The Skeleton Cupboard by Tanya Byron Page A

die in the first place?
    Imogen was dealing well with the discharge planning; in fact, she was managing it too well, and it spooked me. My colleagues, however, were careful to help me challenge my own reluctance to let her go, and so the frequency of my individual sessions with Imogen decreased. Soon I was just another member of the staff team preparing her to leave us.
    But this pissed me off big-time.
    At this point I got the news that Chris would be off work for an “indeterminate” time; the rumor was she was in rehab. It was bad timing: I needed guidance. I resented the fact that I didn’t have a way of getting in touch with her.
    When I told my colleagues that I instinctively felt there was something that Imogen hadn’t told us, they were kindly patronizing in expressing the need for me to “distance” myself from her; I was being told that these were my issues, not hers.
    Since the mirror incident, everything had felt too smooth. Meetings with Imogen and her family were calm: Imogen talked more, her mother listened, and her beautiful stepfather stopped sobbing. Everything, like the mirror, was getting fixed.
    So why did I feel uneasy?
    I decided to consult my girls, my three closest friends, in the pub. I could always rely on them for support. Since I started my training I needed them more than ever.
    Ali, whom I’d known since university, was an HR manager and asked, “Why, when you have a good outcome, with all family communication intact, would you doubt what you see before you? Discharge the girl—let her get on with her life.”
    The brilliant Megan, a research scientist, said, “This little girl has been in your unit, supported mostly by you, for months. Her symptomatic behavior has decreased to virtually nothing, she now understands the links between her thoughts, feelings and behaviors, and is choosing to engage with life. What’s not to celebrate? Move on to the next patient—you’ve done your job here.”
    My oldest friend from primary school, the lovely, kind Rosie, who was doing her second degree while waiting tables, said, “If this doesn’t feel right, then get some bloody advice.”
    But where the hell was I supposed to go? I felt abandoned, and angry with Chris for suddenly disappearing. I had not seen anything coming—she was odd, but nothing had led me to believe that she needed rehab. God, just how shit was I at this job? I couldn’t even spot my supervisor having a breakdown.
    The university administrators were being very tight-lipped about where Chris was and, because it was coming to the end of this placement, they felt there wasn’t time to get another supervisor set up for me. It was suggested that I look within the unit team for some one-to-one supervision.
    And so I did.
    *   *   *
    The room still smelled dusty, the majority of book spines were still unbroken, but actually it felt good to stretch out on the couch underneath Frida Kahlo.
    â€œShe’s not ready to go.”
    Silence.
    â€œIt’s too easy.”
    More silence.
    I picked at my nail varnish and then bit my cuticles. “Oh, come on. Please talk here. We both know that this sudden recovery is weirder than an angry kid leaving us and getting on with their life to prove our rejection wrong.” I tugged at my sleeves—I’d bitten my nails to the quick. “I need to find out why she has bounced back. She was so … broken. There has to be a bigger narrative.”
    I realized suddenly that the analyst’s silence had helped me understand that we didn’t know Imogen’s backstory. She had been silent about everything before her sister’s death. We’d examined and controlled her behavior, but we still didn’t really know what caused that behavior in the first place. We didn’t know the end of that story I’d tried to tell her on day one.
    And then he spoke.
    â€œI think her story