Why Mummy Doesn’t Give a ****!. Gill Sims

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      Simon was reluctant to go at first, making British noises about ‘airing dirty laundry in public’ and ‘it all being a bit New Age wank’, but he agreed to give it a shot if it would help me stop shouting so much. So off we went.

After the initial session, Simon was surprisingly into the counselling. I think he liked the fact that the first thing Christina said was that she wasn’t there to apportion blame or opine on who was wrong or right, but only to mediate and give a safe space for us both to talk without judgement. Simon also very much enjoyed the fact that Christina would not allow raised voices in her office, and so I wasn’t allowed to shout at him, which gave him an hour’s peace a week.

      I thought all that was pretty rubbish, actually. I’d 100 per cent been hoping she’d totally judge, apportion blame, tell Simon how shit he was and take my side, before pronouncing some suitable punishment upon Simon, so he could atone for his sins and thus we could all move on with our lives, once Simon had done some marital form of Community Service – like, oh, I don’t know: doing all the ironing for the entirety of the rest of our lives, and changing all the loo rolls for ever more, and being put in the stocks and flogged. Or something like that.

      Instead of agreeing Simon was a total shit and must do penance before we were able to move forward, Christina said things like, ‘Mmmm. And how did that make you feel?’

      Today’s session followed the same pattern as usual – Simon was surprisingly good at talking about how things made him feel, especially how his Spanish señorita had made him feel (‘Alive. Wanted. Like I mattered to someone!’). I was slightly less good at it …

      ‘Mmmmm. How do you feel about Simon feeling like that, Ellen?’

‘Fine! I feel fine about it! Absolutely fine!’ I hissed through gritted teeth, because Christina would not allow shouting or insults and so I couldn’t scream, ‘You mattered to me, you insensitive bastard. You wanted to feel wanted, well, how do you think I felt? But I managed not to fall into bed with anyone else, didn’t I? I stuck to my marriage vows, even though I could have had sex with plenty of other people if I’d wanted to, but I didn’t because I’m NOT A TWAT, but now you expect me to feel sorry for you? And also, for something that “didn’t mean anything”, it seemed to make you feel quite fucking special. And also – BAAAAASSSSSSTAAAAAARD!’

      Then Christina said, ‘I feel like I’m getting a lot of anger from you, Ellen.’

      ‘Nope,’ I beamed. ‘No anger here!’

      ‘I think you’ve brought a lot of anger today, Ellen. Would you like to talk about it?’ Christina mused, while Simon nodded wisely, and I seethed to myself that of course I had brought a lot of sodding anger to the session. If I wasn’t angry and broken and wretched, would we even bloody well be here, and surely the whole point of all this is that Christina is supposed to make me feel less angry, not more so? £70 an hour to be told I’m angry? After our first session I briefly flirted with the idea of retraining as a counsellor, only a good one, one that instead of saying, ‘How did that make you feel?’ and claiming it wasn’t her job to apportion blame, would say, ‘Well, that’s a bit shit, isn’t it?’ and ‘Your husband is clearly an arsehole!’ I’d be excellent at that. Simon told me that that wasn’t the point of counselling, actually, and if people wanted opinions like that they could go to Mumsnet for free.

      Something finally snapped inside me. Maybe it was the thought of all the shoes I could have bought if I didn’t have to pay Christina £70 to tell me I seemed a bit cross.

      ‘Are you surprised I’m angry?’ I snarled. ‘It’s always about Simon. What Simon wants. What Simon feels. What Simon needs. Who cares about what I want? Who cares about what I feel? Who cares about what I need? Nobody. All we do is talk about how Simon feels.’

      ‘Well, I do keep asking you how you feel, and you always say “Fine”,’ Christina pointed out mildly.

‘Well, of course I’m not fine!’ I wailed. ‘My husband has had it off with someone else and my marriage is in tatters. Why would you think I was fine?’

      ‘But I don’t,’ said Christina. ‘That’s why I keep asking you how you feel. You’re the one who tells me you’re “fine” and denies any anger or grief. Go on.’

      ‘Simon says he felt unwanted and neglected. Well, does he not think maybe I felt the same? That I still feel the same, only a million times more now? He got someone to make him feel “wanted”, he got a bit of excitement, he got the thrills and the validation and some Spanish sex, and what did I get? Nothing. He’s had all his fun and I’m supposed to just get over it and move on like nothing has happened. And I’m still stuck with a man who doesn’t even notice me, let alone make me feel wanted.’

      ‘I do notice you,’ said Simon indignantly.

      ‘No, you don’t,’ I said in despair. ‘You don’t even see me anymore. I’m just there, like a piece of old furniture. You don’t notice how I look, you don’t notice what I do, you certainly don’t notice how I feel.’

      ‘I do notice how you look,’ insisted Simon.

      ‘You don’t. No matter how dressed up I am, you never notice, you never say anything, you never compliment me. When I ask you how I look, you don’t even look up from your iPad, you just grunt, “You look fine” – and that’s it.’

      ‘Well, you do. You always look fine. What do you want me to say?’

      ‘Simon, “You look fine” means “Yes, you’re respectable, your skirt isn’t tucked into your knickers, you haven’t got spinach in your teeth and you’re fit to leave the house.” You don’t notice if I have my hair done or I’m wearing a new dress or I’ve gone to a bit of extra effort. You make me beg even for that grudging “You look fine!”’

‘I didn’t realise it was a big deal. I’m sorry. I’ll not say you look fine again.’

      ‘Pay me a compliment now. Go on. Say one nice thing about me.’

      ‘This is very good,’ breathed Christina.

      ‘Ummm.’ Simon thought hard. ‘I know. You make the best lasagne I’ve ever tasted.’

      I stared at him in disbelief.

      ‘Lasagne? Really? LASAGNE? That’s the most noticeable, memorable, NICEST thing about me you could think of? Fucking LASAGNE?’

      ‘Well, you put me on the spot, and the other things I could think of I couldn’t say here.’

      ‘So lasagne. That’s what I’m reduced to. Twenty-five years together, and you’re only here for my lasagne?’ I howled.

      ‘Ellen, I’m going to have to ask you not to raise your voice,’ said Christina in her irritatingly calm way.

      ‘Oh sorry. Sorry. I wouldn’t want to make a scene or anything. But seriously, Christina, you tell me I’m angry, and are you surprised I’m angry when that is the sort of thing he says?’

      ‘Ellen, you know I’m not here to take sides. This isn’t about me – it’s about you and Simon. Simon, how do you feel about Ellen saying you don’t notice her anymore?’

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