Session One
I’m standing, facing a wall with my back toward Jen. Jen’s my therapist. It’s my first time here. I’m nervous because she’s watching me and waiting. I’m staring at four long shelves that stretch the length of the room. Two shelves are filled with little toy people; action figures, playschool people, Disney characters, etc. The other shelves have props like trees, rocks, fences and animals. There are hundreds of things on the wall and more in the containers on the floor and I’m supposed to pick out some things that represent how I feel. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t want to know how I feel. The room feels like it is a hundred degrees. I want to run out the door or hide under the table. I slip one of my shaky hands into my pocket. I look at the shelves. There are so many toys. I have to do something, but I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I turn to look at Jen. I cringe a little waiting for her impatience to flair, but she is calm. Her hand is resting on her chin. Her eyes are big and brown. She looks at me and smiles. I swallow and exhale. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. It seems she could wait all day for me to make a decision. Maybe I can do this.
I step toward the wall hoping it forces something to jump out at me. My eyes move along the shelf past each of the characters until I spot a little Pocahontas figure. I pick her up. I feel a little better having made a decision. I look over the other figures. I pick out two boy figures and a girl for my kids. I skim the shelves and grab a miniature champagne bottle, some trees, a fence, and a miniature gun. I walk back to the table and place the items into the sand box which lies on the table between us. After placing everything in the sandbox I slide onto a hard plastic chair. Jen looks in the sand box and starts asking me questions.
“Who is Pocahontas?”
“That’s me.”
“Why did you choose Pocahontas?”
“Because she belongs outside, in the woods… not locked up.”
“Do you feel locked up?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m married, and I have kids.”
I stare at my shoes which are tapping on the floor beneath me.
“So, you have responsibilities.”
“I don’t want any more responsibilities.”
I stare at the tray because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. I want a different life, but I’m scared to death of what it will take to get one.
“Why don’t you tell me more about Pocahontas?”
I run my hands down my jeans. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. I feel like a wild animal trapped in a corner. I’m trying to resist the urge to fight my way out. Jen’s not the enemy. I look above her at the wall and force myself to say something.
“When I was growing up we lived by the woods. I went there a lot to get away.”
“What were you getting away from?”
There is a long pause.
“My house.”
Dozens of pictures and emotions flash through my head. They are scattered and disjointed and I can’t seem to filter through any of it. I desperately want Jen to see what’s in my head, but I don’t know how to let her inside. I have to think of something else. There is a long pause, and I keep thinking Jen is going to fill the space, but she doesn’t seem troubled by silence. I’m dying to tell her that I want to be held. I’d give up eating for a week if I could curl up in a ball and rest my head on her lap. I want to be five years old again, so it’s ok to cry.
“I was the oldest of seven kids. Our house was pretty chaotic.”
I’m staring at the sand in the tray. She remains silent. I take a deep breath.
“My dad worked a lot. If he came home late it meant he had gone to the bar.”
I want to tell her how scary it was when he came home drunk, but my mind goes blank. I try to shake some mental cobwebs loose.
“My mom was gone a lot too. She didn’t have a job, but she volunteered at church.”
I take my eyes off the sand tray and look at Jen. She has been looking at me the whole time. I’m not used to someone focusing on me for that long. She moves on to the next thing in the tray.
“What is the bottle?”
“It’s a wine bottle.”
“Is that what you drank?”
“That was my first choice, but anything would do.”
“When did you start drinking?”
"
My dad gave me my first beer when I was ten.”
“Ten?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t start drinking regularly until I was fourteen.”
Jen looks at the tray again and points to the little people.
“Are these your children?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about them.”
My chest tightens. I close my eyes. My feet start tapping. I push away the pain and focus on the facts.
“Jay is nine. He’s in third grade. Annie is seven. She’s in second grade and Joey is five. He’s in kindergarten. I was homeschooling them until I went to treatment, so school is still pretty new to them.”
“Why did you place them in the corner of the sand tray?”
“Because I feel far away from them.”
“Why do you feel so far away?”
“It’s like there’s always this barrier between us. I can physically touch them and hold them but I never feel close to them.”
Jen pauses. She seems so content in the silence. My heart is beating out of my chest. I need her to say something. She looks at the tray again.
“What’s your husband’s name?”
“JB.”
“Is there a reason you didn’t put JB in the tray?”
My eyes immediately look over all the pieces in the tray. I didn’t even notice I left him out. I wonder what that means. I wonder what she thinks it means. I go with the easy answer.
“He’s not home very much. He works a lot.”
“Why don’t you go choose a figure off the wall for him?”
I stand up and turn around to face the wall again. I look over all the figures, but nothing stands out. I hate the feeling that she’s watching me and waiting. I take a step closer. My eyes scan each shelf. I want to just pick one, but nothing fits.
“There’s nothing here that works for him.”
“Just choose the closest thing.”
I look over the figures again. The super heroes are out. The little playschool people are definitely out. None of the other male figures are even close. Then I see a row of villains. There’s an action figure that is three times the size of all the others. He is dark blue and black and has a web of ice all around him. I grab him off the shelf and put him in the tray. The villain towers over Pocahontas.
“This is JB?”
“Sort of.”
“Is he a lot bigger than you?”
“His personality is.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s intimidating. I can’t really say what I’m thinking to him.”
“Why not?”
“When I try, I always end up being shut down, like my brain won’t work anymore. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“So, nothing gets resolved?”
"Right.”
“Do you feel safe at home?”
It takes me a second to understand what she’s asking.
“Yes. It’s not like that. He’s a good guy. I’m not physically intimidated by him. I just freeze up when we argue.”
Jen nods her head, looks down at the tray and back up at me again.
“What is the fence?”
“It’s supposed to be a brick wall, but I couldn’t find a wall.”
“Ok, what is the brick wall?”
“It’s the wall between me and other people.”
“Any people in particular?”
“No. Everyone is on the other side of the wall.”
“So, you feel lonely.”
My chest tightens again. It feels like someone is squeezing my heart like a balloon popping contest. I take a deep breath. My foot starts tapping in place.
“Yeah, I do.”
I notice my whole leg is now tapping and I force myself to stop.
“How about the gun?”
My foot starts tapping again.
“That’s a way to escape if I need it.”
“Have you ever tried to escape that way?”
My foot taps faster.
“No, but there were times I wanted to.”
“Kill yourself?”
There’s silence. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. Sometimes the thought of killing myself is the only thing that relieves the torture in my mind. I picture myself driving into oncoming traffic or through the cross bars onto the railroad tracks. I can see myself hanging in the garage, but I don’t want a slow, painful death. I already have that. I want a quick, painless ending. I settle on a large pile of lethal pills. It seems like the easiest way. I swallow the pile, then lie down on a bed of leaves and look up at the sky and wait. The image temporarily relieves the torture in my mind.
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to kill yourself now?”
This question is different than all the others. I don’t feel she wants to know more about me at this point. I feel she needs to know whether or not I am suicidal. If I answer this wrong I could wind up in the psych ward. I would lie about it if I was, because I’m not willing to get locked up again like in the treatment center, but I don’t need to.
“No. The antidepressants are working now that I stopped drinking.”
Two months is way too long to go without posting when I'm trying to keep your attention to my blog. I think the main reason people like to read my blog is because I'm authentic about my daily life. This makes it hard to write when I feel especially vulnerable, because if I try to write something that's not authentic I can "feel" that it's dry and stupid and I know you don't want to read dry and stupid. 
