you need to tackle your perception of him, and do it in the same way that you’re tackling your compulsions, with exposure and response prevention.”
“How? How can I do that?”
“By just letting the thoughts come, and letting them go. Let yourself remember. Let the anxiety come, wait for it to subside, and then, before it’s gone completely, think about him again. When you’re at home, imagine him coming into the room. Picture him. Think about standing in front of him, facing him. And then wait for the anxiety to subside. These are just thoughts, Cathy. Let them come, and let them go.”
He made it sound so easy.
“Will you give it a try?”
“What—now?”
“We can try now. But especially when you’re at home. At first you can get Stuart to sit with you, if you like. But don’t use him for reassurance. You need to be able to do this by yourself.”
“I’m not sure I can do it.”
“It’s up to you, of course. But think about the implications of being unafraid of Lee. It’s worth a try, isn’t it? And if we try now, it might be easier to give it a go than when you’re at home. At least here you won’t be tempted to go and start checking the door. What do you think?”
I didn’t answer.
“Think about how much thinking about Lee would distress you first. Let’s use our scoring system. On a score of zero to one hundred, how bad do you think it would be?”
“Just to think about him? Ninety.”
“All right. Let’s try—yes?”
I closed my eyes, not sure what I was doing and if it was all going to go horribly wrong. Lee wasn’t hard to imagine. He was in my thoughts all the time anyway, even if I did fight against it. This time, I let it come. I pictured my flat. I was sitting on the sofa, looking back toward the door. Waiting. I pictured the door opening, and Lee standing there.
I felt the fear coming like a wave, my heart racing, tears starting in my eyes.
“That’s it,” said Alistair. “Just let it come, don’t try to stop it.”
I pictured him walking toward me. Lee, as he always was, handsome, short blond hair, complexion that always seemed to be slightly tanned even in midwinter. Those eyes, bluer than the summer sky. And the size of him, too, the bulk, the muscles in his arms and across his chest. He came and stood next to the sofa and looked down at me. He even smiled.
I waited. Already I could feel the anxiety was less than when I’d started thinking. I’d expected this to end in a full-blown panic attack, but it wasn’t that bad at all.
“Tell me about what you’re imagining,” Alistair said.
“Lee in my flat,” I said. “Just standing there.”
“All right, good. Now I want you to picture him leaving again. Put him into a car and have him drive off.”
I did it. He turned, gave me a wink—where that came from I had no idea—and shut the door behind him. I went to the front windows, saw him getting into a car, a silver car, shutting the door and driving away. I pictured myself going back to the sofa and turning on the TV.
I opened my eyes.
“How was that?”
“I did it,” I said.
“And think about your anxiety. How bad is it now, thinking about him?”
“About—about seventy. Eighty maybe.”
“Good. See? You can do it. It’s a good start.”
Saturday 12 June 2004
It took a long time and, in the end, I was almost sorry it was over. He pulled out, pulled himself away from me, over to the wall, sitting there, his head in his hands. I saw my own blood on his hands, his face. Then I heard him sob. I pulled myself gingerly up to a sitting position.
“What am I doing?” he said, his voice broken. “Oh, my God. What the hell . . . ?”
I looked at him and he was actually crying.
I inched my way over to him, every bit of me sore. As he cried, I found myself sitting next to him, the wall for support, and I slipped my arm around his shoulders. He put his head against my neck, the tears from his face sliding down my skin. I put my ruined right hand, three fingers now fat as sausages and numb, cold, on the side of his cheek. “Shh. It’s okay.” My voice sounded distorted, my lip split and swollen. “It’s okay, Lee. It’s all right, really.”
He cried against