Pretending, page 30
My stomach twists, resisting the words. No. The pain can’t live under conditions such as this. It starts to argue with her, I start to argue with her. Maybe it was my fault, just a bit. Maybe if I’d fought back. Maybe I’m overreacting...
“Don’t diminish your pain,” another voice in the circle says. “Your pain is a totally appropriate response to what happened to you.”
“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” another voice says.
“It shouldn’t have happened to you,” says one more.
I jolt. I clutch my stomach. I can’t figure out whose voice is whose anymore. I hear a whimper. Someone else is crying. Maybe it’s me who made the sound. The iron in me hardens, rejects. But it did happen to you, it did. It can’t be undone. You will always be fucked-up by this. So fucked-up.
“What happened to you doesn’t define who you are.” It’s Gillian’s voice again, like she knows. I guess she must know. Because she’s been here too. I gulp, and I gulp again, because if I don’t, I will full-on sob. The tears keep on pouring. I keep my eyes shut, ears open, heart open.
There was a white wall and I looked at it because it was all I could do. I got hurt and I buried the pain of it because, at that moment in time, it was all I could do. I just tried to survive. I’m trying to heal but it’s taking ages and it’s hard and feels impossible but I’m trying, and that’s all I can do.
My mouth cracks open. Words spill out. “You will heal,” my voice is saying. “I know it feels like you never will, but you will.” It’s too much. All the emotion. Too much. I lose track of who is saying what, who is sobbing and who isn’t, what time of day it is.
“It’s not your fault.”
“You did the best you could.”
“It won’t always hurt this much.”
“You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
“It could’ve happened to anyone.”
“He is the broken one, not you.”
“You will get through this.”
“You will get through this.”
“You will get through this,” I whisper.
And I know they’re the sort of clichéd sayings you see posted on inspirational backgrounds in swirly font. I know they’re just words, and words can’t take the pain away, can’t undo what was done, can’t make me the woman I was before, can’t make me forget, or forgive, or ever be the same again. But there’s something about these words being chanted by women who get it, who have been there and not deserved it either. Some much further ahead than me on this journey of putting yourself back together again, able to add a layer of authenticity to what they’re saying, because they’re on the same road, but they’re further along, and they can see the sun over the horizon, and they’re calling back to me, promising me that, if I can hold on a little longer, I’ll be able to see the sun rise too.
“And that’s it,” Gillian says. “Open your eyes when you feel able to.”
It takes me half a minute or so. My chest is sore from releasing grief, not one part of my face is dry. The room full of fans comes into focus. We are all crying, all of us. Some harder than others. But we’re all smiling. My stomach feels the tiniest bit lighter. Like maybe I’ve soldered off the top layer of iron. I really am crying. Charlotte catches my eyes and sees how hard I’m sobbing, and she stands, pulls me up, and hugs me so tight. I hug her back, bawling into her shoulder. Howling and shedding tears all over her. She just hugs and hugs. Then there are more bodies and more hugs, and we all blend together. Arms mingling, breasts pushed together, ribs hurting as the entire class melts into a fused circle.
From: Carol@FreshStart.com
To: AprilS1987@gmail.com
Subject: Your first appointment
Dear April,
I’m just confirming your appointment for an initial consultation for this Wednesday evening at 7:00 p.m. Obviously things are slightly different as we’ve already worked together at We Are Here, but I still think it’s important to have a talk about what you’re hoping to achieve out of this process.
Attached are the directions on how to find my office.
Kindest regards
Carol Knight
Clinical psychologist
* * *
From: April@WeAreHere.com
To: Mike@WeAreHere.com
Subject: Official notice
Dear Mike,
As discussed in yesterday’s meeting, here is my formal notice of resignation for the role of advisor. Thank you for being so understanding.
April
* * *
From: Mike@WeAreHere.com
To: April@WeAreHere.com
Subject: RE: Official notice
April,
Thanks for this. Annoying legal formality, especially as it’s not like you’re leaving us!
Anyway, I accept your notice and we’ve started advertising for someone to take over your shifts permanently. I know we spoke about it a lot on Thursday, but I do want to reiterate just how grateful we are that you took on this role and everything you gave to it. These front-line jobs do take a toll; they take a toll on anyone who does them. Please don’t chastise yourself for reaching your limit. You’ve given so much and helped so many people. I’m looking forward to continuing to work with you as a volunteer manager. Thanks for everything you gave us.
Mike
Gretel: Crazy week! Sorry I’ve not seen you. Shall we meet at Vic at 11 tomorrow for the wedding?
• And Happily-Ever-After... Gretel’s Guide on How to Keep Him
Oh, look how far you’ve come. Look at all you’ve achieved now you’ve learned how to play the game. Aren’t you glad you’ve mastered the art of holding in all your totally appropriate responses? Remember how lonely you were back in those dark days of authenticity? But you made it. Well done. Let’s all be honest, I really didn’t think someone as pathetic as you would manage it, but you did. That’s how desperate you must’ve been. Enjoy your prize of a man. Enjoy society finally accepting you now that you’re not a lonely, pathetic singleton anymore. Enjoy the beautiful comfort of being in a loving, caring relationship with someone who truly adores you for who you are...
Hang on, what do you fucking mean you’ve not been being yourself?
Are you crazy?
You mean, you’ve not been being you? This whole time? Are you dim? Do you not know the most basic rule of dating—IT ONLY WORKS IF YOU ARE YOURSELF!! I thought everyone knew that. Jeez. I can’t believe you’ve been lying to this poor guy from the start. How let down he’s going to feel when he realizes that you’re actually a flawed human being, with needs and desires that may infringe on his own, and that you want to be loved despite all those repulsive flaws, which is totally unreasonable if you ask me. Yes yes yes, you need to be yourself. Duh. But, like, I thought you realized all of this wasn’t about hiding yourself, but changing yourself. Making yourself perfect. Like he deserves.
Too late now. Can’t open up now. Otherwise he’ll claim false advertising and want his goddamned money back. Nope. If you don’t want to lose him, you’re just going to have to commit to keeping up this facade for the rest of your life. Just keep pretending. Every day. Fake it till you make it and all that. I mean, TRY to be yourself, but not too much. You don’t want to go back to square one again, do you? I mean, if he doesn’t love you for who you are then nobody else will. Life’s not that long to act like a complete fake. Men tend to die before women too, so you’ll get a few years when you’re eighty-six of being able to let yourself loose for a while. You can hang on until then, can’t you?
April: Gretel?
Gretel: Yes, babes?
April: I need to let you go.
Gretel: Me? But I’m not the one with all the problems.
April: Exactly.
Gretel: Explain your rationale please.
April: Gretel, you’re not real...
Gretel: Well that’s true.
April: And you’re not different from me...you are me.
Gretel: Huh?
April: You’re the me I never got the chance to be. You’re the me I could’ve been if none of it happened. But it did happen, Gretel. It did. I can’t take it away. It can’t be undone. I am the woman I am because of what happened. I will never be you, and it hurts too much to keep you around. Because you’re not real. You never were. You’re just a stick to beat myself with.
Gretel: I thought I was a stick to beat Joshua with?
April: I thought so too, at first. But no.
Gretel: I thought you wanted to feel power. Haven’t you felt more powerful being me?
April: No. I’ve felt worse.
Gretel: Surprise surprise.
April: I’ve felt worse because there’s no power in denying who you are. No power in wishing things could’ve been different. No power in envying the other you that you could’ve been. No power in hiding away those bits in order to be loved.
Gretel: Bloody hell. Somebody’s been to therapy...
April: I have. It’s helping.
Gretel: I’ve never seen the need for it myself. All seems a bit self-indulgent.
April: You would think that. Because you’ve not had the life I’ve had. I’ve got to say goodbye now. To you, and to Joshua.
Gretel: April?
April: Yes?
Gretel: I’m sorry.
April: For what?
Gretel: I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to be me. I’m sorry it all happened to you. Truly, I am.
April: Thank you. Goodbye, Gretel. It was nice never quite knowing you.
Gretel: Goodbye.
Gretel: April?
April: Yes.
Gretel: He still might love you, you know?
April: Please, don’t.
Gretel: He might.
It starts raining on the day of Chrissy’s wedding, and the day I’m going to end things with Joshua.
“Poor Chrissy.” Megan pushes the living room curtains to one side, her face dimly lit by the gloomy sky. “Months of heat wave and then it decides to properly break on the day of your wedding. If it were me, I’d consider it an omen.”
I join her, taking the material of the curtain between my fingers. It’s pissing it down in a determined, relentless way. Already this summer of scorched grass, sunburn by 10:00 a.m., and it being too hot to sleep feels like a collective dream. Like it never really happened. “Bless her,” I say. “Such bad luck. Also, will my yellow dress look stupid now?”
“Nah, it will be fine. It will be warm in the church. Those giant, stone rooms are well known for their coziness.”
“You’re hilarious.”
We both stare out at the rain like we’ve never seen it before. I run through all the ways in which I now have to adapt my plans to fit with this new precipitation. I need to find a bag that fits an umbrella. I need to find a pair of skin-colored tights that haven’t laddered or make my legs look like I have jaundice. I need to get cash out for a cab from the station to the church, as a fifteen-minute walk will ruin my hair and makeup. I need to admit to Joshua that I’ve catfished him and listen to him tell me what a fucking psycho I am...
“So, this is your last engagement with Joshua?” Megan says to the misted windows.
I grasp the curtain a little tighter. “Yes. I’ll tell him after today.”
“And not before the wedding today because...?”
“Because then he won’t come.”
“And you want him to come because?”
“Because Chrissy says each guest costs sixty-five pound a head. You can’t lose your plus-one wedding guest last minute when it’s sixty-five pound a head.”
“That is true.”
“Unforgivable.”
“And you’re sure there’s no other reason? Like, you want to spend more time with him?”
“Stop it, Megan.”
* * *
Gretel isn’t coming to the wedding—only April. I don’t want to pretend anymore and it’s all going to end anyway. So April curls her hair, because she cares about looking nice on her friend’s big day, and she checks the train times over and over because she gets stressed about being on time. She sends a message to Joshua, checking he’s going to be on time too, even though he’s never been late before.
Joshua: Bang on time. Look at me, the best-dressed dude on the tube.
He’s sent a selfie, decked out in an uncomfortable suit, and I sit down on the edge of my bed and stare at the photo. All dressed up for me, getting up early on a Saturday for me, spending the day making boring small talk with strangers and eating dry chicken for me. But it isn’t for me, it was never for me, I remind myself, and I put my phone in my bag.
The London streets are empty as I hurry under my umbrella to the station, like the rain is poisonous. I shake my umbrella off into a floor puddle, get a seat on the Tube, and as we career through the tunnel I stare at nothing, wondering how I’m going to make it through this. I remember my initial fantasy—breaking a random man’s heart over an artichoke before dropping the mic and vanishing. I wish I’d had the guts to follow through with it. Maybe if the guy hadn’t been Josh...or maybe I never had it in me anyway.
“You say that this Gretel is every man’s dream,” Carol said in our first session the other day. “But you’re basing that on your own interpretations of what men want. Do you think maybe Gretel is nothing to do with men, but rather a fantasy for you? The woman you think you could’ve been if you hadn’t met Ryan?”
Joshua’s waiting for me outside WHSmith, cradling a newspaper he’s bought. His hair is wet, childlike and juxtaposed with his suit, and he looks so adorable that I almost can’t walk over and kiss him hello.
“You look lovely,” he says, drinking in my effort. “Your poor friend though. Raining today.”
“I know. And they’ve paid a fortune for this big stately place too, so that they can get good photos in the grounds.”
“It will still be the happiest day of her life though.”
“Let’s hope.”
“I bought our tickets while I was waiting.” He hands me an orange card and I want to hold it to my heart like it’s a precious love note.
“Thank you,” I say. “Do you mind if we pick some food up at M&S? I live in fear of being hungry at weddings.”
I over-shop, buying two sandwiches, one pasta salad, crisps, and an overpriced collection of chopped fruit in a plastic cup. Joshua gets a bacon sandwich and a bottle of Coke. The train’s on time, which is noteworthy enough for us both to comment on, and we settle at a table seat and spread out our picnic. He keeps putting his hand on my knee, leaning over to kiss my neck. We’ve not seen one another all week as I’ve been ripping the plaster off slowly. His physical affection stings like my arm hair getting caught in the glue.
“So, what’s been going on at work?” he asks. “Crazy week?”
I nod, stretch my arms, watch the rain splatter the window as we pull out of the station. “Yeah. I resigned from part of my role,” I tell him, getting the truth about myself out in little nuggets.
He puts down his sandwich. “Wow, what? Are you OK? Which part?” He rubs my arm to comfort me and it stings again.
“Just the advisor role. I’m fine. I feel guilty, but also know it’s the right thing to have done.”
“Oh OK. Whoa, though. I thought you really liked that bit of your job?”
“Yeah, I did. But it was getting too much. I was struggling with how sad it was.” I raise both eyebrows and shrug, all “well, what can you do?”
Josh’s hand drops off my arm. “I had no idea,” he says slowly.
“It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.” And it isn’t. I beat myself up about it for one sleepless night, then I only felt relief. I’m proud of what I did and who I helped, but I don’t want to be angry all the time, afraid all the time, I don’t want to believe that every dog in the world bites, even though they all have teeth.
Joshua stares over my head and at the splattered decoration of rain against the glass. “OK, well, I’m glad you’re happy. Sounds like it’s been a bit mad.”
I can sense his pain about being left out of this life development and I put a hand on his arm. To comfort him, to try and make this last day a nice one. “Sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say. “It was just a lot for me to digest, and it was all a bit heavy and I didn’t want to burden you with it.”
His eyes are sad when he smiles. “But I’m your boyfriend. I’m here for the burdening.”
You won’t be my boyfriend for much longer, I think, and you never were to begin with.
“That’s so cute.” I kiss him, to pretend that it’s better. I should tell him now. Before we get off the train. I don’t want to be screamed at in front of Chrissy’s wedding guests. But his lips are so warm, and the way he hugs me...
* * *
We pull into the suburban station and I feel sorry for everyone who has to live here. Maybe it’s just the rain and grayness, but the town lacks anything that makes anywhere something. There’s just a paved shopping precinct showcasing the most basic selection of high-street stores. Chrissy always told me this part of Surrey was the most sterile place in the universe to grow up, and I’m now inclined to believe her. Joshua and I run to the taxi queue to make sure we’re at the front, both of us ducking under my umbrella, and ask to be taken to St. Luke’s.
“I really don’t know anyone,” I tell him as we’re pulling into the sodden car park. “I hope you don’t get bored.”
“It’s fine. I love singing hymns. They better have ‘Jerusalem.’ I used to go to church all the time as a kid. That was always my favorite.”
