Dark Feelings (1)
The first episode in the Pascha Lyle series published exclusively on Substack
Hello Everyone,
I’d fantasised I was a mutant who mysteriously couldn’t contract covid as the years passed, but….no. Anyway, having returned from months of travel and now in recuperation at home, I’m inspired by other authors, particularly Luke Jennings of Killing Eve, who publish their new fiction directly for their subscribers here on Substack.
I invite you to continue to send me your questions about all things psychological for feedback, sharing and discussion with the goal of support and healing. I’ll continue to publish my answers, thoughts and reflections and be as helpful as I can.
Along with usual operations, I’m adding my fiction series to the mix, which is totally in keeping with the psychological vibe. It’s called Dark Feelings, set in 1990s Melbourne, and the main protagonist is psychiatrist in private practice on Chapel Street, Dr Pascha Lyle.
For the record, the characters and events in Dark Feelings are not based upon any real persons or events. Any resemblance is purely coincidental. To be clear, the stories aren’t about me, and the main character isn’t me, despite being written in the first person!
So here we go. Enjoy episode 1.
Dark Feelings (1)
The over-size man-baby sitting opposite me in the circle is still fixing me with a death stare. I return his gaze steadily and give him a nod rather than demurring or showing much emotion.
He’s made some inappropriate comments tonight but it’s not my first rodeo with blokes like him. I want to establish rapport, respect, maybe even (gasp!) a sense of equality in his mind. He nods back almost imperceptibly.
In a perfect world I wouldn’t have to work with bullies with anger problems, nobody would. But that world hasn’t happened yet, so I have to compassionately meet each patient where they are, to have any chance of motivating them towards change.
I see my assistant Fi’s written court mandated next to that one’s name in my manila folder. It’s a heads up to my co-facilitator Anton and I that the bloke (I believe he’s called Wayne) might not be the most willing participant in our men’s anger management group.
Anton’s a social worker, one of my best mates and the funniest person I know. We met in a group therapy facilitators’ course about six years ago, when I was still building my psychiatry practice, earning my stripes as a therapist.
We kept the group going because there aren’t many groups like it in Melbourne, and it’s garnered a reputation for helping men wake up and stop family violence. It’s not financially rewarding because nobody thinks they should have to pay to learn non-violent communication, save their relationship or even lives. We do it because the need in the community is serious, because we want to stop women dying, and because we believe we make a difference.
Right now, Man-baby looks way too surly to be one of our future success stories, but hope springs eternal, as my Gram used to say. If he drops out, he’ll be replaced immediately from Fi’s long waiting list, but it would put him up shit-creek legally. Anyway, we don’t want these blokes leaving having learned nothing, so hopefully, something we say will connect with him.
Anton’s finishing up a module on ‘disagreeing without a fight’.
“Emotions can be complex,” he says, “But the decision not to be violent, verbally, physically, emotionally or any way – that is 100% simple and everything hangs on it.”
I’m scanning the faces. Most of the men look engaged, interested in fixing what they’ve broken. There are light bulbs over a few heads, a new awareness of their own triggers and vulnerabilities. Some look checked out, maybe feeling shame or just unable to hold their focus any longer, hanging out for a coffee and Tim Tam.
I smile at Anton and glance at the wall clock,
“Take ten minutes gentlemen,” he announces, “Grab yourself a coffee and some bickies and head out to the courtyard if you need a dart. Any questions, Pascha and I are here.”
The men stretch and wander out to the kitchenette or through to the night-time courtyard.
I get up to wheel the TV and VCR on its stand to the front of the room, ready to show a little video after the break.
“Still up for a drink after?” Anton asks quietly.
“Yeah, of course. Fi’s coming to meet us.”
“Great.” Anton doesn’t look at me. He sounds distracted, like something’s up.
“Are you good?” I ask.
“Yeah. Did you eat already?”
“No, we always get dinner, why would I eat?” He still doesn’t look at me. I feel like there’s definitely something going on with him, so I fish,
“How are Cass and Lilly?”
“Good, I’m mean, I think. Let’s talk about it after, P.”
“OK. Sure.”
I knew it.
One of the men comes in then, asking about our list of resources, so we turn back to focussing on all things related to the group.
Later, Fifi comes to help us pack up and we walk around the corner to Chapel Street for a gin and tonic and a pasta at Casbah. We have the same thing most Thursday nights because it’s comforting and delicious.
As it turns out, Anton says his girlfriend Cass has gone back to Sydney with their three year old Lilly to visit her parents. But I’m shocked when he adds she’s been talking about needing ‘some space’ and not feeling ‘in love’ anymore.
I can see Anton’s pain, as a man but also as a therapist who recognises dysfunction in his own relationship but can’t fix it. It’s super hard to see him hurting because, in my book, Anton’s a ten and I just want to see him happy and loved.
We talk for ages but we all know there aren’t any easy solutions. Fi and I mostly listen. When it’s time to go I hug Anton hard and give him a long mummy-style kiss on his spiky cheek that makes him pull back laughing, wiping it off, almost his usual self for a second.
Fifi dives in for an extra-long cuddle because she’s just a hugger. Some things you can rely on.
“Thanks Feef,” his eyes are shining, “And Sweet P. What would I do without you ladies, eh? Love you both. Nigh nigh.”
Only he calls me P. Most people call me Pash, which sometimes gets a smirk from strangers, but Pascha actually has the particularly unsexy meaning ‘born at Easter.’
“Call me tomorrow,” I say, making a phone sign with my thumb and finger. Anton waves over his shoulder at us, but doesn’t look back, heading home in the opposite direction.
Lunging for my lamp the next morning, I manage to knock over my bedside table with everything on it. When I resurrect it, the clock projects 5.47am on the ceiling. It’s too early, but I’ve had a gutful of night terrors and it’s easier to get up than try to go back to sleep.
My greyhound Zelda’s stretching and yawning which sounds hilarious, like a half-strangled hello. She watches me, recognising the signs it’s time to get up. She’s no guard dog, but she gives me a heads-up whenever someone’s approaching, which helps ease the hyper-vigilance. I adopted her during a scary time last year when a former patient, Jay, started stalking me, popping up randomly at my office, outside my flat and at various other places.
Jay’s in a secure ward now, and I’ve bought a better apartment than my old rental, but my sleeping brain still struggles to relax some nights. Anxiety’s always been in my life, but now we’re joined at the hip, constant, jittery companions. I just won’t let the noise of it bring me down, stop me doing what I care about. That’s not in my nature.
I pull my hair into a bun in front of the bathroom mirror. My eyes look red-rimmed, but it’s nothing a little concealer and some eyedrops can’t deal with. Anton’s on my mind because he’s really going through it. I’ll ring him as soon as I get to the office.
Today calls for the black retro shift dress I picked up for a song at Chapel Street Bazaar last week. I strive for a cool ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe, while keeping the look feminine and professional. It takes work to achieve that kind of balance, let me tell you.
I’m tight for time although it’s 20 to 8 when Zelda and I get into the lift to descend five floors to the street, ready to do battle with today.
Just around the corner from my apartment block, the Chapel Street shops are still mostly shuttered. Zelda pronks in her green therapy-dog vest, a serious canine health professional.
I put on my Wayfarers to keep the gritty wind out of my eyes, unsure if my messy bun, that looked surprisingly good in the mirror, is going to survive the walk. We dodge a couple of dusty clubbers spilling out of Chasers nightclub and zigzagging in front of us, bleary-eyed, bent over giggling.
At my office, the wooden sign for Alexander Moon, the café downstairs, swings in the wind, making Zelda tuck her bottom under as we take the nondescript next door into our stairwell.
“Morning Pashy,” Fi is wearing long spiral earrings with her hair up in a big clip. She has the water jug filled and the cushions plumped on the armchairs and sofa. There are fresh white lillies with waxy, dark green foliage in my favourite vase.
“Here’s your updated list for today Pashy,” she announces, holding out a clipboard.
“The files are on your desk.”
She turns her attention to Zelda,
“Come here my gorgeous girl, how did you go on the stairs today?”
“She was a pro. I love how she hops her back legs up each step, it’s a little panicky but she does it…”
“Ooo, my clever girl, let’s get a treat,” and Zelda sways her long, glossy black body out to reception, highly attuned to the jar of doggy treats on Fi’s desk. Not a day goes by without at least two, maybe three, or four…
Outside, a green tram rattles by, headed for Richmond. I phone Anton but he doesn’t pick up and his answering machine isn’t on. I’ll try him again later.
Fi buzzes from reception, “First patient’s here Pash.”