MY THERAPIST SAYS that there is something divided in each of us. And I agree. There are two parts; at least there are in me.
For example; I am walking on a beach and I like what I am doing. It’s beautiful. But inside me, a contrary part doesn’t connect. I like the wind and the surf, but the contrary part won’t engage. Refuses to participate in the “now”. A dark, brooding shadow within watches me with indifference, or wants to wander in the past, along the laneways of regret and remorse. That is depression.
And it’s a shadow that has been creeping around inside me since childhood and getting more dense with the years. “Maybe the contrary part of me is what makes me a writer,” I suggested to the therapist.
“Maybe,” she agreed. “Or maybe not. Maybe the contrary part was formed in childhood, through unhappy experiences and insecurity.” Certainly I remember hiding under the stairs a lot when I was a child, and being eager to disengage from the world outside as I sat in darkness where no one could bother me. And all through my life a part of me remains terrified of connecting with other people.
“Individuals all belong to wider groups,” the therapist declared, “so connecting with other people is healthy.”
Then we moved on to the subject of “shame” because recently I’ve been experiencing intense shame when I listen to the radio. Every time I listen to the weather on RTÉ, I feel it. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I come from Cavan.
I always loved the lakes of Cavan and Fermanagh. Long before the war to liberate the river Erne from Unionism began, I used to cycle along the Border zigzagging from the Free State to the United Kingdom, following the river in search of pike.
In recent years, I insured my jeep with Quinn Direct, and whenever I heard a Cavan accent on their helpline, I felt a surge of pride because I belonged to a community that could deliver such excellent service.
I felt pride too when I overheard people from Dublin in the sauna of the Slieve Russell Hotel praising the staff.
I remember west Cavan when people were poor. I remember south Fermanagh when it was drenched with blood. But then along came Sean Quinn and made people proud. He brought jobs and prosperity, houses and hope, and in no small way helped copper-fasten the good intentions of the Peace Process.
Sean Quinn isn’t just an individual. He was an entire community. He was a new idea to which everyone wanted to belong.
So it’s a source of sorrow that the name Quinn Direct is gone, and that the chief is toppled. And my face burns with shame every time I hear that bland voice on RTÉ welcoming me to Liberty Insurance, the company that took over Quinn Direct. And yes, it’s the American accent that needles me, as if that were a sign of better things to come.
Not that there was the slightest chance they might make a commercial with a Cavan accent. Imagine – “Hozit going! And welcome to Liberty Insurance; we used to be Quinn Direct and we gave excellent service, and we’re still here in Cavan, offering the same.”
No. That was never going to happen. But language and dialect were never neutral in the game of cultural domination in Ireland, and so, like croppies of old, I feel deeply ashamed.
When my therapist let me go, I went to a posh coffee shop, where the wine was stacked to the ceiling behind the counter, and a bunch of women with long black hair, sallow skin, and purple lips chatted in Italian and munched on ciabattas.
At another table one woman sat alone with a cappuccino and a lemon meringue pie. She ate with concentration, but avoided the cream. Spoon after spoon of the lemon meringue went into her mouth, and I remarked to myself that judging by her weight she would be better to avoid the cream altogether.
Suddenly the meringue was all gone. Only the cream remained. I saw the spoon hovering in a moment of indecision. And then to my relief she wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin and called for the bill.
I wanted to hug her, and share her triumph, and talk to her about shame, and belonging. But I didn’t. I find it’s always better not to talk about anything that comes up in therapy sessions.