Happy Never After?: A doomed flirtation with alternative therapies in a quest to mend a broken heart

By Dai Lewis

Harry had been a happy-go-lucky member of the human race until his girlfriend of two years decided she preferred the company of her own gender. Since then his life had become a downward spiral of misery and self-pity. His best friend Paulie had been as supportive as any male can be, but he too was beginning to drown in Harry’s woes, as were the rest of their group. Together with his twin sister Sarah, Paulie was determined to get Harry ‘back on the horse’ and find a girl. They knew that if that endeavour was to have any chance of success, he would need to recover his happier self. Thus began Harry’s quest to trawl through some of the myriad alternative therapies in a desperate attempt to ‘pull himself together’. Unfortunately for Harry, ‘Murphy’s law’ was a reality and anything that could go wrong, did, usually in the most unlikely and worst possible ways. The adage ‘There’s always someone worse off than you’ is true and in the world of alternative therapy that person is Harry. Throughout this rather painful journey of self-discovery, his awareness of deepening feelings for Sarah slowly develops. Join Harry through the trials and tribulations of his journey to enlightenment and hopefully love. This is his story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398435063

Dai Lewis

Dai was initially a mathematician but became fascinated by the human condition. He gained another degree in Psychology and completed Masters’ degrees in Human Relations, Counselling, Health Psychology and Medical Science, training as a Clinical Hypnotist specialising in paediatric pain, before becoming a doctor of Psychology. His broad experience has provided a depth of knowledge about therapeutic interventions, including alternative therapies. He is a Chartered Psychologist, an associate fellow of the BPS and a practitioner registered with the HCPC. His love of humour in his writing helped him to develop a storytelling protocol for helping children experiencing chronic pain.

Book preview

The Beginning of the End

Another bloody day in paradise sprang into Harry’s head as he stood at his window seething at the bleak sight that greeted him. The sky was dark purple and the air was heavy and humid, reflecting how Harry had been feeling since his girlfriend of two years had left him. We need a storm or we’ll all expire, he thought as he felt the room shake with a distant, thunderous roar but still the rain didn’t come. He began to feel lethargic and even more disgruntled about his life and how utterly, utterly crap it was.

It was July, Where’s the bloody summer and the inherent feel-good factor that comes with some decent sunshine and warmth? he asked no one. Even if it did manage to rain to freshen the air a bit, he wouldn’t feel any better about things, he’d simply moan about the awful weather, global bloody warming or something that he got irritated about but didn’t fully understand, nor if he was totally honest did he care very much about right now.

To describe Harry’s current demeanour as ‘grumpy’ as indeed many had done, does not do justice to the adjective. His predilection to launch into a flurry of negativity about every aspect of his life and the world he inhabited was quickly becoming legend. His tirades usually terminated in how bleak and depressing the present is and how futile any hope about the future will only prove to be. The resulting sense of hopelessness was pervasive and likely to engulf any who strayed into Harry’s path.

Up until this point in his life, he had been a fairly happy-go-lucky kind of guy and usually managed to make people laugh and they enjoyed his company. He was one of a fairly large and close-knit group of friends who met up regularly and always enjoyed good banter, often at each other’s expense though never maliciously. There was amongst them some genuine concern for how Harry was feeling, though they didn’t allow this to interfere with ripping into him, as was the norm.

It was usual for Harry to participate fully in such interactions but he had suffered a bit of a sense of humour transplant recently, his mood had deteriorated badly since Chantelle, his ex-girlfriend decided that she definitely preferred the sexual company of other females. In fairness to her, she had declared her experimentation with both sexes when they first met, a fact that he had found a little arousing at the time but subsequently had chosen to get pissed off about.

The fact that Harry was lacking the necessary physical attributes to win her back did nothing to minimise his frustration about this thing called love. He wondered if he’d got something so badly wrong that he’d turned her into a lesbian, a notion that he knew to be ridiculously irrational and deeply insulting to the gay community but he wondered it anyway. His solution was to give up on love entirely, believing it to be the domain of severely deluded people. This was his outward presentation but in reality, he wanted nothing more than to be in a deeply loving relationship and settle down with ‘the one’.

It was entirely possible that he had invested a lot of effort into believing that he and Chantelle were ‘it’ but if he was totally honest and with the benefit of hindsight, he felt that there had always been something lacking. It wasn’t her he missed per se but more the closeness and intimacy that comes with sharing your life with someone you care about. Unfortunately, this rationalisation did little to change the fact that he was upset about the loss and irritated by the way it transpired.

At the latest party that one of the group had organised, there were the usual suspects together with some of their wider circle of friends and acquaintances. Generally, the membership was a good-looking bunch without the oft-associated over-confidence bordering on arrogance, which can be so unattractive. Flirting was a common aspect of their interaction but it tended to be superficial and not done with the usual end-goal in sight. There were obviously couples and some of these were longer-term relationships whilst others were more transitory. Thus the group was fluid in nature but always with a core of very good friends, so in that respect at least Harry was a lucky man.

Despite meeting many of the criteria for a full-blown clinical depression Harry did make the effort to join in the frivolities, though his lack of spark was obvious. His life was not the flattened effect of many depressed people’s experiences but was a roller-coaster of emotion ranging from peaks of intense anger and hatred of everything, to a sad resignation of just how shit his life actually is. This existential angst was a reflection of his feelings of hopelessness about the whole process of loving and indeed living, with only death to release us from it, the ultimate fear of which loops back to further deepen the angst.

In fairness to his group, there were many attempts to counsel him and to try to joke him back into life. Better to have loved and lost my arse! and I don’t like fish so I don’t care how many more there are in the fucking sea! he’d mutter when anyone verbalised one of the many clichés offered after a bad breakup. ‘Time’s a great healer!’ was another platitude he’d grown to hate and vowed never to say it to anyone unfortunate enough to be in his position, though he recognised that it had been one of his stock phrases of comfort and support when others had suffered a breakup in the past.

The crux of the issue was that Harry had become comfortable with Chantelle and they were casually talking about marriage and kids before she dropped the breakup bombshell. Struggling to make sense of when and how things had deteriorated so badly, he had to accept that as a couple they had become less loving than they once were. Such a calming happens in most relationships, he’d rationalised but now wondered if it was a warning sign that he’d previously been blissfully unaware of.

This dawning was exacerbated by the very recent discovery that Chantelle had been testing out her preference for the female gender on several occasions during their relationship when she was out with the girls. In retrospect, it was interesting that he had chosen to ignore the rumour mongers and dismiss the fairly damning photographs posted on social media after such a night. Since she’d left him, the possibility that he couldn’t have been all that bothered about the potential cheating was quite a realisation about the state of their relationship, or was he just using dissonance as a coping strategy?

The party was in full swing and his friends were going about their usual party-associated behaviours. There was much flirting, ripping into each other and gossiping about anything and anyone and all were in high spirits, well nearly all. Several failed attempts were made to involve Harry and get him to loosen up a bit and return to some semblance of his former self.

Unfortunately, his closest female friend was not at the party, which was a shame for Harry because he could always talk to her about anything and everything and he missed her. Sarah was also the twin sister of Harry’s best friend, Paulie, who was desperate to rekindle his friend’s lost spark. Sarah had been in a relationship for a bit longer than Harry had but her ‘other half’ was not liked by the group because of his arrogance, self-aggrandisement and the unacceptable way they felt he treated Sarah.

Throughout the proceedings, several of the other female members of the group tried to engage Harry in some way. He tried to interact as he would normally have done but, despite the rather large quantity of alcohol he’d consumed, he just wasn’t feeling it so he made his excuses and left.

Drinking too much was probably not the best way to try to make sense of it all and didn’t help him to manage any quality sleep because of his endless ruminations. The fact that he and Chantelle had only recently bought a super-king-sized bed and it was now a very lonely and cold place to be, didn’t help. At the time he thought the purchase was to provide more space for them to enjoy their sexual adventurism, subsequently, it seemed more likely that it afforded more room for her to avoid touching him.

Lack of sleep left him pervasively tired and he had become a firm subscriber to the t-shirt slogan ‘Same shit – different day’ although he felt for himself, that it would be more accurate, though less succinct and catchy to have the slogan ‘Different day, worse shit than yesterday but probably better shit than tomorrow’.

At the party, he had been all too aware of the many pairings that were established, developing or new and he really missed the intimacy of being in a relationship. It wasn’t only the sexual side, though he did miss that terribly and it was becoming somewhat of a focus for his random thoughts, but mainly he wanted the deep connection that comes with being deeply in love with someone. He had finally realised that he desperately needed to do something about it. The trigger for this proactivity was the acceptance that if he was ever to find another girlfriend, let alone true love if such a thing exists; he needed to be in a more positive frame of mind. In truth, he was beginning to get on his own nerves.

With his newly found, though fairly weak sense of determination and positivity, he eventually succumbed to the pressure from Paulie to seek some kind of help from somewhere, anywhere frankly that would cheer the miserable bastard up. However, he was to discover that such a therapeutic endeavour was not as easy as he had hoped. Apparently, there is a massive waiting list for any kind of psychological treatment, depression it seems is very popular at the moment and Harry had plenty of suggestions to offer for why this might be the case.

The notion of trying an ‘alternative’ approach to solving his problems was lurking in the recesses of Harry’s mind but he was unsure where the idea had originated. Given there are well in excess of 750 possible alternative therapeutic approaches, it was an almost impossible task to know when or how to choose the most appropriate intervention. The overwhelming list of therapies on offer, none of which he knew a great deal about, left Harry at an impasse, feeling even more fed up and unable to move forward.

Paulie and Sarah were somewhat trapped in the room when Harry popped around to moan about life for the umpteenth time. Sarah and Harry had always been really close, so much so that they happily shared intimate secrets. Each knew ‘what made the other tick’ probably better than anyone else did, even Paulie. In fact, when things were deteriorating with Chantelle, it was Sarah whom Harry confided in to talk about what was happening and it was she who’d suggested that it may just be a natural progression of their relationship. She wasn’t one of Chantelle’s biggest fans and just out of her conscious awareness was pleased that the relationship wasn’t that strong, although she genuinely wanted nothing more than for Harry to be happy.

She and Harry were clearly so comfortable together that it had often been suggested that they would make a good couple but the idea had always been laughed off, each vociferously claiming not to be attracted to the other ‘in that way’. Both were adamant that there would only ever be a unique and special friendship between them and neither wanted to lose that.

Harry had been friends with the twins since they were little and they were a very important part of his life, but despite theoretically being identical there was very little similarity between them. Paulie was a really good-looking bloke who enjoyed ‘playing the field’ while Sarah was an absolute stunner and was much more into commitment and longer-term relationships. One thing they did have in common was that neither was ever short of attention from the opposite sex and even on occasion the same sex, a thought that angered Harry as he once again focused on his ex-girlfriend’s infidelity.

Sarah interrupted his thoughts, Hi Harry, how’re things? Her question seemed to reflect genuine interest as opposed to those who enquire after one’s wellbeing without giving a shit about any reply other than ‘fine thanks’. Given her caring enquiry he realised that his dismissive and rather facetious response, Still living the fucking dream, was undeserved.

Sorry…Nah, I’m sorta…trying to find some kinda…dunno, therapy thing that might help me feel less shitty, he explained eloquently.

Sarah thought for a moment as Paulie gazed pleadingly in her direction. There’s a girl I know who swears by aromatherapy. Ginnie says it clears her head and sorts her out. I’ll find out about it for you if you like.

Is she single? Paulie’s attempts to get Harry back ‘out there’ were less than subtle. Sarah chose to ignore the question despite the fact that her friend’s current status was ‘not in a relationship’. A small part of her didn’t want him to hook up with Ginnie, at some level remembering the strange sense of loss she’d felt when Harry was with Chantelle.

Whatever Harry’s misgivings might have been, he was more than touched by Sarah’s interest when she got onto her mission straight away and even made him an appointment for after work the very next day. Paulie was delighted that Harry was finally making an effort to ‘get better’ not least so he could have his friend and wingman back. He did try to be supportive but being a bloke, spent more time ripping into him about how girlie the aromatherapy thing sounded and making up all sorts of bizarre notions of what would happen. Ironically, even these didn’t come close to how Harry’s actual experience would unfold.

Sleep, again eluded Harry that night despite the alcohol, though this time his thoughts were less to do with Chantelle and more a worry about the quest he was about to undertake. He hoped it would be quick and easy whilst in reality expecting it to be neither.

Aromatherapy

Harry woke up after yet another fitful night, feeling rather more fragile than he would have liked. He was still in his twenties but his hangovers seemed to be getting proportionally worse relative to the amount he drank. He seriously wondered whether he was well enough to attend his appointment but didn’t want to let Sarah down after she’d made such an effort so he opened up a can of ‘man-up’ and got on with it.

Avoiding any aftershave or deodorant was difficult for him but Sarah had passed on Ginnie’s suggestion not to wear anything scented that might interfere with the aromas selected. He was concerned that he might actually be sweating out some of the alcohol that was undoubtedly still in his system.

I bet that smells divine, he mused as he made his way into town while trying to calculate if his blood-alcohol level was within the legal limit to drive. The day was overcast and miserable which again reflected Harry’s mood. How bad can being covered in some nice smelling stuff and having a bit of a massage actually be? was his best attempt at positivity.

Double-checking the address, Harry stood across the road from a hairdresser’s and shuddered at the pun emblazoned over the shop front. ‘Curl up and Dye’ could have been perceived as one possible solution to how he was feeling, albeit a little extreme and he was not one to give up easily. It was written in gaudy red and gold lettering that had probably previously adorned some kind of bordello, whatever the hell that is. Harry’s inner ramblings culminated in his wondering if he cared enough about what Sarah thought to actually go through with whatever was coming his way. Clearly, he did because he found himself walking through the door.

There was a row of women having various things done to their hair involving strips of tin-foil, swimming hats with holes in, little ribbons, curlers and some bits of gear he didn’t recognise. Wondering how they coped with effectively sitting in a goldfish bowl where they can be seen from the street while hardly looking their most alluring, his mind wandered to those women who seem totally unfazed by passers-by seeing them get facial hair ‘threaded’ in the middle of crowded shopping malls. Unable to see himself going through such an indignity publicly usually prompted a muttering of something along the lines of, Where’s your self-respect? whenever he passed them. Perhaps as a direct result of his judgemental, unkind thoughts, far worse indignity was to come his way over the ensuing weeks. Karma, it seems really can be a bitch.

His thoughts were interrupted by a young female; the term lady didn’t seem to apply to her. She greeted him through gritted teeth more intent on keeping the chewing gum in place than smiling. Harry thought that this gum had probably been in her mouth since breakfast and was less than flavoursome now. Judging by her overly slim shape it might actually have been her breakfast and quite possibly will be her lunch and dinner too.

Self-consciously following her through the shop, he was suddenly aware of a sea of faces watching him through the mirrors as the only male in the place, apart from a couple of stylists whose gender was ambiguous at best. Inevitably his level of discomfort rose dramatically. Focusing his attention back on his guide he deflected his anxiety by once again indulging in judgemental thinking. How is it possible to hold so much makeup on a human face without your head falling forward? he wondered as he followed her, Must put a hell of a strain on your neck muscles.

A ‘ping’ like a microwave timer rang in a backroom, That’s another assistant’s face baked on in some kind of industrial furnace. In all this random inner dialoguing he’d rudely lost sight of the fact that the subject of his latest set of critical cognitions had interacted with him. I have an appointment, he heard himself explain in a voice that lacked clarity or enthusiasm and actually sounded more like a question. At some level, he was hoping that no such appointment had been made and Sarah and Paulie were winding him up.

The young person with whom he was interacting was astute enough to not even notice Harry’s severe ambivalence. She checked the book, nodded to herself and led him through to the back muttering a stock phrase she used dozens of times a day, First time or ’av you bin before. Nah, first innit? Harry managed to mutter an agreement that it was his first time whilst bemoaning her woeful lack of diction.

He wondered why she had even asked the question given that she’d both answered it herself and not showed the slightest interest in his reply. He was also a little concerned about how someone as clearly gifted intellectually as this specimen could ever have gained sufficient qualifications to be allowed to come at another human being wielding a pair of very sharp scissors.

This thought developed into an inner discussion about how someone actually qualifies to be an aromatherapist and whether it was regulated in some way. I wonder what letters you’d have after your name when you qualify. He wanted to make sure his therapist knew what she was doing and some sort of third-party, academic validation would help. A Diploma in Aromatherapy shortened to Dip-Aro he thought likely, though with further reflection concluded, Sounds too much like something a tribal hunter would do with some kind of poison, having squeezed the living shit out of an unsuspecting, fluorescent green frog that had been minding his own business deep in the jungle only moments earlier.

The corridor seemed to be narrowing with every step and Harry’s stream of inner dialogue was replaced by a deepening sense of foreboding. Mild claustrophobia had been engendered by an older sibling who thought it was funny to wrap him up in a duvet and hold him motionless for what seemed to him to be an eternity and these feelings began to creep into the soup of emotions he was currently experiencing.

Going upstairs his face was only a foot away from her arse, which in fairness to her was quite pert. He preferred the natural look to those lumpy and oversized arses sported by celebrities who’ve had theirs pumped full of all sorts of shite. For a fleeting moment, Harry wondered if he’d misunderstood something or maybe totally missed some kind of initial code between him and this young female and was actually in a brothel.

Replaying every aspect of their very limited interactions including non-verbal exchanges, he checked to see if he’d cocked up somewhere, an apt expression given his concerns. That bastard Paulie had better not have stitched me up, expecting me to ‘get back on the horse’ if I get laid!

In ’ere, his guide gestured to Harry and he entered a room that had clearly been someone’s bedroom in a past life of the property. This fact did nothing to alleviate his concerns about misreading the whole purpose of the backrooms of the establishment.

The room was small in a way that Estate Agents would refer to as ‘compact and bijou’ and claustrophobia reared its ugly head once more. Pink and purple dominated as if a six-year-old girl had decorated it in the seventies. A fairly old stereo system was playing an attempt at soothing music rather too loudly for it to actually be soothing. Just lie ’ere, Becky’ll be with you in a min, and he was alone.

Following the direction of her nod, he saw what he could only describe as a sort of paste-table. Loosely draped over it was a plastic covered mattress, which had probably been subjected to a frightening number of half-dressed people trying desperately to relax. Harry climbed aboard and immediately noted that it failed to meet any criteria of comfort that one might choose to employ. Couple of slices of wafer-thin ham would be more bloody comfy than this mattress, he commented, whilst acknowledging that this was unlikely to be morally acceptable for many groups of people.

He was trying to distance himself from the feeling of lying on a mortuary slab by visualising being on a beach somewhere. This was not an