This was the question I couldn’t give myself an answer to. The question that kept distracting me from my tutor’s slideshow on Freud. I readjusted myself in my plastic chair, struggling to find a comfortable position. The adult education college only had those tiny chair/desk hybrids that left no space for limbs. Heat blasted from the vents, and my hand sweated around the Biro as I jotted down notes I didn’t understand because I hadn’t been listening properly.

“So, psychodynamic counseling is NOT all about the past,” Linda, my tutor, said, jabbing at the screen. “That’s a common misconception. Psychodynamic is about bringing the past into the present. It’s about making the subconscious conscious.”

I jotted her last sentence down and kept blinking away emerging memories of all my therapy—seeing the sessions in a different light now, as if a veil had been lifted. I’d spent three years in teen mental health services after my suicide attempt, and it was so strange to think of my therapist being trained, like I was being trained right now. Well, if I could concentrate enough to get trained. The air got hotter and stuffier as Linda talked us through Freud’s list of defense mechanisms, and I planned my outfit for seeing Jessica. I ran through possible outfit combinations in my head, wondering if I should buy something new...

“So,” Linda clapped. “Are you ready to get into your listening pairs?”

I looked up to see my fellow students scrape their chairs back and funnel off to the different practice rooms. Hannah, my listening partner for the duration of the course, bounded over like an excitable puppy. She was the youngest in the class by miles—only twenty-six—and was determined to overcompensate with enthusiasm. “Are you ready?” she said, “I’ve booked us into the quieter room next door.”

“Thank you. Yep, let me just get my pen.”

For the second half of each class, we were put into our pairs to practice all the listening skills we’d learned in theory. It was a pretty surreal thing to do with near-strangers. We had to take it in turns to role-play counselor and client, and were urged to bring “real problems” to rehearse our empathetic listening skills, rather than playacting from a script. Hannah led me into the neighboring classroom. There were only two other pairs in there, and we arranged our chairs at a forty-five-degree angle in the corner. Two older women had already started, and I could hear the murmur of one of them missing their son who was away at university. Hannah handed me a listening feedback sheet. “Now, do you want to talk first, or do you want to listen?” She adjusted her chair so she had a better view of the clock as we got marked on our timekeeping.

“I don’t mind.”