Tag: psychotheraphy

Hiding, secrets and lies – ways of being or qualities that I leant from my mother. To survive my childhood I had to hide, keep secrets and lie. Sadly, I took these characteristics with me into adulthood. They became friends that I could rely on.

From writing this piece, I can observe how lonely Lisa was and how unhappy. I feel compassion for Lisa and understand that hiding, keeping secrets and telling lies was the only way she could be in relationship with another.

‘Who was that woman who waved to you?’ Bob asked as they sat down. He turned to look at Lisa when there was no reply. Her light grey eyes were downcast, partly hidden by her dark lashes, but Bob could see they had glazed over and that she was on the verge of tears. He nudged her gently with his elbow, encouraging a reply.

‘My mother,’ Lisa replied in a small voice that Bob didn’t recognise. As she raised her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, he noticed she was shaking. He took hold of her wrist. It felt slender and vulnerable. He pulled her hand across his lap and held it there. He curled his fingers warmly around it and tuned her palm up, rubbing at it with his thumb. It was moist and hot. He brought it to his mouth in a gesture so intimate, he felt a stirring.

‘Lisa, what is it, what’s the matter?’  he murmured, searching out her eyes whilst keeping his lips in the pocket of her hand.

‘It’s nothing. Please don’t fuss me. I’ll be all right.’ Lisa pulled her hand away, turned and kissed Bob’s mouth silent. Her face was pale, he noticed, naked with just a blush on her cheekbones. She held her mouth tight, the line of her lips straight and polished pink.  Puzzled, but respecting, Bob turned to look around him, allowing Lisa the time she needed to compose herself.

The church was a modern, wooden constructed building. It was light and cheerful with a voluted and beamed ceiling. It reminded Bob of a very large Scandinavian chalet where the walls and the floor were of light-coloured pine. Sunflowers had been placed in vases on every window sill, their vast orange and yellow flowerpot faces contrasting with the purple and lilac of the stained glass windows.  The effect was simple, but stunning. It seemed to Bob to be a fine choice for a wedding ceremony should he and Lisa’s relationship develop, but Bob wasn’t sure about taking that step and he had no idea what Lisa felt about marriage. She was different from any of the other woman he had dated and being in her late thirties, she certainly wasn’t conventional about marriage and having babies. She never mentioned it and he loved that about her, that she didn’t go on about women’s things. It enabled him to embrace his freedom and pursue his own interests. She fascinated him with her analysis and introspection of others, drawing him into an emotional world he had never before experienced. It was like entering a cave, part of  him  knowing it was dangerous to delve inside, but the other part wanting discover more, to take the risk. Being with Lisa was a heady mixture.

They had been living with each other for nearly a year, ever since she moved in with him last summer. They had retuned from their first holiday together and Bob had been surprised to discover that he needed the closeness they enjoyed whilst away to carry on. He appreciated her company and the way that she, like him enjoyed a tidy, serene and neutral environment. When asked, she had readily moved in with him, bringing  with her little more than her personal belongings, her CD’s and books and a few choice pieces of homeware including an attractive copper lamp with a burnt orange shade and an oil painting of an african lioness in a gilded frame. Items that blended seamlessly with the decor of his carefully crafted home. He was mildly curious that she didn’t have any family photographs in frames to display but he had become used to the way she skilfully manoeuvred herself from a tight spot at any hint of enquiry about her past or her family members. Bob came from a close and gregarious family and it came as a relief to him that he wasn’t expected to be involved in another. Yes, he was happy and content with their relationship although had anyone asked, he would have admitted that it was slightly odd that he had never visited her home town nor met any of her family.

All my life, I craved physical touch from my mother who was unable to give or receive comfort. When we walked arm in arm, which we often did in her later years when she was struggling, I relished the contact, but felt the weight and burden of her.

In this piece of writing, I have learnt that my mother was afraid. She was as afraid as I was.  Sadly, we weren’t available to each other, neither could comfort the other.

Fear had entered Lisa’s life eight years ago when Sylvia was diagnosed with breast cancer. Even now, she remembered how it first felt when the consultant told them the devastating news. It was like he had given her an injection; the fear travelling through her veins, all the way to her heart where it had burst into an icy rain. As the years had passed, the rain had become more like a dripping tap than a shower, but it still chilled her and kept her frozen in that moment when her whole life had changed.

The appointment time with the consultant was at 4 o’clock. ‘Now you won’t be late picking me up will you?’, Sylvia had instructed.

‘No mum, I won’t. Don’t worry,’ Lisa snapped back. Conversations between Lisa and Sylvia were made in short, sharp pointed retorts, like a game of ping-pong. Backwards and forwards ‘no mum,’ ‘yes mum,’ until one of them missed the table.  The game  would then be suspended whilst invariably Lisa sulked and Sylvia fumed. It had always been so. Lisa couldn’t remember ever having a proper conversation with her mother. They had never talked, not about anything.

All that day whilst at work, Lisa watched the clock and as the morning wore on, she became aware of her heartbeat pounding at the centre of her chest. It was like she was riding a galloping horse she couldn’t control, that was going faster and faster. By early afternoon, she felt quite sick with it and cancelling her attendance at the progress meeting, left the office earlier than she intended. She would be early now,  she thought, that should please her mum.

As she approached the house, Lisa saw Sylvia standing in the middle of the large bay window, looking down the road. She already had her coat buttoned up and on seeing the car, she turned, bent down to pick up her handbag and was out of the house, on the driveway and locking the front door before Lisa had even stopped the car.

Typical Lisa thought as reached across and opened the passenger door. She had wanted ten minutes in the house to have a quick cuppa, to visit the loo and generally gather her thoughts before they set off for the hospital. Sylvia hadn’t let her see any of the correspondence from the consultant’s secretary and Lisa had no idea what department of the hospital they had to attend. It would have been helpful at least know something, but Sylvia insisted that she knew where to go and Lisa wasn’t to worry about the details.

As Sylvia got into the car and slammed the door shut, her scent immediately filled up the space between them and became the reason neither acknowledged or greeted the other. Her mothers smell, Lisa could recognise anywhere. It was both comforting and repelling, a mixture of expensive french perfume with back-notes of disinfectant and cigarettes. Lisa believed that no one else would be able to smell anything other than Sylvia’s perfume it was so strong, but she had lived all of her life with the other smells. They had become part of her mother’s DNA and part of their shared history, part of their differences. Lisa neither smoked nor used disinfectant to clean her home. She despised both. Discreetly, Lisa opened her side window to let some fresh air into the car, reversed out of the driveway and in silence they drove the short distance to the hospital.

It was not until they were checked in and sitting down opposite each other in the waiting area that Lisa dared to speak. She always broke first. ‘Are you ok mum?’ she asked, leaning forward to touch Sylvia’s knee.

Sylvia looked up from the magazine she held but was not reading. It shook ever so slightly in her hand. Unable to meet Lisa’s imploring gaze, her need for reassurance, Sylvia turned to the woman sat next to her. ‘It’s very warm in here, don’t you think? I wonder if they can turn the heating down?’ but just as Sylvia stood up to ask the receptionist at the desk, a door opened.

‘Sylvia Hutchinson please. Mr Hall will see you now.’

Lisa stood up and took a breath deep. She smiled encouragingly at her mother. Sylvia smiled back, finally meeting her daughter’s eye, searching for reassurance and strength as hers rapidly begun to seep away. She grabbed hold of Lisa’s arm. Lisa felt her mother’s weight, heavy and burdensome.  Together they walked towards the consulting room, a small distance that with the faces that turned to watch them, seemed like a mile. As they reached the open door, Sylvia released her grip on Lisa’s arm and stepped ahead, holding the door frame momentarily for support. Lisa glanced back to the waiting area. A woman nodded. It was the tiniest of gestures, but enough to prevent Lisa from running away. Involuntarily, she clasped her hands together, held them to her heart’s centre and followed Sylvia through the door.