I’ve only ever seen a counsellor once in my long life, and that was when I was in hospital after the spinal operation two years ago that marked the end of my ability to walk. I’d been overheard (not difficult, as – always the diva – I wailed it at the top of my voice) saying that I didn’t want to live any longer in a wheelchair. I remember finishing off the performance by throwing a box of tissues to the floor, so you’ll note that we were very much in “Ooo, I could crush a grape!” territory here.
The lunch bell rang shortly after. I was a big fan of hospital food, and perked up greatly. I was playing in my medical bed, making it go up and down, quite restored to my general good humour, when a man appeared. I wouldn’t know him if I passed him in the street today, which is perhaps quite remarkable, as I did with him something I’ve never done with any other human. I had counselling!
I didn’t do it because I thought that it would help me in any way. I’d been offered it before, over my previous two months in hospital (I would spend five months in all inside). I did it because it was an hour before my husband’s visit and I was at a loose end; there’s only so many times you can make a bed go up and down and keep feeling ineffable delight. I also did it because I’ve been a show-off all my life, and the showboating ops in a rehabilitation hospital are few and far between.
So I took time to deliver my answer to questions about everything from my parents (very good) and my feelings about being a paraplegic (very bad). It was only when I spied the clock showing 10 minutes to Visiting Time that I decided to wrap things up: “For further information, you can find my Desert Island Discs on BBC Sounds,” I said in what was a rather more brisk tone than I had aimed for. “Recorded in 2013, but I still stand by everything I said. Thank you so much for your time and attention – but I’m really not the suicidal type.”
It sounds rude, but it sums up well my attitude to counselling; when I’ve had the privilege of getting paid to write about my life since I was too young to vote – a whopping half-century – why would I repeat the same information for free to someone who’s getting paid to listen to it? It might be entertaining for them, but the altered financial angle doesn’t exactly do it for me.
I eventually got discharged – and within a week of gaining my freedom, I was back in the emergency room of the hospital where I’d had my spinal sundering, after trying to remove myself from this world. Once again I was offered counselling; I scowled with a bad grace and snapped: “Unless they can counsel me on how to walk again, I’ll give it a miss, thanks!”
So I obviously was the suicidal type – and this wasn’t even the first time. I’d previously tried it on finding out that I had incurable tinnitus and on realising that my son was never going to recover from the mental illness that would eventually make him take his own life. To claim that I wasn’t the suicidal type is a bit like claiming that Judy Garland wasn’t; not for nothing had my favourite teenage read been Valley of the Dolls.
My exuberant nature may have misled me in this department, though I’d deny that I fit the “Tragic Clown” trope, performing in public and weeping in private. Before I became disabled, I would frequently sing aloud when alone, from the sheer joy of life, and this certainly wasn’t performative. I don’t sing anymore when I’m alone, I’ve noticed, just as I don’t cry when sad or exclaim when I hurt myself. To some extent, when it comes to expressing sorrow or joy when alone, my emotions have evened out in the way that antidepressants (also offered to me, and refused) are famous for. But though my history marks me out as not averse to mind-altering substances, I’ve turned down the pills as I feel very wary about the effect they might have on my writing.
Once I had two speeds – “Isn’t life wonderful!” and “Please kill me!” Now it’s like I’ve grown into my state of disablement, without the elation and without the desperation. I won’t try to write myself off again, partly in case I make a mess of it. What if I become a quadriplegic? What if they put me in a state mental hospital, so many of them bywords for being places that any sensible cuckoo would fly over extra-fast? And even though suicide isn’t a crime against the law anymore, surely it’s a crime against my Creator?
Besides, I still get a kick from pressing the button at the traffic crossing. Talk about small pleasures! But while I have this endless delight, I won’t be asking for counselling any time soon.
If you are struggling, Samaritans are available to talk day or night, 365 days a year. You can call them for free on 116 123 or visit www.samaritans.org
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