suddenly feeling even sorrier for herself and then pulled back, turning her head left and then right and then left again for as many different perspectives as possible. When she finally concluded that there was no such thing as a flattering angle and probably wouldn’t be for some time to come, she gave up on the mirror and returned to the front door to retrieve her keys and close the world out for the day. A bath: that would sort her out. That would make everything better.
She tried to run up the stairs, but realised after the first few steps that her battered body wasn’t quite up to that yet and besides, there was so much clutter on the stairs—piles of book, magazines, shoeboxes of things that she had accumulated and was yet to find a place for—that she would have probably fallen and broken her neck anyway. She peeled off her layers before even reaching the magnolia bathroom with the floral transfers that her grandmother had loved so much, and sat on the loo as the bath filled with water, a mass of inviting bubbles dividing and multiplying on the surface and filling the room with a fragrance that promised to relax and rejuvenate her. She lazily began to count the bruises and scratches dotted around her naked body from the collision and knew that it would take more than a bottle of pink goo to bring her back to life. But as she stepped in amongst the steam and bubbles and sat down, a comforting shiver swept over her followed by something that really did resemble relaxation. She closed her eyes and all she saw there was the peachy glow of the underside of her eyelids. This was rare for her; left unchecked, her brain had no problem juggling issue after issue, filling her mind with images of all the world’s ills and her inability to really do much of anything about any of them. So she took advantage of the calm and stayed in the same position for more than an hour, with her eyes loosely closed and the soothing heat of the water transporting her to a place where she would stay forever if she could. With barely the energy to think, she surprised herself when she eventually found the energy to wash her body and shampoo her hair. This was definitely more of a chore than a luxury, but she remembered how the woman in the mirror had looked back at her, as if she had spent the night sleeping rough, and knew it was worth it. When she was soothed, scrubbed and rinsed, and then dried, moisturised and robed, she headed downstairs again. She wasn’t particularly hungry but she dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and flicked the kettle on. It was easy to forget to eat; she had seen this in clients whose complex issues surrounding food were always difficult to resolve. Or rather, she had seen clients whose issues manifested in their relation to food, controlling each mouthful as if it represented one of the endless people who had caused them harm. Kathy simply forgot to eat but because of her profession she made herself and had consequently saved herself from becoming what her mother would call ‘dangerously thin.’ She was just thin at the moment, nothing more, nothing less.
The toaster popped up and made her jump, from what she had no idea; she wasn’t particularly doing anything, she wasn’t looking at anything, although there was plenty to look at in the cluttered kitchen. She had gone through a stage of buying all sorts of appliances, pans and bowls for the kitchen—all of them big and bright. The idea had been to bring some colour into the space, which was painted an unappetising beige colour. But most of the things she had bought were still in the boxes or piled up unused. And she hadn’t quite got round to shifting the old appliances, pans and bowls that she was replacing. Consequently, even if Kathy hadn’t lost her appetite, it would be almost impossible to prepare a meal there. Every work surface housed a precariously balanced pile of pottery or china—colour and good intentions. Rather than
She tried to run up the stairs, but realised after the first few steps that her battered body wasn’t quite up to that yet and besides, there was so much clutter on the stairs—piles of book, magazines, shoeboxes of things that she had accumulated and was yet to find a place for—that she would have probably fallen and broken her neck anyway. She peeled off her layers before even reaching the magnolia bathroom with the floral transfers that her grandmother had loved so much, and sat on the loo as the bath filled with water, a mass of inviting bubbles dividing and multiplying on the surface and filling the room with a fragrance that promised to relax and rejuvenate her. She lazily began to count the bruises and scratches dotted around her naked body from the collision and knew that it would take more than a bottle of pink goo to bring her back to life. But as she stepped in amongst the steam and bubbles and sat down, a comforting shiver swept over her followed by something that really did resemble relaxation. She closed her eyes and all she saw there was the peachy glow of the underside of her eyelids. This was rare for her; left unchecked, her brain had no problem juggling issue after issue, filling her mind with images of all the world’s ills and her inability to really do much of anything about any of them. So she took advantage of the calm and stayed in the same position for more than an hour, with her eyes loosely closed and the soothing heat of the water transporting her to a place where she would stay forever if she could. With barely the energy to think, she surprised herself when she eventually found the energy to wash her body and shampoo her hair. This was definitely more of a chore than a luxury, but she remembered how the woman in the mirror had looked back at her, as if she had spent the night sleeping rough, and knew it was worth it. When she was soothed, scrubbed and rinsed, and then dried, moisturised and robed, she headed downstairs again. She wasn’t particularly hungry but she dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and flicked the kettle on. It was easy to forget to eat; she had seen this in clients whose complex issues surrounding food were always difficult to resolve. Or rather, she had seen clients whose issues manifested in their relation to food, controlling each mouthful as if it represented one of the endless people who had caused them harm. Kathy simply forgot to eat but because of her profession she made herself and had consequently saved herself from becoming what her mother would call ‘dangerously thin.’ She was just thin at the moment, nothing more, nothing less.
The toaster popped up and made her jump, from what she had no idea; she wasn’t particularly doing anything, she wasn’t looking at anything, although there was plenty to look at in the cluttered kitchen. She had gone through a stage of buying all sorts of appliances, pans and bowls for the kitchen—all of them big and bright. The idea had been to bring some colour into the space, which was painted an unappetising beige colour. But most of the things she had bought were still in the boxes or piled up unused. And she hadn’t quite got round to shifting the old appliances, pans and bowls that she was replacing. Consequently, even if Kathy hadn’t lost her appetite, it would be almost impossible to prepare a meal there. Every work surface housed a precariously balanced pile of pottery or china—colour and good intentions. Rather than
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