I tried therapy twice. Here is what I found out:
1. Group therapy, Highgate, 2004.
Group therapy is mental. You sit in a room in North London (usually Highgate) and stare at some very good watercolours and nice Kilims whilst fellow members of the middle class talk about their problems. You have to call it "Group", and you are not allowed to talk to people from Group on the walk to the Underground after Group; nor are you allowed to acknowledge their existence if you happen to be seated at the table next to them at Cafe Rouge in Covent Garden.
I stopped doing it after 3 months because I found it embarrassing and weird and only liked one other person there, even though 'liking' people most definitely isn't the point. Oddly, the first time the therapist (a terrifying Doctor from the Tavistock Centre with extravagant beads, a therapist husband and no doubt the most bonkers children in North London) smiled was when I said I was leaving. (I may have read something into that.)
2. One-on-One, Highgate, 2005
This was more like it for two reasons:
1. You got to lie down.
2. You didn't have to listen to anyone else, feel guilty for thinking they're a twat and then struggle with the fact that you're too polite/nice to tell them to shut the fuck up and why when, in fact, that is the whole point of Group (as far as I can see).
This was quite good and if anyone ever says: "do you want some free therapy with a proper therapist, not some new-age bellend?", say 'yes!' and go. She was into Freud and all of that so I got to talk about dreams and the id and ego and conscious and subconscious (which my husband, a French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist who is a 'real' scientist says does not exist), which was quite interesting. I didn't do it for long because of an incident involving...
3. The Oldest Therapist in the World
The nice lady (see above) sent me to see a man to make sure I wasn't depressed. I didn't think I was, but we thought it was worth checking.
Like Therapist 1 and Therapist 2, he also lived in a huge house in Highgate, filled with very nice paintings, interesting Scandinavian furniture and Kilims (because all therapists are millionaires with good taste).
I was late because he was in a bit of Highgate I had never been to before; being late when you are going to see a therapist is a million times worse because you feel that they will say something like you are CLEARLY subconsciously RESISTING the WORK you must DO, when clearly they aren't, and are probably just thinking, Oh it's raining and the traffic is bad, maybe I'll have a cup of tea while I'm waiting.
Anyway, I digress. We had a nice conversation.
Man: Do you think you are depressed?
Me: No, I don't. I just wonder ... what it's all about, really.
Man: My dear girl, man has been asking that question since the dawn of time. And I rather think that if Socrates and his friends couldn't work it out, there is no reason why you should.
After that, I was declared Not Mental and stopped going to see therapists in Highgate.
Seven years later, I am wondering if I am in fact mental. Here is why: I am working like a dog. I am doing exactly the things that are not good for the brain: I am not sleeping enough, I am not eating well, I am not doing exercise. I am not writing my web-blog, watching enough back episodes of "Real Housewives of Beverly Hills", or cooking everything in Elizabeth David's
English Bread and Yeast Cookery. I do not see my husband enough (he is a sociopath so it suits him). I do not write enough letters to friends, or spend enough time staring out of the window. I have four more 3-hour sessions of laser hair removal to have on my legs, and a house in France I can stay in that I rarely ever go to. I have a friend in Glasgow I would like to see, and god-children near Brighton I would like to see too; on top of that, I have a new niece in Amsterdam I must see, urgently and soon.
None of these things are possible at the moment. What is possible at the moment is conference calls at 7am and 9.30pm, and trips to Austin one week, Singapore the week after, and Brazil the week after that. (NB: travelling for work is not glamourous or fun. Anyone who tells you it is has never travelled for work.) It is not much fun, and we are all very tired indeed.
There are reasons why. What we have been doing has been very, very difficult, and very, very difficult is often also very, very interesting. I am very fond of the people I work with. We are highly amused by each other, most days.
But I haven't written on my web-blog for months and months it is probably because I undeserving of the very name "Non-workingmonkey". I am doing all the things I know are VERY bad for me, but can't stop doing it. See? Mental.
