You just don’t know, Eleanor, I said to myself.
The voice in my own head—my own voice—was actually quite sensible, and rational, I’d begun to realize.
It was Mummy’s voice that had done all the judging, and encouraged me to do so too.
I was getting to quite like my own voice, my own thoughts. I wanted more of them.
They made me feel good, calm even. They made me feel like me.
Old routines, new routines. Perhaps even, sometimes, no routines?
But twice a week, for as long as it was going to take, I made the journey to town and climbed the stairs to Dr. Temple’s consulting room.
I no longer found it nasty —I was beginning to understand the efficacy of neutral, unattractive surroundings,
tissues, chairs and an ugly framed print. There was nothing else to look at, save oneself, nowhere to retreat to.
She was smarter than she first appeared, Dr. Temple. That fact notwithstanding, her dream catcher earrings today were, frankly, abominable.
I was about to take to the stage and say my piece. I wasn’t acting, though.
I’m a terrible actor, not being, by nature, a dissembler or a faker.
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