Published in November 2016 issue of Prospect Magazine
My patient had a dream that turned out, she thought, to be a real memory. “I know you love dreams,” she laughed, glossy hair, shiny shoes, white teeth. I found it quite difficult not to cry as she spoke. That, I think, was her aim—project the sadness into me and then she can carry on pretending everything’s fine. This woman is beautiful, mid-twenties, successful. She delivers her material as though saying: “Pretty gripping stuff, eh? What do you make of that, oh therapist”?
“So, I was about two or three and I wanted my cereal out of this pink bowl with yellow flowers on it. I was a diva even then—always wanted that bowl. If I couldn’t have it I’d go nuts.” She mocked herself with a contemptuous tone. “Anyway, I was being such a monumental pain in the arse about it that my mum tipped the cereal and milk over my head and smashed my bowl on the floor.” She laughed now at the hilarity of this story until she noticed that I wasn’t laughing. “Oh, come on. I was being a nightmare. Actually, I told mum I’d remembered this and she said I was always pretty demanding as a child.”
I said it must have been frightening. She shrugged and shared another one of her mirthless laughs. “Well,” she said. “It’s all relative. But that was hardly the most frightening thing that happened at home.” She mentioned being repeatedly beaten in the car over her choice of music, pushed downstairs when she hadn’t tidied her room properly, being kicked on the sitting room floor and other violently abusi…