All The Little Things

Friday
DAYS ago, I had what can only be described as a breakdown.
I was taking notes about a new client, Belinda, a slim, good-looking, perky, twenty-eight-year-old woman, who, about to wed ‘my soulmate’, was regaling me with anecdotes about her wonderful life.
Belinda’s relentless cheer grated like sandpaper on an open wound. When she said, ‘my future mother-in-law says, “I’m the daughter she never had”,’ a strange, prickling heat crawled up my neck. My hand clenched the pen so tightly, I thought it might snap in two.
How did I get here? Me, a normally compassionate and sensitive naturopath, scribbling observations about a buoyant bride-to-be, while my own life was crumbling in slow motion? I should have been happy for her. Professional. But with every word, I felt cracks widening beneath my composed exterior. The word ‘soulmate’ echoed in my mind, sharper and more painful than I cared to admit.
My thoughts strayed to Liam, the man I thought I’d share forever with, to the dreams that had quietly evaporated, to the future that had slipped unceremoniously through my fingers. Something inside me buckled. I tried to hide it, masking my turmoil with a faint smile and nod, but the atmosphere thickened, my vision tunnelling until I only saw the chasm between her happiness and my own loss.
‘And the sex?’ She giggled, completely unaware of my impending explosion. ‘Multiple orgasms all the way.’
With that, my last shred of sanity unravelled faster than a bargain-store sweater caught on a nail. I was a hot mess, blurting things I never should have voiced aloud.
Hindsight’s wondrous.
‘Multiple orgasms? Multiple orgasms! What do you want me to do? Help you get more? You want me to suggest you start taking extra, green-lipped mussel oil so you can have some more fucking great sex?’ I threw my arms up. ‘Your life’s perfect. Fucking perfect. Don’t waste my time. You and your multiple orgasms. Get out of here.’
Belinda fled my office, slamming the door on her way out.
Moments later, my boss, Deirdre, was standing beside me. ‘I’m meant to be heading to Utopia, a health spa in the mountains this Sunday, for a week’s R&R.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘But clearly, you need it more. Go. Get your act together. Don’t come back until you’re better.’
Fair enough. How could I hope to help and heal others when I was unable to heal myself? I’d lost my husband, my dignity and almost my job. Nearing rock bottom, I didn’t want to think about my situation deteriorating further. Something had to change. A health spa seemed an appropriate place to start.
***
Two days later at Utopia, I was drinking a mocktail mix of beetroot, carrot and ginger, anxiously waiting to sit down for the evening meal. The dining room and huge open-plan lounge, complete with fireplace, were decorated in earthy shades of sage, brown and cream, all in keeping with the serene country setting. I imagined sitting by the fire in winter, completing a jigsaw or having a philosophical discussion about Wuthering Heights, or maybe Frankenstein, with men dressed in black polos and stovepipe jeans, wearing black horn-rimmed glasses and smoking pipes. Water trickled from nearby fountains.
I took a seat at a long table set with clean white linen and flickering candles. My hands fussed with the napkin, folding and unfolding, desperately seeking distraction from the raw ache inside me. Every detail, from the neatly arranged succulents on the windowsills and the herbal scent in the air, to the low hum of conversation, made it painfully clear how far I was from the person I used to be. As if someone else’s carefully curated peace had become my unexpected refuge.