The State of Me

by Nasim Marie Jafry

  Feeling crap after walking too much at the weekend. I had to miss both classes this week. Rez said I looked grey. He usually doesn’t notice.

  Had a brilliant lecture on Gestalt today. It’s my favourite school of therapy, developed by Fritz Perls. It’s about wholeness and focuses on the here and now – only the present is significant. (Jana saw a Gestalt therapist for a while. One time, she lay on cushions on the floor and screamed at her father.) Role-playing and dreams are an important part of the sessions. Every part of your dream is a contradictory aspect of yourself: you act the dream out, inventing dialogue for every ‘character’ – animate and inanimate. It’s a bit like writing a play. Freud said dreams were the royal road to the unconscious’, Perls said they were the royal road to integration’.

  So when I dream (recurrently) that my bad granny is chasing me with giant cocktail sticks, in order to resolve my anger I have to become myself, the bad granny, and the cocktail stick.

  Cocktail stick dream. April 1992

  me Granny Fleet, I am furious that you still don’t believe that I am physically ill! I am also furious that the government doesn’t believe that soldiers with Gulf War Syndrome are genuinely ill. I’m hardly a fan of the army, but these poor guys are so ill and getting zero support from the very people responsible, the people who gave them dangerous vaccination cocktails, and sprayed them with neurotoxic pesticides to kill sand-flies and mosquitoes. (And let’s not forget the exposure to depleted uranium from exploded ammunition.)

  granny fleet When are you going to stop all this nonsense, my girl? It’s all in your head. You are a MALINGERER, you don’t want to work, God only knows why, and you’ve got your mother and Nab wrapped round your little finger. When will you get tired of all this acting? You deserve an Oscar! You managed to go to San Francisco, but people who are genuinely ill don’t hop on long-haul flights. You are a millstone round your family’s neck. I am ashamed of you.

  cocktail stick If I jab you, maybe that will hurt you, and prick some sense into you, make you realise you are not really ill. But, even though I am a brightly coloured giant cocktail stick, I am also made of plastic – you could easily deflect me and snap me in half. You could easily win the fight.

  When I tell Fabio the cocktail stick dream, he just rolls his eyes. He thinks dreams are random, nothing to do with anything.

  I know he is depressed, I wish I could help him. I don’t know if he had antidepressants in London, he won’t tell me. Sometimes he just wants to lie on the couch all weekend, he says I should understand, and when I tell him that I can’t help lying on the couch – there’s no cure for me – he says there’s no cure for him either. I tell him to go and play golf, but he says he has no energy. And if I suggest counselling, he gets angry and says I think counselling is the answer to everything just ‘cos I’m doing a course.

  But he can be so funny without realising it. We were driving back from the pine shop – we were picking up a bookcase I’d ordered – and we got stuck behind a lorry with a heavy load, it had a police escort. That’s a nodal joint for an oil rig, said Fabio, referring to the huge structure on the back of the lorry, matter-of-factly, as if everyone would have known what a nodal joint for an oil rig is. He didn’t understand why I thought it was so funny.

  I think it’s sexy that he knows these things.

  28

  Rome Then Cystitis

  CAN’T BELIEVE I forgot Ivan’s birthday. First time ever. I’ve sent him a belated card – I didn’t really forget, it just passed by and I didn’t notice.

  I had to stay in bed today. Fabio took me out for dinner for our one year anniversary last night. I got really dressed up and we flirted a lot and had amazing sex afterwards. I’m mortified, I think Rez heard us.

  Fabio seems less down, in a good phase, but when he’s in a dip he is cold. He doesn’t care about things unless they affect him directly. We argue about politics – he doesn’t vote. When I tell him that we’re lucky to live in a democracy, that it’s criminal not to vote, that people in Sierra Leone are having their limbs amputated, he just puts his fingers in his ears. I think depression makes you selfish, or maybe it just makes you numb – he’s not selfish about the people he’s close to and maybe that’s what counts.

  Postcard from Ivan from Napa Valley, he went up in a hot air balloon for his birthday – I wonder who with. I’m not sure how much I miss him, Fabio uses up all my emotions just now.

  I’ve passed my counselling course, Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! I’ll be looking for one afternoon a week jobs again. I wonder if I could manage two afternoons, but there’d need to be two days in between to rest. Maybe I could do Tuesdays and Fridays, one to five, but I think that would be overdoing it. I’ve been thinking about the people who make up names for lipstick – maybe I could do that. I’d name a range after states of mind: WHY HASN’T HE PHONED?/IS HE FUCKING SOMEONE ELSE?/ONE NIGHT STAND.

  I am so fed up, most part-time jobs are for twenty hours a week or more. I saw one job for data entry, ten hours a week. I could never do that – after an hour at a keyboard, my arms ache, my eyes are bloodshot and I can’t think straight. Looks like my career is going to be in serial volunteering.

  stranger What do you do?

  me I’m a serial volunteer.

  Fabio wants to take me to Rome for a long weekend for my birthday. He is so kind to me. It’ll be so romantic – I can’t wait! I haven’t been on holiday with a boyfriend since I went to Zakynthos with Ivan when we were in second year. There are very few people I would go away with, people who don’t mind me going at my own pace, who don’t expect me to traipse round the sights.

  Am so happy! I’ve found a volunteer job as a receptionist at a centre for counselling with sliding scale fees. Five hours a week, three hours on Tuesday and two on Friday, it’s ideal. The therapists are from diverse disciplines, I love explaining the different schools to people who call up. One of them does holistic healing and wants to give me an Indian head massage. There’s a kettle and a Tupperware box of tea bags in the waiting room, and a sign reminding you to wash your mugs. Sometimes, people forget, or are called for their appointments, so I wash them for them.

  I’m so excited: I feel I’m doing something useful, and earning my sickness benefit.

  I loved Rome, but we didn’t get on.

  We had a fight on the first day because I was too tired to get up for breakfast. Neither of us had slept well because of the Vespas, and the room was too hot. It’s a shame to miss out on breakfast, Fabio said, especially since it’s paid for – you can go back to bed afterwards. I can’t believe you said that! I’d replied tearfully. You can’t put pressure on me to get up, you know you can’t! Can you not just bring me something when you’ve finished? I just want us to enjoy Rome together, he said. We will, I said, but not in the mornings. As a peace offering, he’d brought me bread and cheese and ham and coffee (all delicious) and gone out for a walk and left me to rest. I’d tried to get back to sleep but it was impossible because of the maid singing and clattering her way along the corridor. By the time she got to our room, it was after eleven and she looked at me as if she couldn’t believe there was still a stupid tourist in bed. I apologised to her and put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. I just wanted to sleep for a week and wake up repaired.

  I had a bath and thought that if Ivan’d been here he would’ve slapped some ham on a roll for me and buggered off round Rome on his own, without any fuss – he was so much more independent than Fabio.

  I felt like hell but got dressed and used lipstick as blusher to try and perk my face up.

  Fabio came back and we went for lunch near the hotel. I wanted to lie down afterwards but didn’t want Fabio to be peeved so I trailed round for a bit. I kept having to stop and sit on the sides of fountains. I was relieved when he said he wanted to go back to the hotel. He said he was disappointed by the amount of graffiti we’d seen.

  That night we went for dinner near the hotel, on the Via Cavour, a shabby street that rem
inded me of Glasgow. Fabio explained the menu to me, the courses were endless and the food just kept coming. When we’d finished, the owner brought out a beautiful black puppy and put her on the table for us to pat, as if she were an after-dinner ritual like brandy and cigars. They love their dogs here, said Fabio, apologetically. It’s not very hygienic, I said – a dog’s bum on the place mats. Fabio laughed out loud, only now recovered from this morning’s fight. Please let me pay my share, I said. I hate you paying for everything.

  On our second afternoon, we had lunch sitting outside a tiny cafe opposite the Colosseum. There was a giant basket of oranges on the pavement. Afterwards, Fabio went to the Colosseum while I stayed in the cafe and read the guidebook. Are you sure you’ll be okay? he said. You don’t mind me going without you? Of course not, I replied, I’m perfectly happy to stay here. The sun’s lovely.

  The slack-jawed American couple at the next table chewed their panini like cud and didn’t say a word to one another. I wondered if they loved each other in their own way. Fabio came back an hour and a half later and asked me if I’d pose for a photo with a centurion.

  That night we kissed at the Trevi fountain and I bought a bag of peaches. I loved how everything closed in the afternoon and opened again at night, it suited my energy. When we got back to the hotel, Fabio made me laugh with his impersonation of a pietà, Mary stretching her arms out in a ludicrous pose, holding Jesus in her lap. Then we had sex.

  On our third day, I tried to find a second-hand bookshop in Trastevere while Fabio queued for the Sistine chapel. He couldn’t understand that I wasn’t more disappointed that I couldn’t queue and walk the distance. I’m happy sitting in cafes and reading, I said. It’s my favourite thing to do.

  I got on the wrong bus and ended up in the suburbs, stranded at a small bus depot. I felt panicky and wished I hadn’t left Fabio. It took me an hour to get back and when I found the Trastevere bookshop it was shut. I got a bus back to the hotel and collapsed into bed. After a couple of hours, I became convinced that something had happened to Fabio and prayed the next echoes in the corridor would be him. I wondered how I’d manage if he didn’t come back.

  When he finally appeared, we lay together and he described in detail the frescos he’d seen. I wish you could’ve come, he said, I got you some postcards. That was sweet, I said, thank you. Later, we got a bus to Gianicolo hill and watched the sun set. Fabio wanted to walk back down, my legs felt like elastic, but I said okay. At the bottom, we sat on a wall and ate pizza slices. We got a taxi back to the hotel. The guy drove like a maniac. Rome streaked by, it felt like a film.

  On our last night we went to a fancy restaurant in the Piazza Navona. Fabio was in a dip again. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

  This is all lovely, I said, but to be honest I’d be happier eating pizza on a wall, with you in a better mood.

  They say you don’t really know someone ‘til you live with them or go on holiday with them, he said quietly, almost to himself.

  Exactly, I said.

  Your illness affects everything, Helen, doesn’t it?

  What do you mean?!

  Do you think you’ll ever be well enough to have children?

  Why are you asking me that now? I said.

  All the cute wee kids here – just makes me wonder if you’ll be well enough.

  Please don’t put me on the spot like this.

  Just tell me, will you be well enough?

  No, I don’t think so. Probably not.

  Okay, at least I know.

  Are you giving me an ultimatum?

  No, I just wanted to ask.

  Do you think you’ll ever be well enough to have children? I said.

  What do you mean by that?

  Should depressed people have children?

  I’m not depressed.

  Well, what the hell’s wrong with you, Fabio? If you’re not depressed, why are you still living at home?

  You know why, he said – my mother’s lonely, I’m looking after her.

  I know she’s lonely, and it’s great you care, but you could still see her lots and have your own place. She’s not disabled.

  His lips were tight and thin, he had no colour. I thought he was going to cry.

  Why did you even bring me here? I said.

  It got a good write-up.

  I don’t mean the restaurant, I mean Rome, why did you bring me?

  For your birthday.

  But you’ve been so moody most of the time, neither of us has really enjoyed it. You’ve ruined your lovely gift to me.

  You said you liked sitting in cafes – I thought you were enjoying it.

  I just never know what you’re going to be like from one minute to the next.

  I never know what you’re going to be like from one minute to the next, if you’ll be able to walk somewhere or not.

  I can’t do anything about it, I said, but you can get help, you don’t have to be depressed, it’s unnecessary!

  You don’t know what you’re talking about, he said. You know nothing.

  I think you actually like being depressed – because it makes you numb and you don’t have to face things.

  You don’t understand.

  You’re right – I don’t understand that you’re happy to stay sad. I’m tired trying to understand, but you put up with me so I try to put up with you.

  Enough, he said. You’ve said enough.

  We ate in silence, with frozen, aching faces. The asparagus risotto was wasted on us. Whenever the waiter came to the table, we tried to paper over the cracks.

  Fabio asked if I wanted to keep the beautifully handwritten bill as a souvenir.

  What’s the point? I said.

  We walked back, he offered me a taxi, but I wanted to walk. I lagged behind him, fantasising that we would make up at the hotel and have sex in the shower, rammed against the white tiles.

  We turned our backs on each other in bed. I couldn’t stop crying.

  You forget that I lived at home for a long time when I was ill, I said, I know what it’s like to be dependent – I was hideously dependent – but as soon as I was able I left again.

  I just want to sleep, he said. Please. Just let me sleep.

  The next day, we were grim and polite. I’d decided that when we got to Glasgow I’d be dramatic and get my own taxi, but when we were changing planes at Heathrow I got the first stabs of cystitis. I got Cymalon from Boots and had a sachet before boarding and another one during the flight. By the time we got to Glasgow, I was in agony, having to pee constantly, and there was blood. Fabio said he’d stay with me and called his mother to say he wouldn’t be back. It was one of the worst nights of my life, the sachets weren’t working, the constant burning urge to pee was vile, and when I did it was like needles. I had a hot water bottle clamped between my legs. Why do men not get cystitis? I wailed – it’s not fucking fair. I’m never having sex again. I’m so sorry, said Fabio, I hate to see you in so much pain.

  The next morning, I got an emergency appointment at a nearby practice. I had to register as a temporary patient as Myra was still my GP. Please stop clicking your fingers, I said to Fabio as we sat in the waiting room. It’s really annoying.

  The GP smiled and said, Honeymoon cystitis, not pleasant, is it? She gave me a prescription for antibiotics and the symptoms abated within a few hours.

  I liked her and thought I’d register with her permanently.

  Rita called me that evening, desperate to hear my news. Well, how was Rome, she asked, was it very romantic? I was going to phone you last night, but wanted to give you a chance to rest.

  I’m still feeling really tired, Mum, I said, can I phone you back tomorrow?

  An hour later, Brian called. He wanted to know if I’d met the Pope.

  After Rome, we limped along, knowing it was just a matter of time. Neither of us was strong enough to end it, especially not with Christmas coming up – it was too sad.

  In January, I made a breaking up dinner. Remember t
he first time we met, I said – I was looking for cheese at Ivan’s.

  You were the sexiest girl at the party.

  You had on your cord jacket with leather trims, I said.

  You’ve always hated my clothes.

  Not all of them, I like your polo necks.

  I’m still happy I met you, he said, taking my hand.

  Me too, I said.

  You’re right, he said. My situation isn’t normal either, it’s not fair of me to blame you.

  Maybe that’s what brought us together, I said, we’re both odd.

  Maybe.

  When he left, he had tears in his eyes. I went to sleep with a photo of him and the Roman centurion under my pillow. He was smiling in it, that’s why I liked it. So often he had looked miserable, wearing his depression like a shroud.

  Postcard from Callum, he’s gone to Sydney for six months, I’m amazed he’s finally got his act together. I’m happy for him. He’s written in a giant scrawl, Oz is a blast, doll. Hope you are fine, xxx

  Fabio phoned a month after the break-up dinner. My heart leapt. I’d had to stop myself from phoning him almost every night. He missed me. Maybe we shouldn’t have finished, he said. It’s not as if we fight all the time, maybe it was just a bad patch.

  My voice was shaking. It wasn’t a bad patch, I said. We’re too different.

  I just wanted to make sure, he said.

  I miss you too, I said. I hate it without you.

  Why don’t we get back together then?

  We can’t, I said, we’d just be burying our heads, limping along with our own secrets.