…’
There’s a brief interlude because I’m gasping for breath. I panic as stale oxygen gets trapped in my chest. Carol squats down in front of me, repeating, ‘Breathe, April, come on breathe. In for five, out for seven, in for five …’
This morning, Joshua and Gretel were so cute. They got up and danced around to The Boo Radleys, him twirling Gretel under his arm. What would he think if he saw her now? An irreparable mess. A pile of shattered glass. A ball of ugly emotions. He would not find it as cute as dancing to ‘Wake Up Boo’ let me tell you that for certain.
‘Have you considered boxing?’ Carol asks me, once my human functioning comes back. She sits back on the chair and crosses her legs.
‘Boxing?’
She nods. ‘There’s this class. In East London, I think. It’s women only and they have special classes for survivors.’
‘There’s a pop-up rape-victim aerobics class? Wow. East London literally thinks of everything.’
She ignores my joke which is annoying because I’m pretty pleased I’ve found the energy to be sarcastic at a time like this. ‘Lots of survivors find it a really good outlet. It may be a way of letting out all these emotions you’ve been talking about.’
Despite my cynicism, I can’t deny that the thought of violence immediately appeals to me. To hit. To destroy. To hurt. I log what she’s suggested, making a mental note to look the class up. Then return to a more pressing concern.
‘Is it … normal?’ I ask her. ‘To be pretending to someone that I’m someone called Gretel?’
‘You know that “normal” isn’t a useful word in these kinds of sessions.’
‘Blink once for yes, twice for no.’
Her smile is tight now. ‘I guess it’s worth asking yourself what you think this behaviour is going to help you achieve?’
The answer tumbles out of my mouth. ‘Power,’ I say.
‘Power?’
I nod. The fans lift my hair around my shoulders. ‘Being Gretel is the first time since I started dating when I was 16 where I feel like I have any power at all.’
‘What do you mean?’
I shrug, my eyes widening. ‘Just that. I’ve never, ever, felt like I’ve had any power with men. I’ve constantly been on the backfoot, because I want the love too much, and they’ve made me feel like wanting love is a weird thing. A wrong thing. A needy thing. Even when I’ve gone for men who I actually, initially, think are a little below my league. Once we’ve got into it, they’ve still all ended up rejecting me. Do you know how powerless it makes you feel? To lower your standards to try and love someone and even then they don’t want your love? But, when I’m Gretel …’ I can hear her singing into the breeze of the fans, laughing like she’s never worried about anything in her whole goddamn life, ‘… I feel powerful. Like I’m in control. Like I’m finally the one who is less into it. Like I’m the one who needs convincing. And, most importantly, I’m not the one who is going to get hurt this time. I even feel guilty!’ I laugh Gretel’s laugh. ‘I’ve never felt guilty before. Never in my whole life. Guilt is the luxury of the powerful.’
Carol makes a quick note in her book before she finally looks up. ‘Do try and get to that boxing class,’ she advises. ‘This feeling of disempowerment may be able to be channelled through … er … well, less destructive ways.’
‘I will go.’ And I will. When you are at rock bottom with only a pickaxe to dig further down with, you are willing to try just about anything. ‘But this feeling of powerlessness pre-dates what Ryan did to me,’ I tell her. I reach out and tickle the truth, burning my finger. ‘I’ve always felt like I’m on the backfoot, that I’m chasing a rainbow I don’t deserve, that I’m not worth anything.’ My throat’s smaller. Hands shakier. ‘In fact, when he did it,’ I say, hardly able to get the words out, ‘it wasn’t even a shock.’ I pause again. ‘More a confirmation of the inevitable.’
A huge hunk of silence follows that.
Then, ‘Go to the class,’ she echoes.
I’m signed off for a week, and taken off the rota indefinitely, even though they definitely can’t spare me. I get sympathetic looks as I leave the office at 11 a.m.
‘I hope you feel better soon,’ Matt says.
‘I’m sorry to be leaving you in it.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’
I cry