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Two Halves of a Whole Ch 8 part 1

by barjoker 

Posted: 22 September 2008
Word Count: 2113
Summary: I posted Chapter 7 some time ago you might remember, which I think I will end up making Chapter 1. This is the chapter that comes next, with a bit more on Yasmin's panic attacks and her relationship with her husband John. Interested in whether John is convincing or OTT; whether the metaphor (captivity) is corny; whether you sympathise with Yasmin being trapped or are irritated by her passivity. Thanks!


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“If you've ever wondered what it feels like to be in a washing machine (and haven't we all?), this is your chance to find out. We chuck thirty litres of water, a (very) close friend and you into a giant translucent Sphere, roll you off the top of a hill and voila! instant spin cycle!”

It was the fish that did it. Until the fish I had been troubled by no more than mild anxiety, a vague nervousness around people and a reluctance to travel that caused me to respond with relief and a degree of gratitude when John suggested I go freelance and work from home. I was particularly glad to cease the daily commute into the city: although from Streatham I could go by train, rather than have to take the Tube, the confinement in close quarters with strangers still took its toll on me and I usually reached work in a state of high nervous agitation, which would gradually dissipate during the day until the journey home abraded me all over again. By the time I got back at the end of the day, I was raw and exhausted, and most evenings was able to do no more than drink a cup of hot milk and go to bed. The morning after I left the agency, I woke at the usual time and, when I remembered that I didn't have to get up and make the journey into the city, found hot tears of relief streaming down my face.

A year or so on, however, I began to notice that images of captivity were having an effect on me – pictures of animals in zoos, those terrifying Amnesty and PETA mailings that slide through the door, even the pet shop hamsters in their cages, would cause my skin to start itching as if I was wearing it inside out, and my stomach to rock with nausea. As a result, I was already making a conscious effort to avoid the triggers, but it didn't occur to me that there would be anything to fear at the shopping centre.

John and I had planned to eat lunch at an open-fronted restaurant on the ground floor, where I could sit at an inconspicuous table with a clear view of the exits; but in order to reach it we had to cross the large open space that was always given over to a promotional display or exhibition of some kind. This time, it was for a mobile phone network whose advertising featured vivid goldfish, and which had set up a series of tall cylindrical glass tanks in the centre of the space, pillars of white light in which floated small clusters of tiny golden fish.

The familiar itch started as soon as I saw them, my scalp burning as if it was pulling itself from my head. I tried not to look, but John had stopped to talk to one of the pretty reps and I found my gaze irresistibly drawn sideways to the lucent fish inexplicably suspended in the aqueous light.

“Why aren't they swimming?” I wondered aloud.
“These are tank-reared fish,” said a rep, stepping around the pillar. He was very shiny, his hair slickly gelled, his suit and tie gleaming. “They're not interested in exploring. They're just waiting to be fed, really. You'll see wild fish pacing up and down like tigers in a cage if they're put in an tank, but these ones just ignore it: it's as if they're pretending it doesn't exist. What network are you with, madam?”

I couldn't take my eyes off the fish – the curvature of the glass magnified and distorted them and they seemed to be inflating, their fins fluttering like signals. I felt as if my skin was shrinking, constricting my chest so I couldn't breathe, stretching my face so my eyes popped and my tongue swelled. My vision contracted to a point, then expanded outwards in a numbing wave that swept me from my body, so that I saw rather than felt myself collapsing to my knees, mouth opening and closing as the rep bent to catch me, John rolling his eyes, the pretty girl he was talking to pulling out a mobile phone and calling an ambulance.

By the time the paramedics arrived, I was still gasping, struggling to pull in each burning breath, convinced that my heart was giving out, and expecting to black out any minute. Despite John's insistence that it was really just a big fuss over nothing, I was taken to the hospital where, after a few tests, a young doctor came to tell me very politely that I had suffered a panic attack and my GP would prescribe me some medication, but in the meantime I could get dressed and go home just as fast as I liked because there were critical patients stacked up waiting for the bed.

John was smug, pleased that he had been the one to see through my clearly attention-seeking behaviour; but rather than be irritated by the diagnosis, he was gratified by it.

“It just shows what I've been saying all along, Yaz, that you're better off at home. That way I always know where you are and I can make sure you're safe. See, you can stay in your own little bubble in the big scary world. You're plugged in like a caravan hook-up – your shopping comes to your door, your meetings are in virtual conference rooms, your friends are on the phone: you never have to go out again. I practically envy you...”

It's not a fear of fish that keeps me inside now: it's the fear of panicking again, a fear of fear. Last time it was fish, next time it could be something else – a dog on a lead, a baby in a pushchair – it obviously doesn't matter whether it's rational or not. The experience of physical and mental collapse in front of strangers has left me profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of Out, of anywhere I might find myself thus exposed and vulnerable; and my brain has applied chemical shackles to my body to ensure it doesn't happen again – hence the shortness of breath, the rolling nausea, the antic twitching and sweating the further from home I get.

My therapist takes a Cognitive Behavioural approach, the idea behind which is that changing behaviour can change mindset; in practical terms this usually means forcing the sufferer to experience their anxiety repeatedly until they 'get used to it'. It seemed wrong-headed to me at first - the mental malfunction creates the anxiety, not the other way around, so why treat the symptom instead of the cause? – but apparently this treatment has the best rates of success. And to be honest - although there's a fair amount of talking too, not to mention the calming medication which I am trying not to need too much - it's the 'exposure events' which make me feel that at least I am putting up a fight, rather than meekly submitting to the tyranny of fear. I may have needed Mumma to get home from from the pharmacist's last week, but I managed to make it all the way there on my own, and even to collect my prescription, before the walk home loomed too large and I was obliged to make the call; and thus the panting shame of my ignominious exit was leavened slightly by this small victory, a minor objective achieved.

It suits John for me to be tied to the house this way. He prefers me to be here when he gets home, ready with hot tea and a sympathetic ear, comforting but not challenging, like a soft pair of slippers. He likes to sit at the kitchen table while I cook dinner, itemising the various irritations and outrages of the day for me: which selfish colleague monopolised his lunch hour so that he barely had time to read the paper; which thick idiot failed to understand the assignment and held the whole class up; the Head's blatant favouritism when allocating supervisory duties. John teaches English at the local comprehensive school; while I still worked in the city I would seldom be home before him, and would often arrive back to find him petulant and aggrieved.

“I suppose you went out for a drink with those people you work with,” he would say, although I very rarely did, finding that a few drinks made the journey home ten times worse. “How could you, when you know that I'm sitting here waiting for you? What a fool I am, utterly devoted to you, and you don't even love me enough to get home on time once in a while.” I would have to soothe and reassure him, promising to try harder tomorrow; and for the next few days afterwards I would force myself to shoulder into a packed carriage at 5.30, and stand with other people's bodies pressing warmly against my breasts, my rear, instead of waiting for a less crowded train to come along.

I thought that once I stopped going out to work, he would become less possessive, less inclined to worry about how, and with whom, I spent my time in his absence; but the fact that I was for the most part alone seemed to intensify his suspicion. He would telephone me five times a day to make sure that I was in the house, and if I failed to answer the phone he would race home at the first opportunity – morning break, lunchtime, once even in the five minute 'travel time' between lessons – in a towering rage, demanding to know what I had been doing, to whom I had spoken, convinced that I was taking advantage of his absence to entertain one or multiple lovers.

The night before the incident at the shopping centre, we had been out to a nearby Italian restaurant to celebrate our ten-year wedding anniversary. He had been ebullient, convinced that he was finally going to be offered Head of Department, and ordered expensive wine and steaks. The waiter made a great show of pouring the wine, rolling and curling the bottle with a flourish as if to conserve every precious drop, winking and aiming his Italian-inflected chatter at me, while I smiled back, warmed by the candlelight and John's good mood.

When we got home, however, his mood changed abruptly from candlelit to interrogatory as though a switch had been flipped.

“Don't think for an instant that I was fooled by that little charade,” he said. “How many times have you been to that restaurant without me?”

“What...? Never, I swear, only with you!”

“Do you take me for a moron? Flashing your tits, fluttering your eyelashes, winking, for Christ's sake, how obvious can you get? The guy probably doesn't even fancy you, he just knows a sad, desperate slut when he sees one.”

I'd seen John in moods like this before, and knew that the only thing I could do was to let him rage himself out, to patiently deny the accusations until he talked himself round again. That evening, he called me slut, whore, pointless cockshack; he accused me of soliciting sex from strangers in the street; he described in detail the betrayals and perversions of which he believed me capable; he repeated again and again that I was nothing, worthless and ugly, until finally, at four in the morning, he acknowledged that the poor sap in the restaurant was actually paying him, John, a compliment on his good taste in women; and decided that he could be magnanimous and say no more about it. He rolled over in bed and fell asleep almost immediately, while I lay wrung out and shaking next to him, feeling like a rag he'd used to wipe shit from his shoe.

The panic attack the next day took the pressure off after that, though. Once it became clear that I was in no condition to be sneaking off setting up assignations with lovers, or even friends, John calmed down considerably, calling just once a day or sometimes not at all, rarely enquiring about how I'd spent my time.

Lately he's been coming home later from school, sometimes not getting back until ten or eleven; he says he has to work late, that there's an Ofsted inspection coming up, or exams, or some other excuse, but I think he may be meeting a woman. I know I should feel horror, panic even, at the idea, but the truth is I just feel glad that the weight of his gaze is turned elsewhere for now.






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Comments by other Members



Cornelia at 12:11 on 24 September 2008  Report this post
Ooh! I thought this was very scary and convincing. I especially liked the description of the goldfish in the glass columns and the explanation about how they don't mind being in there. It linked well to the idea of the heroine not minding being in theflat because of her claustrophobia. I think I read reently about someone whose wife stayed indoors for years, so I din't find this too surprising.

I thought initially Yasmin was a bit of a wimp about commuting. I've some new neighbours from America and the woman says she can't imagine getting on a morning train to town. I think why shouls she be the exception when others just put up with it, but then I remember it must look scary to a foreigner. Once you know Yasmin's claustrophobic it becomes understandable she'd agree to stay at home. It's also all too common for men to want to control their wives' movements. In fact, Yasmin's name made me think of the Middle East and women not allowed out on their own. So no, I think John would seek out a timid partner and then bully her. It is a bit surprising that Yasmin accepts his straying, though.

Sheila

barjoker at 08:51 on 25 September 2008  Report this post
Hi Sheila, thanks for taking the time to comment, I'm glad the scene worked for you.

Personally I'm surprised that more people don't break down with the screaming heebie-jeebies after commuting day-in day-out - I did it for years, and now I can't believe how I coped!

There's more about John later, but he's quite an oppressive character; her first sense is of relief because he's backing off, but she does make more of a fuss later!

Thanks again.

Joker

julietoc at 13:22 on 27 September 2008  Report this post
a fear of fear
- that wonderfully sums up the reality of living with panic disorder (repeated panic attacks). As a mother to a son, who developed PD when he was 8 (completely out of the blue - though the psychiatrist, tried the 'overbearing mother' tag for awhile - off thread here, but it so annoys me that they label a mother who is quite rightly worried sick about her child as overbearing - duh!) I would say that line sums it up perfectly. Five years on and a course of CBT, and my son has almost resigned them to the past, it is literally like the fear has stopped sitting on his shoulder. So i definitely identified with the above descriptions, particularly wide open and colourful spaces (these were worse than confined spaces for my son). So i think you've got that bit spot on. As for the husband, yes he comes across a jealous and controlling, but then this would fit with her personality (her subconcious need for protection). As her panic attacks worsen, then you would imagine this side of him to come out more. Of course, then he is stuck with a 'sick' wife, and hence the belief he is having affair seems both rational and expected.

great stuff.

Xena at 21:11 on 28 September 2008  Report this post
Hi Joker,

Absolutely brilliant insight into Yasmin's condition. I could clearly feel her fear and her isolation. Her loneliness seemed profound and almost frightening, the closest person to her being so unsympathetic and possessive.

There's a couple of things I'm uncomfortable with, but as usual it's only my subjective views.

1) The washing machine analogy seems to me out of place. Probably because at the end of it you say "it was fish that did it". It reads as though the fish is responsible for someone tumbling in a washing machine.


2)
How could you, when you know that I'm sitting here waiting for you? What a fool I am, utterly devoted to you, and you don't even love me enough to get home on time once in a while


I have two problems with this fragment. First, statements like 'I'm sitting here waiting for you. What a fool I am utterly devoted to you...' betray insecurity. He's almost begging her to focus on him. I think it's somewhat at odds with his personality. I think that possessive people don't like to reveal their insecurities, even when they feel that way deep inside. Once again, I may be very wrong!

My second problem is that it doesn't read as a natural speech. It reads as a report about his feelings towards her and his grievances, rather that something fired in the heat of a moment.

Look forward to the next instalment.

Xena.


barjoker at 18:45 on 29 September 2008  Report this post
Thank you for that feedback Juliet, it feels quite emotional to achieve such a personal resonance with someone else's experience. What a difficult thing to deal with for you both, you must be so proud that your son has managed to conquer the demon. And grr - yes I know what you mean about the finger pointing at the mother first! I would be very interested in your thoughts and experiences of CBT - do WWmail me if you can share any insights.

Xena - I did wonder if anyone was going to flag up the use of ad copy. These extracts are meant to point up the irony between the exciting experiences Yasmin writes about for a living and the reality of her cloistered life; but I think I will need to look at them in the rewrite and decide whether they work. Like you say, it's not quite convincing at the moment.

Re John - you are absolutely right, he does want her to devote her whole life and attention to him; the possessiveness springs from a deep-seated narcissism. Hopefully it will come out a bit more later on.

Many thanks for your insightful comments.

Gillian75 at 13:46 on 01 October 2008  Report this post
Hi Joker - wow I can totally identify with this as I suffered from panic attacks, first as a teenager and then more recently with general anxiety.
What you are describing here just hits the nail on the head. I love the way the fish is just a small, insignificant item, but has caused so much trouble - that's perfect - so true.
And images of animal cruelty/being behind bars make the condition even worse!

it's the fear of panicking again, a fear of fear

Precisely! That is exactly what it is - part of the problem is the fear of actually having the attack! Many people, in fact, a great many people seem to misunderstand the condition, but I feel here you've dealt with it nicely.

This is a really engaging chapter Joker which kept my attention the whole way through. You've the right amount of dialogue too to keep it moving, but not to hold the pace up.
I can feel her fear and your use of words like 'raw' give it that added edge.
The only little bit that I'd quibble over is this:
What a fool I am, utterly devoted to you, and you don't even love me enough to get home on time once in a while

It just seems slightly unnatural to me?

Well done Joker - I'm really getting a sense of her desperation here, and I look forward to the next chapter!

Gillian x

barjoker at 17:58 on 01 October 2008  Report this post
Hello Gillian, welcome back - I was very sorry to hear about your bereavements.

Thanks so much for the personal vote of confidence, again, it really means a lot to know that this is striking a genuine chord. And again, if you have any insights into CBT and its effectiveness I'd love to hear them.

And you are right about that line of dialogue, which Xena also picked up on, it is very stilted.

Now, if someone with a controlling partner could just cast an eye ;

J

LMJT at 19:57 on 05 October 2008  Report this post
Hi Jo,

Sorry I'm so late coming to this. Things have been busy, busy, busy in offline life!

Anwyay, what an excellent piece of writing. Your prose is strong, the pace is quick, and the dialogue is by and large spot on. I didn't feel annoyed with Yas at all, instead I rather empathised with her. I think that the character of John is well-drwan, bar one piece of dialogue (see below). This all feels very polished and professional, so well done.

Some minor comments follow:

to talk to one of the pretty reps and I found my gaze irresistibly drawn sideways to the lucent fish inexplicably suspended in the aqueous light.

For me, 'pretty' connates female, but the rep is male. Myabe it's a nit, but this jarred a little for me. Oh, reading one, I realised it's two reps. I don't think this is very clear.

The part with her fainting is really well-written.

giving out, and expecting to black out

Repetition of 'out'?

“It just shows what I've been saying all along, Yaz, that you're better off at home. That way I always know where you are and I can make sure you're safe. See, you can stay in your own little bubble in the big scary world. You're plugged in like a caravan hook-up – your shopping comes to your door, your meetings are in virtual conference rooms, your friends are on the phone: you never have to go out again. I practically envy you...”

Wasn't sure about this dialogue, it seemed a little unnatural and, in answer to your question, maybe a little OTT.

John teaches English at the local comprehensive school; while I still worked in the city I would seldom be home before him, and would often arrive back to find him petulant and aggrieved.

Maybe this sentence needs to come sooner in the paragraph.

pressing warmly against my breasts

'Warmly' doesn't sound uncomfortable enough. 'Hot,' or 'sweaty' would make her sacrifice more unneccessary if you see what I mean.

Do you take me for a moron? Flashing your tits, fluttering your eyelashes, winking, for Christ's sake, how obvious can you get? The guy probably doesn't even fancy you, he just knows a sad, desperate slut when he sees one.”

Great dialogue. I winced when I read this.

feeling like a rag he'd used to wipe shit from his shoe.

Srong, I liked it.

Thanks for the read, I look forward to more.

Liam

barjoker at 11:19 on 06 October 2008  Report this post
There is life offline?! Must get me one of those...

Thank you Liam, as always I think, 'yes, of course' for everything you spot - v. helpful!

J x

LMJT at 20:24 on 06 October 2008  Report this post
Ha ha! Jo, in case you don't look at the message forum, can you tell me who you critique each time? I have a horrible feeling I'm missing at least one person out every upload.

Liam


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