My first appointment with the counsellor was at lunchtime today. This morning at work, as I collected my Petri dishes and peered down my microscope, the weight of anxiety bore down on me, crushed me. What would I say? What would she ask me? What would she think of me? What if she couldn’t help me? And suddenly — snap — I knew I had no other option. I wasn’t going. I wanted to let her know, but I thought she might answer the phone if I called. I couldn’t face speaking to her. I feel like the worst kind of person. I just didn’t go. Told my line manager my lunchtime ‘classes’ had been postponed to next week. Worked through my lunch. I didn’t go.

Abbie called this evening to ask me how it went. Red didn’t call; he’d probably forgotten. More important things on his mind. I lied to her, said it was fine, fine. She didn’t press me; I don’t know if she knew I was lying or not. She told me how things were going for her — things with Bill are still good. She sounded girly, giggly. Very unlike her. She enjoyed telling me about him. I feel like even more of a bitch, knowing that I’m lying to her. I’m letting her down, letting the counsellor down. That’s what happens when you care about me — I kick you in the teeth. I’m warning you. Don’t feel sorry for me; I’ll snarl at you, bite you on the hand.

Dad called too. Yesterday, I would have been pleased. I thought that things might have been better between us after I saw Julie; I’m not sure why. That she might have been able to speak to him, to make him listen. He was his usual self and talked about nothing — it reminded me of how he was before the accident. He’d called me because he’d had some information about one of my investments and wanted to warn me. I wanted to say to him that I couldn’t give a shit about the financial health of Hoggett and Sons or whoever the fuck they were. What difference would a couple of hundred pounds more or less make to anything? I was polite, put on my happy-Ruth voice as I pinched into the skin on my wrist with my nails; he didn’t notice. I wanted to say ‘Dad! I’m unhappy!’ I wanted to put the phone down on him. I wanted to smash the phone against the wall. I’m scaring myself a little. What am I capable of?

I thought about Dan all evening. For a few weeks after he left work, people would still mention his name — they’d talk about a project he’d started off, or someone would impersonate him and say, ‘Need nicotine now!’ when they went to have a cigarette. He doesn’t get mentioned so often any more. Even my brain is mentioning him less. I used to think of him constantly and everything reminded me of him. I’d look at daffodils in the park in springtime and think, ‘I’ll buy him a bunch of daffodils on the way home, and he can put it them in my blue vase.’ I’d read a story in the paper and imagine telling him about it over morning coffee.

You might think I’m really crazy if I tell you this. He had his own side of the bed. The left side. I was (am) aware of lying towards the right during the night in preparation for when he gets home late and slides in beside me. I was (am) always aware of the absence of him when I slept, a cold expanse of bed-sheet that was going to be warmed by his tired body at any moment. Sometimes in the night I’d reach out a hand to see if he were home yet. Don’t worry, I didn’t do anything really crazy, I didn’t set a place for him at the table or have conversations with him out loud. But he was there with me all the time. I don’t want to give him up, I don’t know what it would mean if I did. Without the chance of it becoming real, however small a chance that was, what point is there any more? Have I wasted my life for seven years? For longer?

Does it really matter if anyone reads this or not? What am I trying to prove? That I’ve fought bravely, like when they say someone has fought a brave fight against cancer? What’s so wrong with giving in gracefully? Welcoming death with open arms? She got cancer and received it gratefully. She died as soon as she could. Why the fuck not? What’s to be gained by living in that much pain for as long as you can? Is it that you’d be letting the rest of the human race down by abandoning them? Why shouldn’t you if you want to? What is it that keeps me here?

I have death in me like an embryo. It keeps growing. I can’t ignore it kicking. But we all have death inside us. It’s growing in all of us, right now, getting bigger and bigger and sucking away more of our life until we give birth to it, our own dead bodies, a huge, horrible, bloody mess. Fuck it. Fuck it all.

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