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‘Fool, if you think it’s over’

I did something last week that I rarely do, I bought myself a new cd – Chris Rea’s Greatest Hits - and now, as I sit down to write, one of his songs comes into my head: ‘Fool, if you think it’s over’. His music reminds me of the late 80s when I was working in documentaries for BBC Bristol. We were filming in the US and the cameraman, Graham Frake, who had become a good friend, bought me one of Rea’s cds. Listening to his music again takes me back to simpler times.

Maybe I was a fool to think the worst was over with William. I’m upset with him again. This week I did something else I don’t normally do and bought myself a DVD. It went missing before I’d taken it out of its HMV bag. I’d left it in the study and then couldn’t find it. I asked everyone here if they’d seen it, and today, days after it had disappeared, I decided to look for it properly. Puzzled as to where it could have gone, I found myself standing in Will’s room, looking at his white drawstring bag, and found the DVD in there, its plastic bag crumpled underneath it, the receipt alongside. Will is not here, having gone out last night and not returned. I guess he was planning to take the DVD back to the shop and get a refund on it. A small thing, you may think, but it’s cumulative. We’ve had repeated incidents like this over the years and made it clear to Will that it has to stop, and now it’s happening again.

Alex, who is 13, has just told us that his new mobile phone has gone missing too. We go over when it was last seen, and conclude that Will may have taken it with him when he left. Guy is furious, saying that Alex must look after his belongings, as we have thief in the house. ‘It’s a hard lesson you have to learn I’m afraid’, he tells him. Alex has tears in his eyes as he responds to this, saying that he wants to be able to use his things without locking them away all the time. I explain to Alex that we are all upset that this is happening again. Jack, who is 16, has just come in from being at a gig in Brixton and is dismayed to hear my news about the thefts. He says Will needs to get some new friends because of the pressure to smoke when he’s with them.

‘He goes looking for people who smoke, though, I think. So many people smoke now, but none of my crowd – we think they’re idiots’ he says.

He starts to tell me about a man he saw who was handing out Es right in front of him.

‘One of them started to look really ill and had to leave. His eyes were awful. They’re crazy.’ he tells me. ‘You okay though, mum? About the Will thing I mean?’ he asks me.

I tell him I’m fine, just upset obviously. He says goodnight to me, leaving the room murmuring about making sure everything’s locked away.

We still put all our valuables in the safe in our room, am I going to have to put any purchases that Will may take a fancy to in there aswell? Just wondering how we’re going to continue like this, beginning to trust a little more because Will seems to be more ‘normal’, and then a nasty surprise waiting. There was also a message on the answering machine today for Will, asking why he had missed his counselling appointment this week, and was he returning? Yes, he most certainly is. We’ve made it a condition of him remaining here that he get help. He’d told us that as it was half-term there was no appointment. That, it would appear, was a lie. More old patterns.

I took him on Monday to attend his appointment at a local mental health centre, from where there may be the possibility that he could be referred to the Maudsley Hospital. His behaviour has been good at home these past three weeks, since he has not been going into college every day. It’s not been easy for me, having him in the house every day, but I’ve been aware that he needs to rest and recover from three to four years of sleeping on other peoples’ floors and doing massive amounts of cannabis. I have said little about him getting up at noon and doing very little for the rest of the day. We have re-written his cv together, though, and he has been applying for jobs.

He’s looking much better. I never got used to him looking dirty and ill. He has beautiful deep blue eyes, olive skin, and curly black hair, an unusual combination. He has let his hair grow now, is showering regularly, and generally wearing clean-ish clothes. He seems genuinely to care about making good our relationship, but is smoking again. The day before his appointment with the psychiatrist, on Sunday, he came home having obviously been smoking weed with friends. He was ill, clutching his stomach saying he had pains. His pupils were wide, too. (Suppose I should have been suspicious when little bottles of eye drops started to appear in his room these past two weeks). He slept all day. A repeat of this happened on Tuesday too. So, weed is back on the scene – hence the stealing, I suppose.

On the way to the clinic, Will starts to tell me he didn’t want to have to tell his life story again to another doctor. I told him that every time you tell it you see yourself a little differently and that, in itself, can be very useful. I try not to start gabbling, which is what I do when I get nervous, picking up on his tension. I remember reading somewhere that a winning duo is to think quickly and speak slowly. Hmm, no can do. The centre is housed in an old Edwardian house in a sought-after residential area, just off the main road that leads from Lewisham to Bromley. Steep steps lead up to the front door with its peeling grey paint. As we enter the waiting room I clock the ‘No Smoking’ sign, yet the room smells strongly of trapped tobacco smoke. Tugging upwards at one of the double-glazed windows is not successful, so I sit down again. Fraying grey chairs are laid out in a horseshoe shape. There is a series of small posters on one wall, warning of the dangers of drugs misuse. A couple in their thirties are waiting too, one of them has crutches. The woman begins coughing, that familiar sound that can only be produced from smokers’ lungs, and fumbling in a pocket she begins to pump something noisily from a tube, inhaling melodramatically.

Will doesn’t seem to notice, and has turned to look at me, telling me that all he needs is a job to get his life back on track. He doesn’t need any more therapists, so why can’t I understand that? I ask him if he wants me to stay and wait for him, and he turns his head away mumbling that leaving him with a load of doctors would be just wonderful. The irony is that I sat in this same waiting room myself about twelve years ago, and I’d lay money on it that it hasn’t been decorated since. The windows definitely haven’t been opened. It was not long after my third son was born. Each time I had a baby, I had begun wanting to know about my own early years, and became aware that there was a void in my life that I didn’t know how to fill. I had had four years of Jungian therapy in my twenties, and I had recently been to my GP about the possibility of getting some help with the bereavement scars that I carried. She had suggested I go for a short course of CAT therapy at Guy’s, but I needed to get referred first by attending this clinic. And here I was again now with my son who at the time I had come here had only been a small child of seven. Oh my, how things turn out. However, I know that sadness and depression can be a gift, because they can lead you to an understanding of yourself that you would never have otherwise. You really can heal your life, and I’m a classic example of someone who has done just that.

Will returns from seeing two trainee doctors, and I can tell a change has taken place because his eyes seem much bluer. Maybe the eyes really are the windows of the soul, and soul-work is most certainly what is going on here for Will. To tell your story, seeing your words paint living pictures of your experiences, is to access the soul. And it’s hard work. Will is starving and we walk out to get a quick breakfast at the local greasy spoon, before Will sees the consultant.

When we get back a new patient has arrived in the waiting room. He tells the receptionist that he’s breaking down, and needs to see someone right away. He’s pacing the room now, repeating what he’s just said to her. I keep my eyes on my book, but wishing I could help in some way. Will returns after an hour with the consultant, who invites me to come down to talk to her. Well, this is new. Will says he asked her to see me. Really? That’s great. I walk downstairs to a small room where the two student doctors are waiting. I wish I’d gone to the loo, though, before she’d called me down. If I’d known…..my one chance to talk to get some sort of diagnosis about Will and I’ve had a cup of tea on top of a bottle of water.

The psychiatrist is a woman in her fifties. She is very friendly and begins to talk to me about my son, saying that he is undoubtedly troubled, and could benefit from psychotherapy, but he has told them that he is happy to continue with the counsellor he has at the moment, and doesn’t want another therapist.

‘It’s a bit like you’ve brought him in for an MOT, you see’ she explains to me.

She tells me that he is not suffering any major mental illness, that he doesn’t need medication, and that maybe getting a job is what he needs, although she wonders whether he will be able to be disciplined enough to keep one. He has told them that he has had a trial day at a job, which I explain is not true. They all look confused. I assure them I am right on this.

We talk and she agrees that he could be referred to the addictions unit at the Maudsley, which is what I tell her we should like, and says she will arrange it. Will can decide which route he wants to take when the appointment comes through, she says. I feel happy with this, and Will seems up-beat too, but probably just relieved to get out of there. I feel the same. Another experience we survive together.