З життя
It Can’t Get Any Worse Than This!
Alison, stop it already! begged her husband. I cant live under the same roof with you like this! Youve put yourself in this mess. Whos keeping you from going outside? Am I locking you up? Get out and have a walk, if anyones stopping you.
Alison perched by the large bay window in the living room, watching the grey autumn trees of HydePark. From the street it looked like a perfect setpiece: a loving husband, a baby on the way, a spacious detached house bought on a mortgage. She was only twentyfive, and on the outside she fit the picture of a successful young woman, but inside a thick, sticky gloom had been settling for months.
The apathy had sprouted after her sole chance at a professional breakthrough collapsed. Three years ago shed moved to London and landed a twomonth stint at a counselling centre, only to watch the promised salary evaporate into a complete fiasco. Since then her confidence had dropped. Interviews arranged through acquaintances never panned out, and a growing fear of people became her constant companion.
The irony was that, armed with a psychology degree, Alison was now the most hopeless case of all. The education that should have opened doors now served as a bitter reminder of how far shed drifted from the competence she once boasted.
Loneliness in the big house pressed hard. Her husband, a few years older, worked long hours. When Alison finally tried to unload her weight, he waved her off with irritation.
Oh, give it a rest, love! Youre giving me negative vibes, Alison, he said bluntly.
She tried not to remind him of her existence, especially since he provided for them entirely. Money wasnt an issue, but occasional snide remarks slipped through.
You never appreciate what I do, he could have said, even though Alison spent almost nothing on herself.
His family added more trouble. His mother had taken a dislike to Alison from their first meeting. Being introverted, Alison stayed out of the endless gossip, which only seemed to fuel the motherinlaws irritation.
She thinks our family are swindlers, Alison recalled thinking during the prewedding chaos.
His mother insisted on a prenuptial agreement, demanding proof of serious intentions. Her relatives brought a lump sum of £1,200 a huge amount for a village family but it didnt soften the coldness. Constant backhanded comments and forced niceties at family gatherings wore Alison down to the bone.
Her relationship with her own father was a disaster that stretched back to childhood. Having to beg him for money even for a sandwich left a deep scar. Recently he drew a line, telling her she wasnt his daughter and that he only cared about the cash.
Stop begging! he shouted over the phone. Ask your husband! Youre married, I dont have to support you!
Alison was too shy to ask David for help. After that she cut off all contact, but the humiliation lingered.
The pregnancy gave a brief respite: the motherinlaw quieted for a while. At the same time David started coming home even later, usually slipping in after dark.
I need more walks, Alison told herself, but the fear of strangers paralysed her. Stepping out alone felt like a heroic feat David always claimed he was too busy to accompany her.
The situation worsened thanks to Davids younger sister, whom Alison had helped get into a top London university. After receiving Alisons help, the sister suddenly turned rude, snapping at her, calling her useless, or simply ignoring her for hours as if Alison didnt exist.
She talks to me like Im a dog, Alisons mother complained. What have I ever done wrong? Ive always helped where I could.
One evening, when David arrived home, Alison gathered her courage and sat opposite him in the living room.
We need to talk about whats happening between us, she began quietly.
David put his phone down.
About what, Alison? Ive had a terrible day. If youre about to start whining, dont even begin! Im exhausted!
David, I cant live like this any longer. I feel completely useless.
He snapped.
Youre talking nonsense. You have everything the house, me, a baby soon. Whats wrong?
On the surface, yes. Inside I feel like I dont belong. Im terrified to leave the house, scared of people, cant work. Its not laziness; its a problem.
Well, youre a psychologist, he smirked, and the mockery cut deep. A shoemaker without shoes, perhaps? Youve trapped yourself in this corner of fear. Pull yourself up and act like a normal person.
You dont get it. Its not fear, its alienation. After my career fell apart I lost my bearings. And your mother her attitude is unbearable.
Dont bring your mother into this. She can be sharp, I know. But shes an older woman and she worries about me.
Alison forced a weak smile.
She worries well cheat her? That were not what she expected? She still doesnt believe in our marriage, I feel it. David, she treats me like a fraud.
Alison, youre dramatising. You just need a hobby. Go to a friend, stroll in the park. Clean the flat! I come home to a mess every night!
I have no friends here. Im terrified to go out alone! And you havent helped at all when you said I give you negative vibes. Do you think that makes me stronger? David, I need support
Im fed up with your constant complaints! I work to provide for you, and you just whine
Im not asking you to fund everything! I need your support. Your attention, care, even a little sympathy. I feel like Im under the footstool, and you make it worse.
Enough! David exploded. Youre acting like an ungrateful spouse.
Tears welled up in Alisons throat, but she swallowed them.
I dont feel like your wife; I feel like a servant in this house, ruining the picture of prosperity. Your sister is rude, your mother spins plots, and you come in saying I give you negative vibes.
Maybe youre provoking them yourself,?
The argument fizzled out. David stood and retreated to the bedroom without another word. Alison stayed in the living room, realizing that spilling her soul had only reinforced the wall between them. The shame from her father, the motherinlaws snubs, the career flop all merged into a single, suffocating knot.
The next day she decided to act. She couldnt change her motherinlaw or her father, but she could change her attitude. She could shut herself away or close her shell, but she couldnt a baby was on the way, and she needed to sort things out for the childs sake.
Alison opened her laptop and, for the first time in ages, logged into a social network. Among her contacts were people from her old life who might actually help.
Hi, Katie. I need help. Im completely lost, she messaged a former university mate who, Alison remembered, ran a private practice.
A reply came quickly, suggesting a call. When they began to talk, Alison felt, for the first time in months, genuinely heard without judgment or a demand for gratitude.
Alison, you cant help yourself while you stay isolated. Your pregnancy is stressful, and your husband he isnt a psychologist; he just doesnt know how to support you.
How do I get out of this fear of the world? I cant work, I cant even dash to the shop the moment I step out I start trembling
Well start small. Tell me each day how you feel, no sugarcoating. I wont leave you in the lurch.
Alison began weekly online sessions with Katie, digging into childhood wounds with her father and the present anxiety. The fear didnt vanish overnight, but she kept at it, gradually quieting it. She finally managed a calm conversation with David about the future, this time without blaming.
Im starting to work remotely. Thats my therapy and my profession. I wont ask for money; Ill earn my own.
David raised an eyebrow.
What kind of job?
A crisis helpline needs operators. Ill talk to women stuck in difficult situations. By listening to them, Ill help them and myself.
David shrugged.
Well, you are a psychologist, after all. Give it a go. It cant get any worse.
Under Katies gentle guidance Alison began to reshape her life. Progress was slow, but real. The new job gave her purpose; she finally felt needed. Over time she hoped to return to the person she used to be. The main goal was to keep her condition from affecting the baby and, above all, to pull herself out of the depression that had become an unwanted companion.
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Mother-in-Law Anna Peters was sitting in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmering on the stove. She had forgotten to stir it three times already, each time remembering too late: the milk would froth, spill over, and she would clean the stove irritably with a cloth. In those moments she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, everything in the family seemed to derail. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, and quieter. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes heading straight to the bedroom. Anna saw this and thought: how can you just leave a woman to cope alone? She spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. And then she noticed something strange: after she spoke, the house didn’t feel lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, he grew gloomier, and Anna returned home with a sinking feeling that once again, she hadn’t done things right. That day she went to see their vicar, not for advice, but because there was nowhere else to go with this feeling. “I suppose I’m just not a good person,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I always do things wrong.” The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I tried to help. Instead, I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her attentively, but without judgment. “You’re not a bad person. You’re just exhausted. And very anxious.” She sighed. That rang true. “I’m so worried for my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered how, last week, he washed the dishes late at night when he thought no one saw. How on Sunday he took the pram out for a walk, even though he looked as if he’d rather collapse into bed. “He does help… I suppose,” she replied doubtfully. “But not the way he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked gently. Anna wanted to reply at once, but realised she didn’t know. She could only think: more, better, more attentively. But what, exactly, was hard to explain. “I just want things to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” the vicar replied quietly. “Not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean you’re not fighting for your daughter — you’re fighting her husband. And fighting means being tense. That exhausts everyone: you, and them.” Anna was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against someone, but for someone.” On her way home, she thought over his words. Remembered how, when her daughter was a little girl, she would just sit beside her quietly if she cried — never lecturing. Why was it different now? The next day, she arrived unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised; her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said. “Just wanted to help.” She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without a word about how hard things were, or what they ought to do. The next week, she came again. And again, the week after. She still noticed that her son-in-law was far from perfect. But she began to see other things: the way he gently picked up the baby, how at night he tucked a blanket around her daughter when he thought no one was looking. One day, in the kitchen, she couldn’t help herself and asked him, “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked startled, as if no one had ever asked before. “It’s hard,” he answered, after a pause. “Very.” And nothing more. But something sharp in the air between them was gone. Anna realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But it needed to start with her. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say “I told you so.” She just listened. Sometimes she took the children to give her daughter a break. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how things were. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to stay angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect — just quieter. Free of endless tension. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation doesn’t come from someone admitting they’re wrong. It comes when someone is willing to stop fighting first. She still wanted her son-in-law to be more attentive. That wish hadn’t gone away. But alongside it lived something more important: for her family to have peace. And every time the old feeling — frustration, resentment, the urge to criticise — rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.
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