Daisy Dooley Does Divorce

Hi everyone!

Anna and I would like to take this opportunity to tell you about Anna's brand new column in the London Daily Mail. We hope that you will join Anna every other Monday morning (once a fortnight) - with your coffee in hand - for "On The Couch", a column in the Daily Mail about her sessions with a therapist (Mr. S) and what she learns about herself in the process. You may just find that you will learn a few things about yourself too!

We will post the link every other Monday morning to the latest column on the Facebook fan page wall for Anna Pasternak - On The Couch and would ask that you leave your comments on the Daily Mail's site underneath where the column is published.

While your thoughts and opinions are most welcome, let's try to keep this a positive place where people can discuss important issues safely and without judgment. Please refrain from using any profanity or from bashing Anna or those who choose to share their experiences. Don't forget to invite your friends as it's going to be very, very interesting!

And now without further adieu, welcome to "On The Couch"!

On The Couch

By Anna Pasternak
30th November 2009 - Daily Mail

He came to my wedding and he was there through my divorce. He lay his head on my pregnant stomach and welcomed my newborn daughter home from hospital.

He was my rock when my daughter's father left me a single mother when she was two, four years ago.

As she grew up, he was always there watching her, looking out for her. If she went too high on the garden swing, he'd look at me with censure as if to say: 'Aren't you being irresponsible letting her do this?'

I loved him far more than my ex-husband or the father of my child. And they knew it.

He was my best friend and companion. He was the other man in my life - and yet he wasn't.

He was my dog - my beloved dachshund, Wilfred. He died, aged 20, last weekend.

Because he lived so well and so long, becoming less mobile only in the last month due to a cancerous tumour that we were assured gave him no pain, part of me thought he was immortal.

When he suddenly went downhill after breakfast (which, typically, he ate greedily) on Sunday morning and couldn't move, struggling for breath, we called our vet.

Because Wilfred was legendary in the vet's Henley surgery as the oldest dog on their books, Justin, the vet, promised to come to our house when the end was imminent.

When he arrived, we had Wilfred in his basket, in front of the fire, drifting in and out of consciousness, rasping.

I've never truly committed to a man.There wasn't space in my heart because I was so consumed with loving Wilfred

My six-year-old daughter, Daisy, stuck three butterfly stickers on his collar so he would fly free and, along with my mother, we lay by him and thanked him through our avalanche of tears for giving us so much joy, such endless happiness.

Justin explained that the cancer was finally shutting his body down and that it could take six to eight hours for him to die naturally, which would be unpleasant for him. It was far kinder to put him down immediately.

I was holding his paw as the injection was administered and he died as he had lived, beautifully and with dignity.

My mother insisted we celebrate his life, so there was a moment of humour when Daisy rushed to our neighbours to announce: 'The vet has just put Wilfred to sleep. Please come round to celebrate.'

We toasted him with champagne I was too choked to drink and then Justin took him out to his car.

The way he carefully placed his basket on the back seat, as opposed to putting it in the boot, with such love and respect, broke my heart. It was so unreal that I felt like I was in a film, watching myself.

I started running after the car for one more glance of him as Justin pulled away. I couldn't believe - and still can't - that I will never see him again.

It seems so obvious, but until he died I honestly hadn't fully realised that he was the reason why I have been single for four years. And, actually, have never truly committed to a man in my life.

There wasn't a space in my heart, because I was so consumed with loving him. Every night for the past four years, while I put my daughter to bed, he would swagger from his basket by the Aga in the kitchen, to his rosy basket in the sitting room to wait for me and our evening together to begin.

I would light the fire, then lift him on to the sofa and lie there, watching television or reading, while he snuggled against me. Or if I had a TV supper, he would hover next to me, waiting for me to feed him treats from my plate.

This is the first article I can ever remember writing where he wasn't in his basket in my office.

Tears are streaming now, as they did last night on to my plate as I sat alone and ate a lamb chop realising that there was no need to save him the juiciest bits.

One of the worst moments was the morning after he died, as Daisy and I had a daily ritual when we'd ask each other 'Rosy or Aga?", wondering which basket we'd find him in when we went to let him out.

That bleak Monday morning, we held hands as we entered the kitchen and not seeing him there left us clutching each other, sobbing.

Since becoming a single mother, my friends told me that I had become a virtual hermit, but I didn't believe them. Now, I can see they were right. Why slog into London for a party or bad date when I could snuggle up on the sofa in front of Sky+ with Wilfie and save on a babysitter?

I was gaining a reputation as the local eccentric in Henley, as I would push him around town in Daisy's old pram when it became too far for him to walk.

Once, outside a prep school, a woman peered into the pram and shrieked: 'Oh goodness, I thought I was going to find a child in there, not a dog!'

'Oh, I had one of those,' I deadpanned, 'but she was so boring and such hard work so I gave her up for adoption, got a dog instead and have never looked back.'

From the horrified look on her face, for one glorious moment, she believed me.

Because this is my first big loss in life and experience of death, I had no idea how pulverising the grief was going to be.

I'm a trooper. I've been through horrendously unhappy and challenging times - I've been vilified in the press, stabbed in the back by Hollywood power brokers, had an abortion and feel a complete failure when it comes to relationships.

But for all of my adult life, I've had Wilfred. He was there to cry into his soft fur and to cheer me. He had a peculiar way of talking; a blend of grunting and purring we called 'grunging' and a robust presence.

So I have never experienced such raw pain or felt so agonisingly, hopelessly alone.

Grief is perverse. When you most want to sleep, shattered by emotion, it wakes you in the early hours, jagged edges of despair pushing through.

I feel both vulnerable - as if a dandelion spore brushing against me would hurt me I am so exposed - yet invulnerable too, as if nothing can further harm me because I'm already in such torment.

When, last week, a publisher rejected a book I've written, it barely registered.

Uncharacteristically unable to pull myself together, I oscillate between numb shock and howling.

I have cried myself in shops, the hairdresser, the street, endlessly into my pillow - into a disfigured state.

I can't wear make-up, because it will be washed away and because I can't fake bravado any more. And believe me, aged 42, I'm not young or beautiful, so it's not a look I can pull off.

The only source of solace has been the discovery that I am not alone in being alone because I had a pet not a man.

When I was weeping outside the school gate, a mother told me that she had been single for six years before she met her husband, because she was so happy with her cat.

A sculptress, they worked and lived together in perfect harmony. Another girlfriend in the States, age 45, who has been single for over a decade emailed me this yesterday: 'I am crying as I type this because I know how hard it was when I lost my dog Geldof after almost 16 years in December.

'I think that dogs give us more than any man ever could because men are incapable of unconditional love and dogs are the spiritual embodiment of it.

'In fact, I know that there have been times when having a dog and loving it has kept me from giving up on my life.'

Jacqueline Bourbon, a transformational coach who specialises in grief, says: 'Grief is highly individual and so you can't be prescriptive as to how to deal with it.

'For some people, losing a pet is more significant than losing a friend or family member because of the level of attachment. People say "Get over it, it's only a cat", but you can't because the loss is so great.

'You are the third person who has talked to me recently of their deep bereavement over a pet and two were single women for whom the pet was their companion.

'If you use a pet as a substitute for a relationship when a pet dies, you are in a dilemma. Part of you would like another pet to fill that void while another part, if you are self-aware enough, is saying: "I'm going to be brave and in time find a partner, not a pet."

'There is an exact parallel between people who use pets as relationship substitutes and people who serial-hop in relationships and keep repeating the same pattern because they can't bear to deal with their issues or to be alone.'

I'm aware that it's dysfunctional not to need a relationship with a man because you are besotted by a pet.

In my case, it's probably a reaction to my lack of trust in my choices in men. After I was left a single mother, bruised, I gave up on relationships and felt a form of peace.

But if I know one thing about Wilfred's life, it is that he wanted more than anything else for me to be happy.

And amid the desolation and the horrid stillness in the house which no longer feels like a home without him, I know I owe it to him to open my heart to the possibility, later on, of another love.

Jacqueline Bourbon agrees: 'With grief, the big temptation is to shut down and keep your heart blocked, but that will inhibit any relationship later on as the pain will come back to bite you.

'It's incredibly important to feel the pain and stay open, but not to get stuck in grief and wallow in your loss. You need some sort of closing ritual to honour your pet's life.'

So, Wilfred, here's to you, my dearest friend. Thank you for being there through all the tough times and the joyous ones.

Thank you for loving me and understanding me as you did. I miss you desperately. But thank you also for making space in my heart and life, in time, for a new love.

With you no longer beside me but guiding me, hopefully I'll finally find the courage to truly love again - but this time with a man.

Laxatives at dinner, drinking vinegar and electric shock treatment... Welcome to extreme spa detox

By Anna Pasternak
London Daily Mail
13th October 2008

Anna Pasternak spends a week extreme detoxing. Here she reveals the results...

As a spoilt spa junkie, I've pretty much covered the whole global gamut: ayurvedic abhyanga (oily massage) in the Alps, Chi Nei Tsang (deep and delicate abdominal delving) in Thailand and shamanic stuff in the States.

But I've never experienced anything as extreme - or expensive - as meridian clearing in the mountains of Merano.

Nestled in the foothills of the Italian Dolomites, The Palace Hotel is the hottest detox destination du jour.

Tatler has just voted it the most life-changing spa in the world, while secret devotees - Princess Caroline of Monaco, Elle Macpherson, Uma Thurman and the president of Georgia (forced to leave early due to the recent Russian incursion) - confirm its A-list ascendancy.

So, what attracts the private jet set to this unassuming hotel, where colonic irrigation and sporting foil headcaps, which make you look like a baked potato, are de rigeur?

They are all disciples of the cult of Chenot. A French expert in Chinese medicine, naturopathy and a pioneer of bioenergetic psychology, Henri Chenot has spent 30 years devising a health system called biontology.

This aims to rebalance, return us to our optimum weight and combat accelerated ageing. Bonkers or brilliant? thick layer of cloud over the mountains. A storm is brewing, which, like my headache, is going to be a monster.

DAY ONE:

It's not really a spa, more of an intense wellness clinic: it feels as if I'm staying in an obscure royal palace crossed with a detention centre.

My fellow voluntary inmates include the Emir of Qatar, plus entourage of 20, and a member of the Fendi fashion family.

The sect-like vibe is exacerbated as everyone is in towelling robes, carrying hessian Henri Chenot bags and reading Chenot's book The Secret Code Of Health. It's health rehab for the uber-rich - who look utterly miserable.

After lunch, I understand why. Everyone is starving. Lunch is three mini courses. Minute, exquisite combinations of fruit, vegetables and complex carbs - all PH neutral foods designed to balance our acidic systems.

I devour the sliver of orange rind in the chicory 'cappuccino'. Already, I feel an almighty detox headache looming and hunger induced hysteria.

We sit at individual tables staring ahead, all melancholy Hotel du Lac style. My fellow guests are mainly Russians addicted to their mobiles.

Dinner is the same. I go to bed feeling bloated - ironic as my stomach is so empty - and feeling oppressed.

DAY TWO:

Breakfast is a bowl of pureed apple. I'm as gloomy as the thick layer of cloud over the mountains. A storm is brewing, which, like my headache, is going to be a monster.

The medical care, though, is second to none. The doctor - on call 24 hours a day - explains that the emphasis is on elimination and increasing our digestive capability.

The 'cure' comprises of the Chenot method massage. This is an inspirational blend of cupping - Gwyneth Paltrow is a fan of these vacuum cups and once had red weals on her back to prove it, but thankfully, I bear no war wounds - and meridian clearing, in which a different organ (such as the liver or gall bladder) is stimulated each day using tiny electric pulses.

There are also daily hydroaromatherapy baths, phyto-mud wraps, hydro jet therapy and acupuncture (with electric currents, as opposed to needles).

It's almost macabre that people are paying £4,000 a week to strip buck naked and enter a white tiled room with concentration camp bright lighting.

There, holding on to a metal bar, you stand while high-pressure jets of hot and cold water are blasted at you. How can this not feel like ritual humiliation, especially as it's followed by a daily naked weigh in? I do the bio-energy testing, which calibrates my entire body analysis from my body mass index to the energy circulation in my body.

Quite how this machine works I have no idea as I simply sit at a computer, holding metal conductors, my feet on special pads, a Hannibal Lecter-style band around my head and stare for 20 minutes at pictures of nature.

Yet later I am given the most incredibly precise printout of my body functions, from my BMI to how my lungs and heart function.

At lunch I want to drop my head into my carrot slivers. I feel so sick and hungry. I go to my room and contemplate bursting into tears. Too much effort, so I sleep for two hours instead.

In the afternoon I have an elimination facial. Boy, these pesky toxins get everywhere. Another electric current is pulsed through my cheeks, which makes my fillings feel as if they're falling out and causes the side of my mouth to spasm as if I've had a stroke.

I've had blood tests, urine tests and more wires attached to me and currents pulsed through me than a flat car battery.

At dinner, next to a white rose on the table, are silver teaspoons and piles of white powder. Surely not cocaine to stimulate weight loss? Nope. Special laxatives that expel water from the outer intestine. Great.

DAY THREE:

Do you detox your dreams, too? Apparently, nightmares are common here. Hunger has taken second place to a seismic headache and lower back ache. My beleaguered liver is working overtime, I'm told.

After the hydrotherapy bath, in which I felt incredibly queasy, I am put in the mud wrap and start feeling it was sick that people pay for this torture.

Then, hold on, I am going to be sick. So I lumber from the waterbed on which we lie, stark naked, covered in mud, to the loo and start wretching.

Then I sob because I feel so awful. But the service is five-star, and they bring me a folded bath mat to put under my knees.

I am so dizzy I think I'm going to faint, so they help me shower off while I gulp honey from a minute packet. Then the doctor comes and I sit crying, obsessed by how hungry and lonely I'm feeling.

How I wish I had a boyfriend and was retoxing on some Maldivian island instead of shivering in some swish hydrotherapy centre, detoxing for my 'holiday'.

Hallelujah! They see that I'm 'distressed' so I get taken off the detox and put on the bio-light diet (1,200 wheat, dairy, sugar and fat-free calories a day as opposed to the detox 800).

When the staff hear this they look at me as if I'm Pavarotti - who stayed here, too, and had a special gigantic hydrotherapy tub made - and I feel as if I've got a giant 'L' for Loser tattooed on my forehead because everyone else is about to embark on a 24-hour mushroom broth fast. Plus the laxatives have kicked in and things happen. All. Day. Long.

By 6pm my migraine is raging, so I demand a painkiller. Catch-22; you can't take them on an empty stomach or you'll be sick (not again), so I go to the bar (herbal teas only) and ask for a piece of bread.

In shock, as if I'd just pulled out a gun, the barman says bread is verboten but he'll get me some 'mice gallettes', which I think is a bit odd, but if it takes eating mice to rid me of my headache and ravenous hunger, so be it.

Fortunately, it turns out to be some mini rice cakes.

DAY FOUR:

Yippee - a bio-light breakfast of fruit, an Henri Chenot probiotic yoghurt (sold in supermarkets throughout Italy) and two slim slices of chewy black bread.

The others view me with disgust, as if I'm having a fry-up. Afterwards, I'm actually full. Staying here shrinks your stomach.

I see the naturopath for the results of my tests. My 'vital energies' are on the floor. How can I boost them?

'By doing things you enjoy. By taking time for yourself. The most important thing is love.' Ah, the lack of a boyfriend again. My eyes water.

Detoxing makes you ridiculously over-sensitive. The doctor says he sees five people a year, like me, who are 'psychologically broken' by the detox. Our stress levels are so high we can't tolerate further assault.

For my optimum weight, I must lose four more pounds - and I've already lost three.

The good news? I have the 'liver and kidneys of a baby'.

DAY FIVE:

Another facial drainage massage. Later, in my meridian clearing body massage, my hormones are blocked, so I have more currents passed through me than a high-voltage electric fence. I am so tired; fatigue is seeping out of my pores.

In the afternoon, I have IPL laser treatment on my face to stimulate collagen. Intense light is pulsed through my skin.

Sharon Stone has one of these machines at home, apparently, hence her flawless complexion.

For £317 you sign a disclaimer (terrifying), have ice rolled across your face, before short bursts of hot colour pin-prick your skin.

The results are outstanding. Slight tightness, no redness and my skin feels softer and plumper. I'm indoctrinated into the cult of Chenot. I feel as if some interior light is finally sparking within me.

DAY SIX:

I still can't help laughing at the men - who have scalp treatments to stimulate hair growth - walking around with little foil caps on their head. They look ridiculous.

Horrors, I've put on 300g. I'm not drinking enough - any more water imbibed and I'll dissolve, surely?

I glug gag-inducing apple cider vinegar mixed with water to eliminate fluid retention.

I take a walk outside but quickly return to the cocoon of privilege and pampering. It feels safe here because your body is so closely monitored that if you burped, they'd note it.

DAY SEVEN:

I feel fantastic, but am conflicted about having to be constantly hungry for the holy grail of thin thighs. I've lost more than 5lb and my skin is glowing.

I've shed my mumsy, middle-aged spread and re-educated myself into eating less.

Although it was a shocking experience - the first three days are unmitigated hell - I can see what biontology believers are banging on about.

This intense internal cleansing banishes bloating and radically reboots your digestive system.