Tissues

Every year, I spend a comparatively large amount of money on tissues. No doubt many householders purchase a few boxes of tissues from time to time, but I do so perhaps more regularly than most.

I suspect that the young woman who operates the cash register at Boots the Chemist on Hampstead High Street must find me a bit dotty. Each month, I come into the shop and instead of purchasing shampoo, nail clippers, shaving foam, or aspirin tablets as all the other customers do, I buy six extremely large “Man-Sized” boxes of Kleenex. Although the salesgirl does seem to arch her eyebrow in curiosity, she has never asked me why I need quite so many tissues. Perhaps she has comforted herself with the thought that I have a particularly nasty, lingering head cold, and therefore need to blow my nose many, many times each day.

My fellow comrades who work in the mental health field may have their own versions of this story, although I suspect that I buy more tissues than the average workaday psychotherapist. I use these “Man-Sized” Kleenex for two distinct functions. First, as one might expect, I place a box of tissues on the bottom shelf of my bookcase in my consulting room, within easy reach of the patient's leather chair, so that in the event of a sudden stream of weeping, those who feel so inclined can help themselves, and thus stem the tide of tears and mucus. But I also use the tissues for another purpose.

Although I do work with patients who sit upright in the chair, and I also see couples and families who, likewise, adopt a vertical posture, I suspect that 65% of my patients use the analytic couch, and hence will lie down. This arrangement suits both me and my patient simultaneously. The couch provides