by J S Hollis
As noted above, Sebastian’s analysis of his reactions to the murder indicates an attempt to second guess his own feelings. Sebastian is using his writing as a means of venting frustration and it is helpful in that respect. But he is also building uncertainty. The mere fact of writing is insufficient. What matters is whether or not it helps the individual. In Sebastian’s case it has both positive and negative effects. It is the only tool he has to access his feelings and so it must continue. But he is also using it to explain his own behaviour: he is in constant fear that his feelings are wrong and that he must defend them to himself and to others. I suggested this analysis to Sebastian and he agreed, although he also said “I find writing really enjoyable”.
I will return to the writing. But the overriding point is that, collectively – numbness, evasive writing, his desire to get on – Sebastian’s experiences suggest that he is not accessing his deeper feelings about the murder.
This conclusion is supported by a repetitive dream that Sebastian has been having. In the dream, Sebastian is reading and the words fill his vision. The room behind the words is unclear but he thinks it is his parents’ bedroom. He is rereading one word he does not understand when he feels the presence of someone else in the room. He refuses to peer through the letters to see who the person is but he can feel them getting closer. Their shadow flickers across the white letters. Sebastian is terrified. He is desperate to understand the word: he is sure the person will leave as soon as it makes sense. But now he is not even sure he recognises the letters. He flicks his eyes away from the word for a moment and there is a face right up against his: all he can see are bloodshot white eyes. He wakes up and his heart is racing.
This dream strikes me as symptomatic of Sebastian’s fear of selfdiscovery. There are four reasons why this might be, which are explored in detail below: pain, desire to side with the living parent, the projection of empathy and a shattered Weltanschaung.
First, Sebastian may have justly feared the possibility of reliving the initial and intense pain he experienced when he was told about his mother’s death. To deal with this, he actively repressed his true feelings and has since found it difficult to rediscover them. This repression has exhibited itself in Sebastian’s search for distractions and his constant reminders that everything will be better “in time”. Although lack of attention and an obsession with the lives of others – so called “beeing” – has been shown to be endemic among Generation W, Sebastian seems particularly prone to living vicariously.
Second, Sebastian suggested that maybe he didn’t care that much about his mother and that it was his initial reaction that was the lie. This seemed unlikely. Sebastian’s relationship with his mother prior to her death was positive. More likely, he was unable to experience feeling while his mind struggled to make sense of what happened. This struggle was evident from Sebastian’s attempt to blame his mother for her own death (for instance, by saying it was her fault that he was at school and not there to protect her from his father). It was easier for Sebastian to blame his mother if he convinced himself that he had never really cared about her. This was an attractive conclusion because it allowed Sebastian to side with his father, his only surviving parent. He wanted to avoid blaming his father out of fear that he would be left with no “real” parents and he did not want to be in such circumstances.
Third, Sebastian felt his parents had abandoned him and that he was in a strange new world. Consequently, he wanted to take on the role of the parent and he saw this role as primarily caring for others. In his writing, he often refers to his fear that others are suffering on his behalf and he has spoken to me about his concern for his grandparents. He is more concerned with someone feeling awkward when offering his or her condolences than with his own emotions. Sebastian was asked whether these feelings of concern manifested themselves at the time of the murder rather than retrospectively at the time of writing and he was not sure. He has also said that he had always been less concerned with his own emotions than those of others. Even if this was the case, Sebastian’s concern for others, especially other close family members, suggested a heightened sense of empathy that was compensating for his inability to counsel himself.
Finally, Sebastian is suffering from severe doubt, which is most clearly manifested in his inability to trust his own feelings and memories. This is a predictable outcome of his mother’s murder. The murder revolutionised Sebastian’s assumptions about his family and his life story. He saw the world one way for eighteen years. But the murder made no sense in that world. It would not have happened there. So he needs to reconstruct himself and his world but he is wary of the materials available.
Recommendations
Sebastian sought to move on before properly grieving. He needs to find a way to grieve now or he may find that the trauma reappears later in his life when he no longer has the support network around him. There is no single way in which Sebastian will be able to access his grief. I suggest that he continues to attend counselling and that he should discuss the murder with family and friends.
Sebastian’s family must also be careful to avoid being too easily convinced that Sebastian is fine. They should be more courageous and seek to speak about his mother, however painful it is for all of them.
It is helpful that Sebastian already has a permanent residence at his uncle’s house. It is preferable that he is not moved around at this emotional time. Careful thought should also be put into his choice of path after school. A move to university while he is still grieving may prove damaging, as he will lose his support network. However, I recognise that studying at a virtual university may leave him with undeveloped social skills.
On the other hand, Sebastian may find his dependence at this time difficult: he is moving into adulthood and seeking further independence. Family and friends should give him enough space so that he does not compensate for his reliance on family by aggressively forging paths for independence. If he feels suffocated, he may lash out by leaving the family home or by trying to differentiate himself through radical activity.
More importantly, I suspect Sebastian needs to engage with the reasons for his mother’s murder. I asked Sebastian whether he had thought about why Cecil had killed Clara and he said “not much”. When I asked him why not, he said that Cecil would eventually explain it all. I believe that Sebastian’s fear of the potential truth behind the murder – and what it might say about his parents – is contributing to his inability to access his feelings about Clara’s death. These truths are all connected: if he needs to shut one of them out, he necessarily must shut them all out. I suggested this to Sebastian and he said: “What’s the point? It’s not gonna change anything. She’s dead and he’s in prison.” When I suggested that understanding could help him mourn, Sebastian said, “What if there’s nothing to understand?”
I appreciate this point. I also understand that there has been a lot of media discussion of the murder, which may be unpleasant. Nevertheless, even if there is no revelation to be had through engaging with Cecil’s motives, by ignoring them, Sebastian is blocking off reality. If he does not open himself up to these essential parts of his identity – confusing, inconclusive and false as they may be – he may never truly grieve.
entry 11
hunger
S poked at the steak with his fork, praying it would speak to him. did it represent the end or the beginning? its comma shape suggested neither. S cut it open revealing an innocent, moist pink mouth. not a word. what did he want it to say? he closed his eyes and listened: a clink from the kitchen, the buzz of a car passing, the whirr of a drone overhead – an approximation of silence. S felt the presence of the silent howl whipping around him. he had disconnected from W and his watchers were muted: but they were not mute. their vitriol would continue – perhaps amplify – even though they knew S couldnt hear them. for a moment, S basked in the peace of his selfincarceration.
S opened his eyes. the waiter was
leaning against the narrow bar, his pupils coning into someone elses world. the steak was still there, gaping. S picked up a rocket leaf and chewed on it. his hunger shrugged off the bitter barbs. it had grown fat on a diet of liberty, guzzling down each whim, demanding more, merging satisfaction and desire into a single feeling. S didnt know whether he wanted to want the steak or wanted to eat the steak. or whether it was his choice at all?
S tracked the hunger back to his last exam. it was the spawn of obsessive study. he had gone cold turkey following a voracious diet of academia.
carlo and phillippe had tried to wean him off beforehand. each evening, when S had submerged into the darkness of his room, his only light the passing words of a years collated notes, carlo would knock on the door.
“come in,” S said, moving only his lips.
the door opened and a little additional light entered, blurring the notes while they adjusted to the contrast.
“what are you up to?” carlo asked.
“civil war.”
“personally or reading about?”
“reading.”
“thats good. id like to know if my house is a hotbed of sedition.”
“quite the opposite.”
“do you wanna take a break?”
“should i?”
“yeh, you can work too hard. im playing at the dinge tonight, you should come.”
S swiped his notes to the corner of his vision and turned to carlo, whose silhouette stuffed the doorway, the trumpet in his right hand hanging like a puppet.
“i cant even remember charles last words,” S said. “all i can remember is that thomas rainsborough said ‘the poorest he hath a life to live as the greatest he.’”
“you mean everyone should be equal.”
“i guess, but thats not how they said it.”
“does it matter?”
“equality?”
“no, what charles last words were?”
“apparently.”
“ill take it that you dont wanna come to the dinge then.” carlo began to turn but something drew him back. “could i put the light on? i dont like talking to you when i can hardly see your face.”
“sure. lights on.”
a red light filled the room, casting a purgatorial glow on the clutter.
“you havent changed that?” carlo asked.
“the white ones broken.”
“look, i just wanted to say if you have anything you want to talk about, anything at all, feel free to chat to us.”
“sure.”
carlo tapped the door frame. “if you dont wanna come to the dinge, you should watch a film with philippe here. hes been dying to watch the cull and i refuse to watch it.”
philippe had morbid taste. “maybe,” S said.
“ok.” carlo held up the trumpet. “see you later.”
carlo disappeared but left the door open. S brought his notes back into view. charles i remained paused on the scaffold. between life and death. between impotence and eternal fame.
time stopped on the last exam and Ss screen disappeared. the exam hall remained silent for a moment – waiting for someone to say it wasnt really over – and then the walls exploded with colours that coalesced into a bouncing “congratulations”.
S stood up and turned to ariadne behind him.
“what questions did you get?” ariadne asked.
“nothing too difficult. you?”
“one i had never seen before but it was ok. are you coming to margos tonight?”
“probs. gonna go home first.”
S had intended to go out. but once he was back at carlos, he wandered around the house, as if he was seeing everything for the first time. he ran his hand against the grain of the cupboards and sniffed the living wall.
S had filled his head with facts, opinions and formulas for the exams. now his head sat empty, like a film set in between shoots. it was waiting for him to bring it to life.
S drew his fingers along a decorative bookshelf, reading the spines as he went. he picked up a paperback, the apple of my eye, a biography of isaac newton. the page edges were yellow and unbent. he took it with him to the sofa and began to read with no plan of ending. after a few hours had passed, while newton was sticking needles in his eyes to see what colours he saw, S received a message from ariadne: “get up and get over here.”
S flicked to margos. a few people were chatting in the lounge about whether they were going to watch their exams being marked. one couple lay in a bedroom.
S returned to newton, who had little regard for his own health, for companionship, for sex. was his voyage of discovery worth it? and what was the point when even newton conceded the great ocean of truth lay before him undiscovered? and what could it mean for S, who doubted the great ocean led anywhere?
S took a look at himself on the backdrop of the deep green couch. he tried to create a relaxed portrait by allowing his oversized limbs to splay but instead formed a discarded scarecrow with trampled brown hair and skin that refused colour like an overcast sky. and then there was the slight break in his eyebrow, through which his face howled with asymmetry, and the porous and crooked nose that loomed over him whichever way he turned. it was the same old S with a body built for solitude. why did everyone else get to be beautiful?
S didnt care. about newtons ocean or about himself. he wanted to sail wherever his wind took him, and that didnt include margos.
“you were just being contrary,” eugene said to him the next day. perhaps he was. but there was no choice involved. he had a head to fill with everything from gravity to schrödingers cat to existentialism until it was a bulging and dusty antique shop of partial ideas.
as the post exam days passed, S continued to read, mostly without interruption. friends sent him messages to weave him back into the social fabric. jeffrey judd, cecils lawyer, told him that it was a bad time to be antisocial. and one commentator concluded that S was “showing genetic signs of misanthropy”. but the majority of watchers were bored by S and his viewing figures crashed. his friends became concerned.
one saturday, ariadne appeared at the foot of the deep green couch.
“hello, spec,” she said.
his head flicked up from the horizontal. “what are you doing here?”
“i am just here to say hello.”
“you mean to prise me out.”
“dont be silly. please can i sit?”
S drew his knees in so ariadne could sit at the other end of the couch. her poise was immaculate. S was certain the angles between her back and her thighs and her thighs and her calves were exactly the same.
“how did you get in?”
“i walked in.”
S peered at her veil for a moment, trying to look straight into her eyes, and then, satisfied, he sat up but kept his feet on the couch.
“so whats up?” he asked.
“i have been volunteering at brainwave.”
“i know that.”
“you asked me whats up.”
“i meant tell me about it.”
“did you know brainwave identifies new patients through a behavioural scan on W? i had thought patients were brought in by family or friends.”
“makes sense.”
“the patients are recluses, more often not. they have gone from having vibrant social lives to spending substantial time alone. they are probably suffering from utku syndrome.”
“whats utku syndrome?”
“its named after a group that live in the arctic.”
“i guess they dont see many people.”
“exactly. what i am trying to say to you is that i am concerned about how much time you are spending alone.”
“im fine.”
“remember what your therapist said about trying to differentiate yourself through radical a
ctivity.”
“all im doing is reading.”
ariadne pressed her hands together. “are you sure you are ok?”
“yes.”
“i am pleased to hear that. i prefer my friends sane.”
“a fair aspiration.”
they both exhaled the beginning of a laugh.
“is being alone a symptom of utku syndrome or the cause?” S asked.
“both. some peoples health deteriorates from being alone. some people are on their own because their health has deteriorated.”
“sounds like im doomed.”
“you are not doomed, you are just missing out on the fun,” ariadne said while unhinging off the couch.
S usually felt a stabbing pain of hollow loneliness at the thought of fun without him. but even ariadnes intervention couldnt shake his idle focus. words flowed into his eyes as he wandered from chapter to chapter within his own expanding universe. his body orbited from bed to couch to chair to garden to park, but wherever it was, he continued to read. and the sun shone during those early days of summer, long into the evening, allowing S to roam the city and fold himself into the ever growing shadows of the skyscrapers. it was perfection and he revelled in the gorgeous solipsism of windblown discovery. he enjoyed the books he disliked, almost as much as those he liked. it didnt matter. words meant more than they ever had before. he squeezed them all in, sometimes through one eye, if the sun fell across him and he had to squint to keep the letters in focus.
