‘This goes for all of you.’ She nodded round the room. ‘If you placed a high price on yourselves, you wouldn’t starve yourselves or cram yourselves with too much food, or poison yourselves with excessive alcohol or, in your case, Rachel, put so many drugs into yourself that you had to be hospitalized.’ Her words rang out in the silent room and I had a fleeting rush of horror.

‘You were in hospital, close to death,’ Josephine pressed on relentlessly, ‘because of the drugs you put into your body. Does that strike you as normal?’

It was strange but I hadn’t given much thought to my so-called overdose until then.

‘I wasn’t close to death,’ I managed to scoff.

‘You were,’ Josephine riposted.

I paused. I had the briefest sliver of time in which I saw myself from the outside. I saw how everyone else in the room perceived me. How, if I hadn’t been me, I would have perceived myself. And to almost die from taking too many drugs seemed a shocking and horrific thing to happen. If it had happened to Mike, say, or Misty, I would have been appalled at how low their drinking had brought them.

But then the aperture closed up again and with relief I went back to seeing myself from the inside, with the contextual knowledge that I had.

‘It was an accident,’ I pointed out.

‘It wasn’t.’

‘It was. I hadn’t intended to take so many.’

‘You were living a life where the ingestion of powerful drugs was routine. Most people don’t take any at all,’ she pointed out.

‘That’s their problem,’ I shrugged. ‘If they want to struggle through all the crap life throws at them, without the assistance of recreational drugs, then they’re saps.’

‘Where did you get such a beleaguered attitude from?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Rachel, to get to the bottom of all this,’ Josephine smiled, ‘we’re going to have to look at your childhood.’

I elaborately threw my eyes heavenwards.

‘It’s hard being in a big family where you feel you’re the least talented, least clever, least loved member, isn’t it?’ Josephine loudly demanded.

It was as if she’d punched me in the stomach. My vision clouded with shock and pain. I would have protested, except my breath was gone.

‘Where your eldest sister is brainy and charming,’ she said cruelly. ‘The sister closest to you is a saint in human form. Your two younger sisters are more than averagely good-looking. It’s hard to live in a family in which everyone has a favourite and it’s never you.’

‘But…’ I attempted.

‘It’s hard to live with a mother who is openly disappointed with you, who has transferred her dislike of her own height on to you,’ she continued inexorably. ‘Other people can say you’re too tall, but it’s upsetting, isn’t it, Rachel, when your own mother says it? It’s hard when you’re told you’re not bright enough to make a career for yourself.’

‘My mother loves me,’ I stammered, cold with fear.

‘I’m not saying she doesn’t,’ Josephine assented. ‘But parents are human too, with fears and unfulfilled ambitions that they sometimes bring to play on their children. It’s obvious the poor woman has a massive hang-up about her height which she’s passed onto you. She’s a good person, but not always a good parent.’

I had a burst of wild rage against Mum. What a cruel old cow, I thought bitterly. For making me feel like such a clumsy oaf all my life. No wonder all my relationships with men were disasters. No wonder – I approached this idea tentatively – I had to take so many drugs!

‘So I can blame my mother for me being – if I am, I mean – an addict,’ I said, desperately trying to latch onto something positive.

‘Oh no.’

No? Well, what are you talking about then?

‘Rachel,’ Josephine said gently. ‘The Cloisters isn’t about apportioning blame.’

‘Well, what is it about?’

‘If we can locate and examine where your lack of self-worth comes from, then we can deal with it.’

I felt a surge of fury at everything. I was sick, sick, sick of all of this. I was tired and bored and I wanted to go to sleep.

‘How come,’ I forced a swagger, ‘I have your so-called low self-esteem and my sisters don’t? We all have the same parents. Tell me that, then!’

‘A complex question,’ she replied smoothly. ‘Which I have actually already answered for you on at least one occasion.’

‘Have y…?’

‘We form our initial picture of ourselves from our parents,’ she said with elaborate patience. ‘And your parents are – affectionately – dismissive of you.’

Don’t.

‘Some people take to heart the negative messages they get about themselves. Others, more resilient, shrug off any criticisms…’

Actually, I realized, some of this did sound familiar.

‘… You’re one of the sensitive ones, your sisters aren’t. Simple as that.’

‘Bastards,’ I muttered, hating everyone in my family.

‘Sorry?’

‘Bastards,’ I said, louder. ‘Why did they pick on me to be dismissive of? I could have had a lovely life if they hadn’t done that.’

‘OK,’ Josephine said. ‘You’re angry. But look at, say, how Margaret must feel, having been assigned the role of the “good” daughter. If she ever wanted to rebel, do something out of character, she’d probably feel she wasn’t entitled to. She could deeply resent your parents for that.’

‘She’s too much of a lickarse to resent anyone,’ I burst out angrily.

‘You see! You’re just buying into the stereotype too! But what if Margaret wants to resent people? Can you imagine how confused and guilty she would feel?’

‘Look, who cares about her!’ I exclaimed.

‘I’m simply pointing out that you and your sisters were subconsciously assigned roles. It happens in families all the time. You don’t like your role – that of the no-hoper, puppy dog – but your sisters probably find theirs as much of a bind as you do.

‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, is what I’m trying to say,’ she finished.