February 23: On my side

I'll come clean. I've been seeing a counsellor. Not something to be ashamed of, I know. And it's the first time in my life I've ever been. But there's always that thought in the back of your mind, isn't there, when people say they are seeing a counsellor.. that they're just a bloody whinger, or want someone to pay them attention, or just like to go over and over things again and again and none of their friends will listen any more. My counsellor was recommended by a friend who is neither a whinger or attention seeker. She (the counsellor) is, what, in her forties? Doesn't wear make-up. Wears clothes (like me) that are good for dog-walking in. A good start.
I would have thought, prior to going, that it would be very odd handing over £50 at the end of the session, sort of a bit like paying a prostitute for a very personal service that they don't quite want to give, that there would be something seedy about it. But it's not really like that. I don't believe she thinks I'm wasting her time and am mad for going. I don't believe she goes to the pub on a Friday night and says to her mates, 'had a right bunch of moan-bags in this week... still going on about their bleeding exes... I've given up listening.' I do, honestly, believe she wants to help. So that's another good start.
The first session (the week before Spain) was very very hard. I felt so awkward. There is just nothing natural about it. No polite talk about the weather at the start. No two-way street. Just, bam, get in there. The clock is ticking. Ready - and go.
I don't think I looked her in the eye once. I just clutched my stomach (which always seems to hurt more when my brain is in pain) hid behind my un-brushed hair and tried to explain the tangled mess of FTB, my X and the baby in between very loud uncontrollable sobs. She asked me what the aim of my sessions was. Why had I come? What did I want to achieve? I think that's the only question I could answer. I wiped my snotty nose and said I wanted to sort my head out before Bump arrived. I categorically do not want post-natal depression, which I'm sure I'm probably a prime candidate for given the mess of everything and a pre-existing tendency to slide into the dark stuff. I don't want to be a mental wreck when this baby arrives and needs his mummy. I want to give us both a fighting chance. I want to enjoy it (a possibility that at the moment seems as remote as Chelsea winning the FA Cup - I made that up, I know nothing about football).
In the second session, we talk about X as I am so distraught about it all. He was a main reason I booked myself in. Bump or not, my head still had to figure out my feelings for him. But now that X has removed himself from the equation, the focus has flipped to FTB. I exhaust her with the whole sorry soap-opera - his reaction to the pregnancy, the relentless pressure and fighting that has gone on since, the unending barrage of 'Indian issues' I had absolutely zero idea about before I went out with him. I exhaust myself. How do I feel about him now, she asks. What do I want? God, I tell her, I just don't know anymore. How can you know how you feel about someone who dumps you while you're pregnant? Sometimes, I think, yes, wouldn't it be lovely to patch things up and be one big happy family. More often, no, my barriers are up. I've been hurt too much. I've been a fool. Every time I have thought that all the cultural baggage would fade away, it's intensified. I can't envisage a happy ending, I say. It's just got too bad.
She is extremely kind and supportive but also practical. She says it's completely fine that I feel totally shit-scared, vulnerable, hurt, angry, betrayed and let-down. I'm dealing with all this on my own; I've moved house, moved to a new city, had major surgery, fought for this baby against its father's wishes, and now taken on the world - or if not the world - then the Indians who seem determined to stamp out this child's very existence. Don't worry, she says. It's 'primal' to want to protect yourself while pregnant. It's primal to put up barriers. It's primal not to want to get stressed - that's the baby's way of looking after its mummy.
Really? The thought, for some reason, briefly cheers me up. Bump is on my side, at least. And I thought I was on my own in all this.