Suite d'Existence - 9. Siciliana

“Daddy!”

“Daan!” Tristan scooped up his son as soon as he’d seen his mother coming through the front door. She was pushing a stroller in which Sara lay, sleeping, and judging by the amount of bags that were hanging from it, she’d bought way too many presents for her grandchildren.

Christine Mulder was a friendly looking woman in her early sixties. Not so keen on dyeing her hair, she wore her grey locks in a casual bun. She had been working as a primary school teacher for more than thirty years, and wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.

“Shh…”, she whispered, “Saar just fell asleep. Come here love, how are you?”

Trying to not squash her while doing so, Tristan returned his mother’s hug. He knew she knew there was something going on by the way she’d looked at him, but he wasn’t going to reject her love.

“Not so great, but you know. How are you? Sorry I haven’t called lately…”

“Don’t change the subject. Have you made an appointment yet?”

Wow, a mother’s omniscience was not something to take lightly. Sometimes it was just plain frightening.

“Yes, I have. But how are you, mum? I heard you’re taking dad out on a date?” He winked.

“Pff…We’re having lunch somewhere nice, if that’s what you mean. It’s not weird we still love each other, you know.”

Tristan smiled at her remark. His parents were nearing their 40-year marriage anniversary, something he found admirable. He hoped that one day, he’d reach… Suddenly his brain jumped from his marriage, to the recent trip and landed on the prospect of screwing everything up after his appointment. It took a lot of energy to focus on his conversation again.

“Yes, I know. It’s great you still do dates”, he answered, emphasizing the last word with a grin.

“God, you’re insufferable. I have to go now, your dad is probably raiding the fridge by now. Take care, sweetheart. And call me after the session, please.” She kissed him on his forehead, having to stand on her toes to do so.

“I will, mum. Thanks for taking the kids out, and have a great time! Oh, and say hello to dad for me.”

“Yes, I will. Gotta go!” Quickly kissing her grandchildren goodbye she waved at Mara, who was standing in the kitchen, and left.

Carefully he put the little dark-haired boy down before telling him to go look for his mother. Sara needed to be changed; she’d woken up and was, by the look of it, bordering on an emotional outburst. Better said: it looked as if she was going to scream any minute. The baby girl was almost two months old now. With every day she’d started to look more and more like her mother. Her soft blonde hair and curious green eyes were unmistakably Mara’s. It made him only love his daughter more.

If I ever lose her, I’ll… God, I’m going to lose her, aren’t I? Her, and Daan and Mara and my life and…I can’t do this. Why is this happening to me. I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? Yes… Yes I have.

-

Waiting for another five hours didn’t proof to be a successful means to delete the thoughts. As he stepped outside to fetch his bicycle, he noticed it’d stopped raining. The flood of anxiousness he experienced made up for the lack of moisture, though.

Up until a few years ago, the psychiatric unit was placed within the hospital. Since then, though, the medical centre had rebuilt a large part of its facilities. One of the big changes that was decided upon, was to separate the psychiatric ward from the main building. It was just a physical separation; the unit was still part of the hospital.

Fortunately, with the renovation the ward had lost its slightly scary and sterile look. Mint green walls had been replaced with a slightly more comforting light blue and white, and throughout the building various pieces of art were exhibited. It still smelt a lot like hospital, though.

He was happy with the recent change of environment. The old building constantly reminded him of the past, his first encounter with the dark side of his brain’s capabilities. Nine years ago, eighteen months after…

Nine years ago, he’d experienced his first psychosis. The months before he had felt a bit wonky, a lot less happy than normal, but he hadn’t really sought any reason behind it. A few weeks later he had suddenly been surprised by an extreme feeling of liveliness. It made him want to make unrealistic plans, he couldn’t stop talking and he often didn’t sleep for many days in a row.

This state of euphoria was succeeded just as quickly by the things that made him go into hospital. He lived on his own at the time, like most students his age, so his deteriorating state of mind went unnoticed until his parents came to visit him. They saw their son suffering from extreme paranoia and anxiety. The fact he didn’t want to let them in at first, because he thought they were going to kill him, was the giveaway.

He’d lost a considerable amount of weight too. His frail appearance and aggressive behaviour were enough for his parents to call an ambulance. Meanwhile, Tristan had been drifting in and out of rational thought. He was aware what was going on, but he didn’t have a clue how to stop it. It was as if someone had swapped half of his brain for that of a madman. He was hallucinating like crazy and was only able to think clearly again once they’d drugged him.

For three weeks he’d stayed in a ‘normal’ hospital bed, on the general department. The doctors kept him there to make sure he was physically stable; at his arrival they’d concluded he was dehydrated and malnourished. He didn’t remember a lot from that period, mostly the intense shame he’d felt.

After twenty-one days he was discharged, but brought over to the psychiatric unit. There he had his first encounter with Paul. The shrink had listened patiently to his incomprehensible babble and had made him feel a bit less crazy. He was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder; a combination of manic depression and schizophrenia. The illness could manifest itself through a trauma, but this often wasn’t the case. Tristan couldn’t really link the disorder to a trauma, so he didn’t. They hadn’t brought up the idea of a trauma for the following nine years.

At this very moment though, a quarter to six on a relatively dreary summer day, he wasn’t that convinced of the ‘sudden appearance’ anymore. Traumas didn’t have to be major and quick, did they?

The recent events on Terschelling had made him wonder if a part of his mental illness was linked to suppression. He hated to ponder the possibility, but he knew there was a chance both events had had the same result. What had happened eleven years ago was pretty much similar to—

“Can I help you, sir?” A young woman at the reception asked.

“Yes, uh…I’ve got an appointment with doctor Zeijen.” Tristan answered, grateful to be snapped out of his thoughts.

“And your name is?”

“Mulder, Tristan Mulder.”

“Scheduled at six o’clock?”

“Yes, that would be me.”

“Okay. Mister Zeijen will come and get you when his current appointment has ended. You can wait there”, the secretary said, pointing at a row of chairs in the corner of the lobby.

“Thank you.”

He heard a familiar voice as he was mindlessly scanning through an old National Geographic Magazine.

“Tristan, are you coming?”

“Paul, hi! Yes, let me put this…”, he answered, quickly putting the magazine back in its original place.

He walked up to his practitioner, shook his hand and followed him trough the long corridor that led to his office. Normally it represented a pathway towards clarity of mind, but he wasn’t so sure about that today.

“It’s good to see you again, Tristan. Preferably under different circumstances of course, but it’s good you called.”

“Uhu…” was the only thing he could manage to reply. Tristan was pretty sure the ‘good’ would soon be erased from the description of their meeting.

- 

As they entered Paul’s office, the latter gestured towards the chairs that were standing at his far left.

“Take a seat. Do you want tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

“I should have known, after nine years.” Paul winked, as he left for the vending machine in the hallway.

He was speaking the truth; Tristan hadn’t asked for anything else than tea in all of their previous sessions. It wasn’t because of the caffeine, tea contained a similar substance. He just hated the bitter taste of the blackened water. Even with plenty of milk and sugar the liquid tasted disgusting.

His company walked into the office again, carrying two cups of hot water and a couple of teabags.

“I just need to get your file before we can start. I haven’t had time in between my appointments, sorry. Here”, the psychiatrist said, handing over one cup to Tristan while placing the other on a black coffee table.

Once seated, Paul started the conversation by asking about the effects of the medication. It was a neutral subject, a good one to start talking.

“So, I won’t make any decisions about upping or lowering your dose until we’ve finished, but you’re still not experiencing any side-effects?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good. Well, let’s start with an evaluation of the past few weeks, shall we?”

This was the part where Tristan told his therapist random stuff that had happened. They discussed Daan and Sara, annoying pupils at school and the possibility of a collapsing bicycle.

“…and I’ve just returned from a weekend at Terschelling.”

He knew this was the gateway to hell, it was a surprise he’d been able to open it without any help.

“Oh yes, wasn’t that the staff trip?”

Tristan nodded. Suddenly he felt unable to initiate a change in the direction of the conversation.

“And, how was it? I bet the weather was ten times better than here.”

“It was…okay. Yes, it was kind of nice.”

“Okay…” The man opposite him scribbled something in his notebook. Tristan hated it when he did that; it meant something in his behaviour didn’t correspond with what he said. Ergo, he didn’t speak the truth and Paul knew it.

“It doesn’t sound very convincing, does it? Did the signs of depression manifest during the trip?”

“Um…Yeah. But it started before the weekend, actually.”

“Can you tell me a bit more about the feelings you experienced?”

He kept quiet, staring at his feet while debating an answer. It was a lost battle, though.

“Tristan? Did something happen?”

Still, he couldn’t answer. The world was going to end if he did.

“I think I have to keep you accountable now, don’t I? You don’t have to tell me everything, but you wanted me to remind me of something you were going to tell me.”

“It’s a long story…”, Tristan finally managed to blurt out.

“We have enough time for a long story”, the psychiatrist replied, taking a sip of his tea. “You told me you wanted to tell me something we hadn’t discussed before.”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Has that ‘something’ been going on for long?”

“Well…I think it started before we first met.” For a short moment neither of them spoke.

“It started two years before my hospitalization…”, Tristan started, and then the words began to flow.

He told him everything, from his start at university up until the day his parents had called the ambulance. He explained how he wanted to join the cultural society in Groningen. At first he had been there for the debating club, but he’d decided that wasn’t really what he was looking for. The literary group hadn’t turned out to be great either. His third attempt was a newly formed baroque ensemble; they were looking for a harpsichordist, mostly to play the continuo parts.

The night of their first rehearsal he had to ask the lady behind the counter inside the majestic building where he had to go. He’d failed to remember the room number, unfortunately.

“Yes, I’ll look it up for you.”

“Thanks. I’m here for the baroque ensemble. They don’t have a name yet”, he grinned.

The woman returned an amused smile. “Students…They even delay things like this. Ah, I think I’ve found your number. Room 24, just go right at the end of the hallway, take the stairs—“

Her description was interrupted by a voice that came from behind him.

“Looking for the baroque ensemble?” Tristan turned around and faced a guy that seemed to be his age. He was wearing an overly large shirt that matched the dark brown colour of his eyes. His short hair was black and shiny, and was parted slightly on the left side of his head. The man looked stunning.

“Uh, yes I am actually.”

“All right, me too. I’ve created the idea and I’ll try to conduct the ensemble. Want to join me?” He said, pointing to the hallway.

“That’ll be great. I haven’t been in that part of the building before”, Tristan answered as they walked towards the massive staircase. The guy had his full attention, and although it felt a bit unusual, he didn’t mind liking him.

The ensemble had turned out to be exactly what he’d been looking for. Everyone was really nice and just as passionate about the music as he was. Steven, as the name of the conductor turned out to be, had become close friends with him. Soon they’d met often outside rehearsals, to search for new pieces or just to hang out at each other’s places.

One cold winter night they had gotten together to arrange a piece from an unknown composer, to make it suitable for the orchestra. Relaxing on Steven’s floor, taking turns at deciphering previous interpretations, the mood was comfortable. The next minutes had changed that into tender, affectionate and loving. Steven had initiated the kiss by gently stroking Tristan’s face. It was a wonderful feeling, to be loved. The fact they were two men seemed insignificant.

Their joy didn’t last long, though.

“I got a call from one of our friends in the middle of the night. He…” Tristan tried to hold back his emotions. There was a lot more to tell, so he didn’t want to break down yet.

“He was dead. Hit by a car. It was only the day after…You know…”

“I’m sorry, Tristan.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, though.” Paul replied.

“No…no, it’s not.”

He found the courage to tell the story up until he met Mara. After he’d explained the fact he didn’t think the dead of his first love was a trauma, he tried to explain the things he felt when meeting his wife. They weren’t the same feelings as before, but it seemed to work out fine.

Continuing his explanation proved more difficult.

“So, you didn’t feel the same things for Mara as you did for Steven?”

“I guess I didn’t. But that’s not necessarily bad, right?”

“Of course not. Love can manifest itself in different ways. We love our parents and our children too, don’t we?”

At this point he knew the shrink had figured him out. He didn’t stop fighting, though.

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing. You’re giving your own interpretation to my words.”

“No, you’re insinuating things.” Tristan said a bit louder than he’d planned to.

“Do you want to tell me about the trip?”

“I can’t.”

“I think you can”, Paul replied, looking up from his notes.

“No I can’t.”

“Sure?”

“No. Fuck. Sorry…”

“I can handle strong language.” Paul smiled. “Come on, give it a try.”

Not even having started to talk again, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by his conflicting thoughts and emotions. This resulted in tears running down his face. Paul handed him a couple of tissues.

“It’s okay, Tristan. Don’t keep it in.”

Once his eyes had started to leak a bit less, he finally found the confidence to start his confession.

“I’ve cried a lot during the trip.”

“Okay, was there anyone who you could go to?”

“There was. He’s more or less the cause of it, too.”

“Do you want to tell me more about him?”

“Hmm… You remember Sigurd resigned two months ago?”

And so he stepped into hell. His nightmare, which surprisingly was a lot less hot than he’d imagined. It was still too warm to be comfortable, but he hadn’t turned to dust during his confession. Paul had just nodded and smiled, handing him some fresh tissues when everything became too much.

“And…And I…I can’t be without him.”

“Do you love him?” the doctor asked bluntly.

“I love Mara!”

“That doesn’t really answer my question now, does it?”

“I…I don’t know. Maybe…I think so…”

“You know I’m not going to judge you for anything. I just think the depressive part of your disorder might be related to the things you’ve just told me.”

Tristan looked up in surprise. “You think it’s that easy? You do realize I have a wife and children, right?”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. But I also think this secret is going to kill you. Maybe even literally. And being a psychiatrist I’m here to stop you from going down that path.”

“It won’t. I can just…block it.”

“Tristan, you know you won’t be able to do that. I know everything seems really bad right now, but there’s always a solution, even without medication.”

“And that is…?” he questioned.

“Well…” Paul started while taking a glance at his watch. “Oh bugger, we’re late. My next session has started officially already.”

Tristan stared at him hopelessly.

“Keep calm. Do you think you can manage without me ‘till tomorrow? I’ll schedule you in my lunch break, so we’ll have half an hour to finish our conversation. And you can always call me, Tristan.” Paul spoke reassuringly.

He nodded in response.

“I’m really sorry for the abrupt ending, but we’ll meet tomorrow at twelve, then. In the meantime, please rest and up your antidepressant to a whole tablet.” The therapist stood up and shook Tristan’s hand. “Are you sure you will manage, Tristan?”

“I think I am.”

“Okay, take care and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

-

He couldn’t blame him for the crappy ending, Tristan thought as he walked over to his bike. There was someone waiting who probably needed the help as much as he did. For a split-second he’d considered cycling to the dike to jump into the sea, clothes and all. It wasn’t a great idea though, Mara would worry and he’d rather go to bed.

He pulled out his phone from his pocket instead and went through the list of names. At the ‘E’ he stopped.

No, a text will be enough. I can’t talk to him right now.

His fingers ran over the keys, pushing some of them in his movement. He selected the number and pressed ‘send’. After just a few seconds he received a message back. It read:

‘I hope you feel okay. You can call me at anytime. Ernest’

Tomorrow he’d call him. After Paul had told him the solution.

It had started raining again.