Closer Than You Think. Darren O’Sullivan
I came to visit you. Don’t be. I would be lying if I said this was my first visit. There is something about you that draws me in, something that I cannot shake. I know it’s linked to the intensity of that night, and with the anniversary of that encounter looming, the feeling is heightened. The psychological term is Lima Syndrome. I care for you because I want to kill you, and the absence created by not killing you only fuels the fire within.
And so, I’m compelled to write to you. I know it will be a long time before you read this. But one day, you will know everything. And I want to make sure you understand why – that you know the truth.
The first time I came to you was only weeks after our night. I came to you at a doctor’s surgery when you were waiting for your therapy session to begin. I sat behind you, so close I could smell the citrus of your shampoo. But you don’t seem to go to these sessions anymore. Is it because you have deluded yourself into thinking you are cured, or have you given up hope?
More recently I’ve watched you sitting in the park, enjoying the sunshine on your face. I have seen you in a coffee shop with your mother. I’ve only ever wanted to observe you, to see you as you are now, to see how you’re enduring, what you were achieving. What I have seen from you used to make me feel a sense of pride, but recently that sense has gone.
I’m disappointed, Claire. You are not the woman I thought you would become after me, but there is time to change that. I will make you see who you are – who you still are – and I will make you understand the mistakes you have made. I never intended to return. I have evolved, become something new. But I have watched you, Claire, and I know you have gone full circle, back where you started all those years ago. Only, you are remembering me less. And that is why I will come back for you.
You’ll thank me one day, Claire. Until then, I am never far away. Closer than you think.
9th May 2018
St Ives, Cambridgeshire
Wrapping my dressing gown tightly around me, I opened my back door and let the clean morning air flood in. I still felt weary, uneasy after my last trip outside. It had taken me three days to feel well enough to consider stepping out of the house. Three days of checking and double-checking locked windows and doors, unable to remove the keys from around my neck because I couldn’t bear the idea of not having my only means of escape on me. Three days of not being able to have a shower, even when Mum came over and sat on the landing. The sight of the water running made me feel sick and the noise dulled my hearing. Three days of sleeping on the sofa, jumping every time Baloo, who Mum decided should stay with me to keep me company, moved upstairs. The moment in the supermarket, as innocent and kind it was, rocked me to my core. I felt like a temporary prisoner in my own home.
I hadn’t felt like this in over a year, and although Mum told me to not be so hard on myself, that relapses happened, I couldn’t help but feel like a failure for the backwards step. She suggested I ring Dr Porter and tell her how I was feeling. But I didn’t see the point. I knew why I felt this way. Someone had recognised me. I had let myself believe the life in which I found myself labelled a ‘hero’ had passed me by. I thought I had completely vanished from people’s minds. I thought I had become a ghost, but I hadn’t. If two strangers could see me, who else could? The supermarket incident told me I wasn’t a no one as I had hoped, which meant I had to be someone. The woman who was out, unable to pay for her own shopping, she was a victim. I couldn’t bear to be her. For the past three days, I had placed myself under house arrest, crippled by paranoia. I couldn’t be her either, and thankfully I could feel her ebbing away, as I started to feel like myself again. Whoever that was.
After messaging Paul to say I couldn’t see him, he responded as he had the other times I had blown him out. He was supportive, understanding, telling me there was no rush and he would be around when I was ready, and his kindness made me feel guilty. With each passing week Paul and I were getting closer. We were learning the things about one another that other people might not know. And one day, I felt like I might just be able to tell him what happened ten years ago. More than the basic facts he already knew, more than the obvious truth that I had survived being murdered. I was sure it would shock him, even though a lot of the details were in public domain – a lot, but thankfully not all. Some were too horrific, even for the vultures of the world’s media.
I wasn’t worried that he’d run away when I told him. The problem was, I knew after I bared all, I would be the one to run away. In my mind it was inevitable. My attachment disorder meant I kept people at arm’s length. Everyone understood why, even me. But I didn’t like the term ‘attachment disorder’, it was too generic. I would have preferred if they used the term everyone was thinking but never said – I-think-everyone-is-going-to-try-to-kill-me disorder. A disorder that over the past year was showing signs of being managed – managed well, I thought, right until that moment in the supermarket.
I had realised over these past few days of being locked up at home, my mental health would always be complex. I would always be challenging to be around as I couldn’t predict when I would have a good day or a bad day. It wasn’t fair to expect or ask anyone to get caught up in my complicated little life. And with the fact I was flying back to Ireland in exactly a week, to visit the grave of my husband for the first time, I knew in coming weeks, maybe even months, my mental state would be even more delicate than usual. The supermarket taught me that although I sometimes thought I could be normal, it was only a delusion.
Paul didn’t need the shit I’d bring to a relationship. I would upset him, I would be too difficult, impossible to be around. I knew I had to call it off. I had messaged Penny, telling her I would cool things with Paul and she tried to talk me out of it. She told me I wasn’t baggage despite having it, and that to smooth over the ‘tricky’ few days I had, she should come over with her husband Robbie, so Paul and he could get to know one another. I knew what she was trying to do; she was trying to make my life normal. But really, was that ever going to happen? I politely declined, but promised I’d see her when I got back from Ireland.
Ireland. Just thinking about it made me feel sick.
I had enough to worry about without mistreating the only man I had let myself be close to since Owen died. I would miss Paul, but it was for the greater good. I’d wanted to call him the day after the supermarket and tell him I needed some space, but I wasn’t feeling strong enough to do anything but binge on Netflix box sets. Today, I was feeling much better about the world, and that meant I had to do what was right.
I never had identified what snapped me from my funks (my polite phrase for complete and utter meltdowns) but last night I managed to sleep a good six hours, and as soon as I awoke and saw the blue sky, I felt the need to be outside under it. So, I took the steps that only twenty-four hours ago had felt impossible, walked into my garden – away from the house, the place I could lock myself in – and wandered to the patio table where I sat and read most mornings. I aimed to convince myself it was just like any other morning, though I couldn’t stop my heart from racing. I tried to settle my hands, but needed to fidget with the keys around my neck. It helped, and stopped me from wanting to run back inside.
Sitting down on a cast iron chair, I leant my elbow on the round table and enjoyed the cold dew seeping through my dressing gown elbow. I pushed down the anxiety by watching small white clouds that smudged the deep blue of the sky. I tried to see animals in them, like I did as a child. Like I had with Owen in the days before we married. We would sit in the garden pointing out the things we saw in the clouds that floated past. Usually with a glass of wine. We did it so often the memories blurred into the same moment. All besides one. It was a mild autumn afternoon, the sun was moving towards the horizon, painting the sky the most beautiful colours. In the clouds I saw a bear, he saw a bird, one I couldn’t find, and then, as I was looking to see more animals, Owen dropped to one knee and asked me to be his wife.
I stopped myself thinking anymore. It was too painful.
I