It was now two and a half weeks since my world had collapsed. No job, no husband and no best friend. I had, finally, rung my mother and let the whole sorry story pour out. For some reason I was surprised at how supportive she was. But I shouldn’t have been. It was the depression. Mum wanted me to go and stay with her. She couldn’t stay with me because they were both working. I couldn’t face the journey or having to explain it to my relatives who would have insisted on visiting if they knew I was there. Mum did call every day, just to check up on me; suicide watch was how she described it one day when I was even more down than usual.
After she had rung off, I thought about her comment. Had she really imagined I might contemplate suicide? No matter how depressed I was, I can honestly say I never once thought of ending everything. My main thought was questioning whether I should forgive Jake. It was that thought that made me depressed. How can you forgive someone who has deceived you; humiliated you and destroyed your trust? I couldn’t do it. And, for the same reasons, I couldn’t forgive Neeta. These two had been the rocks upon which my life had been founded for several years. Now that the foundations proved to have been built on sand, I couldn’t see a way to rebuild my relationships.
Following my call to my mother, I began to resume a little normality. I had a soak in the bath until the water went cold. I ate the little that was in the freezer, but my appetite was minimal and much of what I prepared ended in the bin.
Some days I didn’t feel like getting dressed and I sat in my dressing gown in front of the TV and watched daytime television. My god, how mind numbing! I felt sorry for myself but occasionally I could feel sorry for people who worked evenings and nights and had only this to look forward to each day.
Thursday was such a day. I was watching a schools’ programme, as it seemed the least boring option, when the phone startled me. My immediate reaction was it was my mother, although she always rang in the evenings when they had free calls. It was now only half past eleven. It wasn’t a number I recognised.
Nervously I answered the phone. I’d forgotten about registering with the ‘Jocelyn Adderkins Agency’ but they’d found a job that they thought was ideal for me. Would I like them to put my name forward? It would be a lie to say I was thrilled at the chance of a job. In reality I couldn’t care about anything, but I agreed. If nothing else, it would give me a reason to get up and get dressed each day. I was equally surprised when the phone rang just before a quarter to three. The company were desperate and would like to interview me early the next day, Friday. One up for the fifteen year olds, I told myself, and I felt a little less miserable. The more I thought about it the more I realised I needed a job. Not just for the money, though that would soon become a major factor, but because I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. I needed company. I needed to feel needed, to be useful, even if it was just to push paper around. So what if the company were desperate? I’d come to realise, in the few hours since the first call, that I’d be desperate if I didn’t get a job soon.
I washed my hair, sought out some clothes for the morning and popped down the shops for some food. It wasn't easy going outside for the first time in ages but I knew I would have to make the journey the next day and this was, in a way, a rehearsal for that outing.
I got the job and started on the following Monday. The offer had been too good to turn down. I would be a supervisor with four other women working for me, I’d have to work two hours a week less, the salary was nearly £4000 more than I’d been getting and the journey to the office was shorter, cheaper and easier by bus – there were no changes to make. The people there were also incredibly friendly.
In just that one visit, I could feel my depression lifting and my old self returning.