‘I’m just, erm… Not brilliant, to be honest.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Well, thanks.’ The woman gives a forced laugh. She’s got a nice voice – husky and full of humour, the ghost of a Northern accent just audible. She sounds around about my age, though obviously I can’t tell for sure.
‘This is stupid, really,’ she says. ‘There are people with actual problems trying to get through to you and I’m calling up because of an Instagram comment about my boobs.’
There’s a short pause – during which I try to work out if she just said what I think she just said – and then the line is flooded with a sound that could either be laughter or crying. Possibly a mixture of the two.
‘I, erm…’ I don’t really know what to say, to be honest. They don’t exactly prepare you for this kind of comment in training. I briefly consider typing ‘Instagram boobs’ into the computer’s advice search bar, but decide against it. It probably wouldn’t be a great look if anyone here keeps track of the Internet history.
The snuffling dies out suddenly, and the woman’s voice is so quiet I can barely hear it. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
‘Just because you’re not feeling brilliant it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you,’ I say. ‘We all feel not-brilliant every now and then.’
‘Yeah.’ The woman sighs. I hear her take a large gulp of something, and then the clink of glass as she puts it back down. ‘But lately it’s all the time,’ she says. ‘And I can’t even really put my finger on why. Nothing big has even happened.’
‘I’m guessing something must have happened, or you wouldn’t be calling?’
‘Yeah… Well, like I say, it’s stupid. A friend left a comment on my Instagram and it just made me realise how much I miss her.’
‘Does she live far away?’ I ask.
The woman laughs – a genuine laugh this time; nothing forced about it. ‘No. She lives ten minutes from my flat. I see her all the time. It’s just that she’s married now, and she’s got a husband and a baby… And obviously I love her husband and her baby – to bits – but… it’s not the same any more. I miss the ‘old’ her, I suppose. Which is technically the ‘young’ her. Well, you know what I mean. And it’s like that with most of my friends. They’re all in couples now and they’ve got such different lives…’
‘Mm-hmm, I understand.’ Like a lot of first-time callers, I can sense this is someone that just needs to vent. To open a valve and let out the thoughts that have been pinballing madly around her head for God knows how long.
She carries on. ‘It’s like… I realise that their families are the most important things in their lives right now. So I just feel that if I ever want to talk to them about my stuff, about what’s going on with me… I know they won’t fully be present, you know? Because whatever it is, it couldn’t possibly be as important as their child or their marriage. And I can tell they feel guilty too, because they think I’m being left behind and I’m going to end up on my own. Which, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t really mind. I like being on my own. But I don’t want to be… lonely.’ The word catches in her throat and she breaks off. The phone feels hot against my ear. ‘I’m constantly surrounded by people,’ she says. ‘My friends and my family and my colleagues. But, still, that’s how I feel. I feel lonely.’
She cuts off suddenly, almost breathless. ‘Sorry. God. Actually hearing myself say this stuff out loud makes me realise how selfish and spoiled it all sounds. Talk about First World problems.’
‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘Not in the slightest.’ And I mean it. After six years of doing this, I can tell when someone is genuinely suffering.
‘You’re being far too nice,’ she laughs. ‘If you think I’m a dick, you can just tell me I’m a dick. I honestly won’t mind.’
I can’t help laughing too. ‘I don’t think I’m technically allowed to tell you you’re a dick, actually. That’s not really what this helpline is for.’
‘Right. I guess it would go against company policy to tell callers that they’re dicks.’
‘It would almost certainly be frowned upon, yeah.’
We both laugh this time. It’s weird. It feels sort of… comfortable. I’ve felt many different emotions listening to callers over these past few years, but ‘comfortable’ has never been one of them.
‘Maybe,’ the woman says, ‘there’s a gap in the market for a helpline where someone just calls you a dick and tells you to get on with it. You babble on about your so-called problems, and at the end they just say: “Yeah, get your shit together and stop being a dick.” I actually think that’d be quite effective.’
I should really stop laughing so much. I have no idea what this person is going through – maybe she’s deflecting her pain with humour, using it as a defence mechanism to hide how much she’s really struggling. The problem is, she is undeniably pretty funny. I clear my throat and try to be a bit more professional.
‘For what it’s worth, you wouldn’t believe the number of calls we get from people in a very similar position to yourself, who are feeling the exact same thing.’
‘Right,’ she says. ‘So, I’m not a dick; I’m just staggeringly unoriginal.’
‘Exactly.’
More laughter – from both of us.
I hear her take another sip of her drink. ‘God, this is so weird. This is the most honest conversation I’ve had in months, and it’s with someone I can’t see and whose name I don’t even know. What does that say about me?’
‘It says that you’re feeling low and you made the right decision to reach out for help,’ I say, firmly. ‘And as for names, if you like, you can call
