t get the scrappy little dog that had been hanging around their street out of her head. She’d asked Ray to find his owners before she left. She hoped he was OK.

  When Caroline brought her to this room earlier today, she’d given Greta a green journal. She explained that keeping a diary was compulsory. What could they do to her if she didn’t comply? A vision of herself locked in a padded white room, in a straightjacket, sprang to mind. Could they do that? Bloody Caroline was certainly strong enough to put her in one.

  Greta picked it up in desperation, hoping it might give her something to do to help pass the time. At the top of each blank page, there were prompts to fill in.

  Hours slept.

  How I felt.

  My truth.

  She hadn’t the first clue as to what to write. Despite receiving lots of pink, secret diaries with padlocks over the years from Santa as a kid, she’d never written a word in them. She wasn’t one of those reflective types who continuously needed to self-analyse. But things had changed a lot in the past twenty-four hours. She was in prison now – or as good as. Sighing, she realized that she could lie in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling with her eyes wide open. Or she could give this a go. With nothing else to do and the whole night to do it in, she picked up a pencil and wrote her first entry.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Pop on the scales, thanks Greta.’ Earlier that morning, Caroline had called Greta to the medical office.

  ‘No thank you,’ Greta said. There was no way she was getting on scales for anybody. ‘Why do you need to know my weight?’

  Caroline said, ‘It’s compulsory, G. We have to monitor all your vitals, to make sure we keep you healthy while you’re here. Your body is about to go through some traumatic changes as you withdraw from the tablets you have been taking.’

  Greta had spent most of her adult life avoiding scales. And she’d never weighed herself in front of anyone else. Wiping back tears, Greta stepped onto the black scales and saw the red digits move up and down. Greta pulled in her stomach, in automatic response to the shame she felt. She closed her eyes to avoid the number. Caroline didn’t pick up on social cues and called the number out loud as she wrote it down on her checklist.

  ‘An even 250 pounds.’ She made the number sound like it was an achievement. A nice neat and tidy number. Greta’s first reaction was relief – at least her parents were not there to witness her shame. Then she wondered if perhaps she had misheard the woman. Maybe she said ‘an even 150 pounds.’

  Maybe not.

  Caroline’s eyes locked onto Greta’s gut, which spilt over her too-tight leggings. And they judged Greta, who wanted to cry hot, angry tears of shame. But she pinched herself hard, to stem them. That number meant that she was twenty pounds heavier than she’d been less than a year ago when she joined a local gym. Back then, she’d been mortified when the scales read 230 pounds. But her personal trainer had smiled encouragingly and said with so much conviction that Greta had believed her, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll never see that number again.’

  She was right, of course, but not in the way she’d hoped.

  Greta realized with horror that she had morphed into her childhood nickname.

  Big G in da house.

  Fatter than before.

  Caroline said. ‘It’s just a number. Try not to think about it for now. Focus on the thought that today is the first day of the rest of your life.’

  ‘How many people have you shovelled that pile of shit to?’ Greta said.

  ‘Don’t be so quick to judge. In my experience, it’s true for most.’

  ‘And in my experience, I’ve found that something wonderful never happens for most of us.’

  Caroline shrugged then handed a tissue to Greta, who was seconds from not just tears but a whole ugly cry. But there was no way she was going to give into them in front of Caroline. She took a deep breath, wiped her eyes and said, ‘What’s next?’

  ‘It’s time for group therapy.’

  ‘If everyone starts singing folk songs, I’m out of here.’

  ‘That happens after dinner,’ Caroline said with a wink.

  Greta followed her to the large hall where all group sessions took place. Rows of framed inspirational quotes lined the walls. Her eyes blurred as she read each one.

  Stay Positive. Stay Focused. Stay Strong.

  On and on they went, all with the same condescending and pretentious nonsense. This was Greta’s idea of living hell.

  ‘Sit anywhere you like,’ Caroline said.

  ‘Answer me truthfully. Am I dead? Is this my punishment and I’m really in the bad place?’

  Caroline walked over and pinched her hard on the arm.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘You felt that, you’re not dead.’ Caroline was actually laughing as she walked away.

  Greta walked to the back of the room and took a seat nearest to the door.

  ‘What a crock of shit,’ she mumbled, reading the poster nearest to the seat she’d just taken. You never fail until you stop trying.

  ‘Not a fan of the wall art?’ Sam asked, sitting in beside her.

  ‘How’d you guess?’

  ‘The look of contempt on your face was kind of a giveaway.’

  Greta would have to watch that. She made a note to take more care to cover how she felt in public. ‘I just find them dishonest.’

  ‘How so?’ Sam asked.

  ‘They’re empty words spouted by people who are in the most case full of shit themselves.’

  ‘I’ve always liked that one,’ Sam said, pointing to his left.

  F.L.Y.

  First. Love.Yourself.

  Others will come next.

  Greta told him: ‘You see when I see that, I feel obliged to redress the bullshit balance. It would be more honest if it said, “If you hate yourself, remember you are not alone. A lot of other people hate you too”.’

  As Sam burst into laughter, he added, ‘You’re funny. Do that one over there.’

  A bright yellow poster said:

  You will succeed.

  Just keep going.

  ‘That’s too easy. If at first you don’t succeed, then it’s probably never going to happen.’

  ‘I’d buy a T-shirt with that on it. And it pretty much sums up my life right now,’ Sam laughed. ‘Oh, oh, here we go.’

  A tiny woman walked in and told them all to take a seat. She was so petite, she could have fitted into one of Greta’s pockets. She had masses of blonde curls that looked like they belonged on an Irish dancer about to launch into Riverdance.

  ‘That’s Noreen,’ Sam whispered. ‘She’s the main therapist here. She does the daily group sessions and also all the one-on-ones. She’s great. You’ll like her.’
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  Greta wasn’t so sure about that.

  ‘We have some new members today who joined us yesterday. I know it can be intimidating coming to group sessions, so for those who are feeling overwhelmed right now, try to relax. You can observe, take it all in until you find your feet,’ Noreen said.

  Greta slouched down lower into her seat, feeling eyes on her as the room checked out who the newbies were. She had a peek herself, trying to work out who the other one was but she couldn’t tell. What she did note was the fact that everyone looked like they wanted to be anywhere but in this room.

  ‘Today I’d like us to explore the rock-bottom moment you experienced as part of your addiction,’ Noreen said. ‘We all have one. And we can’t hide from it. We have to face it, accept it and finally learn from it. Only then can we move on.’

  No sooner had she finished this statement than Heather had her hand up.

  Sam nudged Greta and whispered, ‘That’s Heather. She’s a therapy junkie and a classic oversharer. Noreen can never shut her up.’

  ‘I’ve had lots of rock-bottom moments,’ Heather boasted. But before she could launch into a litany of them all, Noreen cut in and asked her to only share her worst one.

  ‘It has to be the day my husband found out that I had sold my diamond engagement ring and replaced it with a cubic zirconia fake one that I bought on the shopping channel.’ Heather paused for dramatic effect and looked around the room to make sure she had everyone’s attention. In fairness, even Greta was eager to hear how this played out. It was like an episode of Jeremy Kyle.

  When her husband had her ring evaluated for an insurance policy, the truth came out. ‘He went ballistic. He accused them of swapping the diamond out. He even rang our local radio station to complain when they refused to own up to the scam,’ Heather continued.

  ‘That’s bat-shit crazy,’ Greta said, just as the room went deathly quiet. Everyone turned to look at her.

  ‘Before you speak, remember to let your words pass through three gates,’ Noreen said. ‘Let’s remind ourselves of them.’

  Everyone began to chant, ‘Is it true, is it necessary, is it kind?’

  ‘What the actual?’ Greta whispered.

  ‘It’s Rumi. We say it a lot around here,’ Sam said.

  ‘What’s a Rumi?’

  ‘He was a famous Persian poet.’

  ‘Oh, I must have missed his stuff in school,’ Greta said. Noreen looked at Greta expectantly.

  ‘Say sorry,’ Sam whispered.

  ‘Sorry, Heather.’ Greta apologized, but didn’t really mean it. ‘My words were not kind or necessary.’ She paused, before adding, ‘But they were true.’

  The room giggled and even Noreen had a smile on her face. ‘Go on, Heather. What happened next?’

  ‘He threw me out. I ended up sleeping in my car, homeless.’

  ‘And that was your rock-bottom moment?’ Noreen asked gently.

  Heather shook her head. ‘No. I deserved that. In fact, I almost welcomed it. It was the look on his face when he realized what I’d done that nearly killed me. My betrayal. I’d told myself for years that my drinking was not affecting anyone but me. I had it under control. But at that moment, I saw what I had done to him, and I’ve never felt shame like it.’

  ‘Excellent work, Heather. Thank you for sharing with the group.’

  A chorus of ‘well dones’ and other platitudes of approval erupted around the room. Greta gulped down a lump that had appeared in her throat. She had felt amused by Heather’s story right up to the moment she mentioned her shame. That she understood. And there was nothing funny about that feeling.

  Noreen looked around the room, ready to hear someone else’s story. Greta kept her head down low. She had no intention of getting involved in this conversation. She needn’t have worried because it appeared that now Heather had got the ball rolling, the group were all ready to spill their particular brand of beans. They held their hands up in the air, one by one, eager to prove that sharing is caring.

  Eileen admitted to waking up in bed with someone who wasn’t her husband. Tim broke into his next-door neighbours’ house, looking for painkillers in their bathroom cabinet. Sam admitted to gambling away his house and savings. Rory woke up in a jail cell in Wexford, with no clue how he ended up there.

  ‘Many of us have done things when under the influence that we would never do with a clear head,’ Noreen said.

  A sea of yeses filled the room. Not from Greta, though. She’d never done anything like that. Once again she felt smug and removed from her counterparts here. She wasn’t like them.

  Liar, liar pants on fire. Greta pushed the thought down hard.

  ‘Be honest with yourselves. There is no point hiding from this. I’d like everyone to ask themselves if you have ever done something that you were ashamed of while under the influence of your addiction?’

  Greta felt Noreen’s eyes rest on her. They seemed to be probing into her head, searching until they dislodged a memory, buried.

  Dylan.

  She’d avoided thinking about the incident she’d had with him six months ago. Despite Dylan’s efforts to discuss it with her, she’d made it quite clear that she would never do so. Now Greta could think of nothing else as flashes of that weekend demanded attention.

  The Murder Mystery Crew were a social gang. Plus, as they all stayed in the hotel each weekend, it was inevitable that a party happened in one of the rooms. Greta wasn’t a big drinker, but she’d had more than her usual couple on this occasion. Seeing Donna play the part of Ruby Mae, wearing her costume, hurt. With every swish of that red saloon girl’s costume, with every swing of her hip, Greta felt … less beautiful. Less funny. Less talented. Less loved. Less her. So she decided to drown her sorrows in red wine. It worked for a bit. She forgot that she didn’t like herself very much and she partied hard with her cast mates. And when Donna decided it would be fun to tell everyone about Greta’s wardrobe malfunction, oh how they all laughed. They clutched their sides and howled at their funny fat friend who could no longer fit into her costume. And Greta let them make her body the punch line. She gave them permission to laugh when she laughed the loudest at herself.

  When she went back to her hotel room, she took a pill to help her sleep. Thinking about this now, she realized that was a bit weird in itself. There was a time that a few drinks would send her to the land of nod as soon as her head hit the pillow. When had it become normal to her to follow that with sleeping aids too? That’s when things got weird. The next morning she awoke in bed, lying beside Dylan. She had no memory of how she got there or what they had done. Then Greta realized that she wasn’t even in her own room, she was in his. In her underwear. Shocked and horrified, she dressed as quietly as she could, then sneaked out the door, leaving him asleep in the bed alone. What had she done? Dylan was her friend and she’d jeopardized that. And it was only when she was back in her own room that the full impact of her actions hit her. Dylan had seen her body. No Spanx slip to hold everything in. Just Greta in her bra and knickers with all her lumps and bumps, ugly dimpled cellulite and stretch marks. She couldn’t laugh this one off.

  She couldn’t face it either. So she did a classic Greta move. She shoved the memory down deep inside her, to sit with all the other painful and sad ones.

  Dylan had tried to talk to her about their sleepover, several times, but she’d refused to engage. ‘If you value our friendship, you will never mention it again,’ she’d said to him. And that was that.

  But here, in this roomful of strangers, with raw pain intensifying as each person shared their lowest points, Greta couldn’t shove the memory away. It tumbled around her mind, demanding her attention.

  Noreen helped each person work through their rock-bottom moments, and she never showed shock or surprise, just gentle support and encouragement. And when she murmured the odd inspirational cliché, Greta found herself forgiving her. To her surprise, Greta found herself murmuring the odd word of encouragement to each person as the
y spoke.

  Noreen raised an eyebrow in question to Greta to see if she would like to share anything. Greta shook her head vigorously. There was nothing she wanted to say. She just wanted to return to her room, lie down on her bed and find a way to fall asleep. It had been an intense morning and she was overwhelmed with it all. So much pain bouncing around this room.

  Noreen said, ‘As you can see, rock bottom is different for everyone. For one person it’s the breakup of a relationship, for another it’s the loss of their home. Everyone here is unique, but we share something, me included. We’ve done things and said things that we would never have believed possible before our addiction. Because addiction changes us.’

  Have I changed? Greta thought about the past twelve months and realized she no longer recognized herself. Who was she now?

  Noreen continued, ‘But make no mistake. These moments you have shared here today were carried out by the addict in you. You have to own them. It’s the only way to make sure that they no longer define who you are. Not unless you let them.’ She looked around the room, making sure she made eye contact with every single one of them. ‘I’m proud of you all. You have all taken steps today to seek recovery.’

  Greta felt a bit like a fraud. All she’d done was listen, so she wasn’t sure she deserved any praise. She remained in her chair as the others left the room and tried to work out what she should do next.

  ‘You’re shaking.’

  Greta looked up in surprise. Noreen was standing beside her. ‘It will get harder before it gets easier.’

  Noreen was an addict too. She might understand Greta’s inability to sleep. There must be something Noreen could give her, even half a tablet. Greta suggested as much to her. Noreen smiled and listened as Greta relayed her difficulty sleeping. The endless hours she had put in the night before. The shakes. Nausea. ‘So you see, I thought it would make more sense if you could tell Caroline or whoever to fill a prescription for me. Just to help me wean off the pills. I’d take them here, under medical supervision of course. That way you all can be reassured that I’m safe.’