Talking Minds

Years ago I was involved in a robbery . . . being robbed. Two men in masks, one armed with a knife. It was a frightening experience. The knifeman demanded money, "Give me the money," he said. No, really. For a minute there I thought he wanted my autograph. I won't go into detail, only tell you that, realizing the weapon was one of those long thin kitchen knives, that it would bend, I grabbed the blade. As I say, I won't describe the bloody outcome of our little dance, back and forth, me losing my hold on the knife as it sliced fingers, scraped bones. It ended when I took advantage of the momentum as he pulled back trying to wrest the knife from me. I let go of it, spun round running, claret everywhere, and, well, I escaped.

All these years, the experience has been fucking with my head. Post Traumatic Stress. It changed my life, and my lifestyle. I was never the depressive type, and I didn't curl up and feel sorry for myself, but it wasn't long before I began to have some pretty extreme anxiety attacks. That's the perfect phrase for what happened to me, "anxiety attacks". I was in hospital for five days, came out strapped up, an Out-Patient, getting physio at the hospital, and then, a couple of weeks into my recovery, my physical recovery, I was walking in the High Street when I saw a couple of lads on the opposite pavement. They were of that ilk - you know? Samish age and manner of dress as my attackers. I "escaped", and when I was sure in my mind that I hadn't been spotted, followed, that the danger was over, I slowly began to relax, letting myself believe that it was only my vigilance that had saved me. I became "normal" again, never questioning the irrationality of my behavior. That's how it's been. Recurrences of incidents like that, anytime, anywhere.

For years I tried to put the thing from my mind, tried to avoid day to day anything that might bring back that fearful memory. Those masks, the desperate eyes, the flickering tongue of the knifeman, the blood. I might be watching TV and a trailer would pop up for some thriller or other and there'd be a shot of masked men in action. Click. I'd go and make coffee, calm myself. Almost worse than irrational fear was the private shame I felt about that fear. Me, jack the lad in a lad's world, frightened by one and a half junkies (no idea why the little guy turned up, all he did was . . . wear a mask). I relived the fear whenever an incident triggered my anxiety. I relived the shame. I never "escaped" and thought what a prat I was being. I always put it away in that recess of my mind and locked it up.

Two years before retirement, I asked my G.P. (he had put me on Citalopram when I'd finally told him where my head was at and it had helped me by perceptibly calming my headlong reactions to incidents) for advice about getting professional help. Out of all the bumph he laid on me I saw a possible path. I joined a weekly therapy group. I attended several sessions, mostly listening, but I did manage a couple of references to "my trauma". Out loud, the gist, not the details, but I felt something was changing. I was thinking about it. Health in Mind, the Service overseeing all this, mentioned "talking therapy". I hadn't talked to me about it for twenty years, so the idea of exposing myself to some hippy trippy graun reading sandal wearing dogooder did have a certain appeal. I was about to move to my retirement home (!), a flat I'd wanted for a long time, and as soon as I'd settled in I got in touch.

July last year, I arrived at a local venue to meet my talking therapist. I expect she has one of those official titles like Certified Mind Control Operative but to me she was just right. Let's face it, she could have been a bloke in cords and a jumper, with clever spectacles. I knew she wasn't, obviously, from the correspondence but she might have been. I'm not sure I could have "talked" to a man, however sociologically appropriate. So, there's Sue and me, sitting at a table on that first morning. I'm thinking, well, this should be good, I shall indulge my friend here in the biker jacket and delicate frock, let her think her script is doing the trick then go home and contemplate my navel. That's what I was thinking, for about five minutes. Then I began to talk. I had once before talked to a shrink attached to St Georges Hospital, the tape of which I'd been given, but which I only listened to once before I destroyed it. I couldn't cope with my description of the fear, I think.  That was the last time I'd talked about the incident, to anyone.

It's a new year, and a new cliche. Or new me as we call it in the talking game. I have no idea what Sue did to get me at it, but I talked and talked, and she listened and listened. Every session I'd go in and talk. There was some exchange, certainly, Sue had questions, gave me encouragement, advice, brought in a picture of a man in a mask (FUUUUUCK!!!) but mostly I talked. She gave me a couple of assignments as we went along and I wrote stuff. That's easy, but the talking was hard, at first. I got all of it out in the end and my mind began to feel airy, containing those frightening memories, sure, but they were like all the other memories, the good and the bad. I began to do stuff I couldn't manage before, like taking the train to London  without having to arrange with my son to meet me. Those two junkies are dead now (they probably are the poor fucks) in my mind. They changed my life, and my living. They could have changed me terminally, but they didn't know about Sue. I know about Sue. We had a break when she went on holiday, and I did have a wobble when it came to the first week without a session. I knew what was happening, though, and I sorted it by thinking about it. I can think about "it" now, and understand about myself. I can even laugh about it. And Sue, it cracked her right up.