It is. So. Very. Exhausting.
She pulls me in for a sweaty hug. ‘It does get better,’ she promises. ‘In time, you’ll learn to trust yourself again. And that’s the only person it’s important to trust. But it gets worse before it gets better. At least you’re getting it out.’
I nod. I do feel some poison leaking out. I do feel like there’s a little bit less than there was. But I also feel totally overwhelmed by how much there still is, and how long it will take to drain, and whether it ever will, and how much of my life I’m going to mess up in the meantime.
‘It will get better,’ she repeats, before releasing me.
Gillian turns the music off and claps her hands. She gleams with sweat. The air in here must be at least thirty degrees. My own sweat keeps dripping into my eyes. ‘Good work, ladies,’ she says. ‘Now, before we cool down, I think it’s time for an “It’s Not Your Fault” circle.’
I send a questioning look to Charlotte who grins reassuringly. ‘Just wait. It’s actually exactly what you need.’
‘If you could put your balls back in the basket, and sit in a circle. Oldies, show the newbies.’
There’s only one other new girl, Hannah, a short brunette who turned up last week and hasn’t spoken to anyone yet. Our eyes find one another as we’re singled out as the new kids. I manage a smile, plop my ball back, and join the circle forming on the ground. A mist of contentment seems to rise off it. All of us filled with exercise endorphins and the relaxed energy of being around people you don’t have to try with. I cross my legs beneath me and sit next to Hazel who smiles too.
‘What’s this about?’
‘Just wait.’
Gillian sits down in a perfect lotus, completing the circle. ‘Everyone comfy?’ she asks. ‘And can everyone hear over the fans?’ We all nod. ‘Great. Now, most of you know the deal here, but for those of you who don’t, here’s all there is to it. We are going to close our eyes and take some deep breaths as a group. Then we’re going to sit in silence. If you feel moved to speak, speak. Say the things you need to say. I want you to get in touch with your pain, and really sit with it. I know it’s hard, but you’re safe here, and we’re all here with you.’ She pauses. ‘And, if someone else is speaking, know that what they say applies to you, too. We’re all in this together. Feel every word, know that it’s true, and know that you deserve to hear it.’ Nobody’s acting like this is strange, even though I have to say it sounds a bit strange.
Gillian jumps up and turns some quiet meditative music on, the sort you shavasana to at the end of a yoga class, then she sits back down again. ‘Right everyone, close your eyes.’ I watch everyone close theirs without complaint before I do so myself. My eyelids lower, the universe goes dark. ‘OK, now I want you all to take three deep breaths. Breathe in …’ There’s a whistling noise as we all suck in oxygen. ‘And out … And in … and out. And in … and out.’ My ribcage inflates and softens. My shoulders drop slightly. ‘Now, this may feel hard, but I want you just to quickly think about what brought you to this class …’
The white wall. White wall. Hurt. Pain. Shame. Too numb to move. Blame. No. Please. Don’t. I can’t believe this has happened to me. My eyes begin to prickle, even with them closed.
‘Now, locate where it hurts. Do a scan, find the part of your body that holds this pain.’ I don’t even have to scan. I locate it right in my guts. It’s like my small intestine is made of cast iron. Wow. I’ve never noticed it before.
‘What shape is the pain? Can you find the edges of it? Sit with it. Don’t push it away.’ There is a big lump of pain in my gut that I didn’t know I’d been carrying. I feel it now. It’s about the size of an oversized banana, and spiky, pointing into me, hurting whenever I turn. I don’t resist it. I try and soften its edges. I breathe into it, and notice how it moves as my ribs move. It really hurts. Tears leak down my face from behind my closed lids. There is pain. So much pain. In me every day and nowhere for it to go, and I’m not sure I’ll ever feel right again. The only way to get through is to pretend it’s not there and hope things get better and hope I don’t make the same mistakes again, but then this pain catches up with me and knocks me down and, no, I don’t think I’ll trust myself ever again, let alone a man and … I begin to weep quietly, feeling ever so desperate, like I always do when …
‘It’s not your fault.’ Gillian’s voice. Calm. Loud. Authoritative. ‘What happened to you. It wasn’t your fault,’ she says.
My stomach twists, resisting the words. No. The pain can’t live under conditions such as this. It starts to argue with her, I start to argue with her. Maybe it was my fault, just a bit. Maybe if I’d fought back. Maybe I’m overreacting …
‘Don’t diminish your pain,’ another voice in the circle says. ‘Your pain is a totally appropriate response to what happened to you.’
‘I’m so sorry this happened to you,’ another voice says.
‘It shouldn’t have happened to you,’ says one more.
I jolt. I clutch my stomach. I can’t figure out whose voice is whose any more. I hear a whimper. Someone else is crying. Maybe it’s me who made the sound. The iron in me hardens, rejects. But it did happen to you, it did. It can’t be undone. You will always be fucked up by this. So fucked up.
‘What happened to you doesn’t define who you are.’ It’s Gillian’s voice again, like she knows. I guess she must know. Because she’s been here too. I gulp, and I gulp again, because if I don’t, I will full-on sob. The tears keep on pouring. I keep my eyes shut, ears open, heart open.
There was a white wall and I looked at it because it was all I could do. I got hurt and I buried the pain of it because, at that moment in time, it was all I could do. I just tried to survive. I’m trying to heal but it’s taking ages and it’s hard and feels impossible but I’m trying, and that’s all I can do.
My mouth cracks open. Words spill out. ‘You will heal,’ my voice is saying. ‘I know it feels like you never will, but you will.’ It’s too much. All the emotion. Too much. I lose track of who is saying what, who is sobbing and who isn’t, what time of day it is.
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘You did the best you could.’
‘It won’t always hurt this much.’
‘You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for.’
‘It could’ve happened to anyone.’
‘He is the broken one, not you.’
‘You will get through this.’
‘You will get through this.’
‘You will get through this,’ I whisper.
And I know they’re the sort of clichéd sayings you see posted on inspirational backgrounds in swirly font. I know they’re just words, and words can’t take the pain away, can’t undo what was done, can’t make me the woman I was before, can’t make me forget, or forgive, or ever be the same again. But there’s something about these words being chanted by women who get it, who have been there and not deserved it either. Some much further ahead than me on this journey of putting yourself back together again, able to add a layer of authenticity to what they’re saying, because they’re on the same road, but they’re further along, and they can see the sun over the horizon, and they’re calling back to me, promising me that, if I can hold on a little longer, I’ll be able to see the sun rise too.