Used up
empty
never enough
yet still pretty
in its emptiness
the little flecks
of ground-up energy
paint the sides
like sand left behind after a wave on the beach
nice while it was here
but now it’s gone
all too soon
Day 19
Two times this pandemic, I did something I’ve never done before.
I entered two short story writing contests. And – you guys – I came in second in both. I’m super proud of myself, especially because writing fiction is not usually my jam.
To be fair, the first story I submitted was about 90% fact with some embellishing thrown in. I had originally written it here, on this blog, about being pregnant with my first. The second story I wrote from scratch and it’s based on my experience working as a therapist in a nonprofit. I’m very proud of how it turned out. Here it is, dear readers.
“I know what you’re doing,” she interrupted me, “and I want you to stop it.”
“What am I doing?” I asked, genuinely perplexed.
“You’re trying to make me feel better, and it won’t work.”
I sucked in some air, immediately defensive.
Of course I’m trying to make you feel better! I’m your therapist, for Christ’s sake.
“Look, Madison, I’d like to be able to help you, but I can’t do that if you’re unwilling to answer my questions. I’m curious to know more about the positive things in your life.”
“My life is shit! That’s why I’m here.” Fresh tears made Madison’s heavy black eyeliner streak down her cheeks and disappear into her oversized black t-shirt.
“Your life is not shit. You just told me about your dog who loves you more than anything. Your artistic talent is incredible! That’s not nothing.”
“He’s just a dog! These are stupid doodles! And what do you know about my life?! You’re just a shrink that my mom pays so she doesn’t have to look at me.” Madison started shoving her sketchpad and pencil into her backpack.
I’m losing her, don’t lose her.
“I’d love to know more about your life if you’d let me. I think you downplay what could be sources of real happiness, like your mom. I’m sure she loves y-”
Madison was already standing. Tears had been replaced with fire in her blue eyes.
“I told you to stop it.”
She strode to the door, yanked it open, and stomped down the hall. I slumped down in my chair, defeated. We still had fifteen minutes left.
Session 3. Client presents in a depressed, irritable mood. Exhibits poor eye contact, sluggish movements, intermittent crying. Affect is blunted at times but mood congruent. Resistant and uncooperative in working towards treatment goals – client left 15 minutes early. Next session in 1 week.
The chunky, rough rope cut into her hands, but she gripped it tighter, resolve flowing through her. Feet planted, arm muscles tensed as she held the rope steady. She wasn’t able to pull it toward her, but for now, that was okay.
Just don’t let go.
“So, how have you been?” I gingerly chose my words as Madison settled in across the room. The more sessions we had, the more she seemed to move-in each time. Today I watched as she unpacked her sketchbook, a few pencils, a sweatshirt, and a half-eaten granola bar that she unwrapped and shoved into her mouth.
“Mmruph.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
She took her time chewing and swallowing. “Hungry. I dunno.”
Sigh. What do I do with that?
“What would you like to talk about today?”
Madison shrugged, then busied herself with sharpening a pencil and turning over a fresh page in her book. Wordlessly, she began to draw.
Not knowing what else to say, and worried I’d say the wrong thing, I asked, “What kinds of things do you like to draw?”
After several beats, “A bit of everything. You know. Animals. Landscapes. People.” She answered me from under a curtain of long, blonde hair dyed purple that had fallen in front of her face.
Rather than respond, I decided to try riding out the silence. Often it felt like I was doing too much work to try and keep the conversation, any semblance of a conversation, afloat. Clearly, she prefers doing things at her own pace. I should try letting her.
Minutes went by, where all we heard was the soft scratching of Madison’s pencil on the paper. Every once in a while, her eyes darted up and back down again as she hunched over her lap, focused. I watched her and waited.
“So do you have kids?” Madison asked without pausing her drawing.
Caught off guard, I robotically gave the classic therapist response they coach you on in training: “What makes you curious to know?”
She bristled while meeting my gaze. “You can just answer the question.”
I made a conscious effort to soften my tone. “I honestly don’t mind answering the question, I just want to know why you’re curious first.”
She paused, evaluating me. “I don’t know. You seem like you’d be good at it. And you’re always trying to get me to talk to my mom more.”
“Well, thanks.” Did not expect that answer.
“…so do you? Have kids?”
“Ha. I don’t, although I would like to someday.”
There’s something here, something she’s mulling over. What is it?
Our eyes met for a moment longer than was comfortable, and Madison hunched over her sketchpad once more. Silence fell for another minute. Wait for it.
“I got into art school. My mom wants me to go.” Her voice was a fraction above a whisper.
“What?! That’s incredible! Congratulations!” My surprise and excitement came bursting out. She deserves this! She’s suffered way too much trauma; it’s about time she had some good news in her life.
“It’s not a big deal. I probably won’t go.”
“What? Of course it’s a big deal! Why wouldn’t you go?”
Madison looked me dead in the eyes. “Why do you even care?”
She’s testing me. What’s the right answer here?
“I-I care about you, and you deserve good things, Madison. It’s okay to allow yourself to feel happy.”
Madison’s eyes narrowed. “…Did my mom talk to you?”
“What? No. Why?”
“Whatever.”
I felt all her remaining energy drain from the room. Mine went with it.
I glanced at the clock on the wall behind Madison’s shoulder.
“We’re out of time for today,” I sighed, “But I would like to continue talking about this next session.”
As she got up to leave, she tore the top page from her sketchbook. She crossed the room and before she turned for the door, she let the paper fall facedown on my desk.
I watched her disappear around the corner and then went back to my desk and turned the paper over. It was the most exquisite portrait of me, down to the mole on my left cheek. I was drawn seated in my cheap office chair, hands clasped smartly in my lap and my eyes gazed straight at the viewer, as if I were desperately trying to win a staring contest.
Session 6. Client presents in an irritable mood, reports feeling “hungry.” Exhibits intermittent eye contact, hunched body presentation. Affect is blunted at times but mood congruent; speech often quiet, slow, halted. Presents as resistant and defensive. Next session in 1 week.
She was being dragged forward, in the wrong direction. Her feet dug into the ground, but it wasn’t enough to keep her from sliding. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this up.
“I need to get outta here.”
Madison was visibly upset, about what she wouldn’t say. She was rocking back and forth in her seat, tugging on her hair (now dyed blue), and if I didn’t intervene soon, she was going to start hyperventilating.
“Of course. Do you want to take a walk?” I motioned towards the door.
She nodded and grabbed her backpack.
As soon as we got outside, her breathing slowed. She seemed less agitated.
“I want to sit down.”
“Sure, let’s go over here.” I pointed to a park bench in the shade.
We sat at opposite ends of the bench and Madison bent over and put her head in her hands. I angled my body towards her.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked. What is going on?! I wonder if her dad tried to contact her again.
“No. I don’t.” Her voice was muffled.
I just want to comfort you! Tell me how!
“Okay.”
We sat in silence for several minutes. I wondered if Madison could hear the birds or feel the breeze. She seemed a million miles away, unreachable.
“My life sucks.” I could barely hear her.
What happened?
You have so many positive things in your life!
You’re the strongest, most resilient person I know.
Your life can’t suck. I won’t let it.
I took a deep breath. “Everything is going to be oka-”
Madison let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a wail.
Stop.
Stop pulling and go to meet her.
Meet her where she’s at.
I sighed and turned my body to face forward, mirroring hers. “You’re right. Life sucks, especially yours. You got dealt a shit hand and it’s not fair. I’m sorry.”
Madison looked up and held my gaze for a moment before looking away.
“Yeah,” she said, “it sucks.”
Each of us dropped our section of rope. I waded into the mud pit to meet Madison, who was already there. I let myself sink down in and the sludge encircled us both.
We sat in silence, together in the muck, for the remainder of the session.
Session 8. Client presents in an anxious, depressed mood, reports “life sucks,” because it does. Exhibits normal behavior considering the circumstances. She’s doing the best she can. We both are. Next session in 1 week.
Rain started to fall.
Softly at first, in such a way that she didn’t notice until the ground was already damp and smelling like musty clothes, mothballs, and partially rotting leaves.
She quickened her pace, pumped her arms faster.
Halos appeared around streetlights, like perched angels guiding her way home.
Light reflected off the pavement, creating a warm glow.
Water soaked through her cotton sweatshirt and made contact with her skin.
She could see her breath now, every exhale snuffed out as quickly as it was born.
Her shoes squelched on the pavement, over grass, in and around puddles.
She realized her head had been bent over in an effort to shield her face.
She looked up and broke into a run.
Hands formed into fists.
Her hood flew back.
Droplets streamed down her face. Into her eyes. Over her cheeks.
She took the concrete steps two at a time.
In one fluid motion, she extended her hand, grasped the doorknob, turned, and shoved.
She was home.
For those of you who know me, you know I’m not a risk taker.
I like rules (as long as the rules aren’t dumb, but that’s for another post), I like feeling safe and warm and cozy. Preferably with hot chocolate and a good book.
But I also like doing new things and pushing my comfort zone…within limits. My MOMS Club group found a photo from another chapter where they did this spunky thing called aerial yoga. This sounded right up my alley.
We’re spunky, too. We said.
We can do that even better. With more flare. We didn’t really say.
Fuck those bitches. We’re already signed up. Now I’m just making things up.
I was excited to go. I figured it’d be fun and that I’d probably do okay because I’ve been doing yoga on the regular for a solid 15 years now. Am I the most athletic person? No way. Do I have any upper body strength to speak of? A big fat nooooope. Is my core strength completely shot from surgery and having two kids? You bet.
But hey, let’s give this a shot. We had a private class all set up, so this was a safe space in which to potentially make a fool of myself.
Ohmigosh, you guys. Once we got into those hammocks and I was enveloped by the silky fabric (meaning: no one could see my face), I was grinning like a giddy kid on Christmas morning. The teacher ran the class pretty much like a typical yoga class, so there was time when we were doing normal yoga stretches and breathing, only suspended in pure joy.
It felt awkward, for sure. But it also felt so liberating! Something about swinging and hammocks awakened this inner child in me and I just felt so free. You know that part in Eat, Pray, Love when the wise man in Bali says to smile with your mind, your heart, and even in your liver? My liver was smiling lobe to lobe.
There was something about the hammocks that felt very cocoon-like, womb-like, and very primal. (I have several different metaphors churning around in my head so bear with me.) During shavasana at the end of class, I could peek out and see everyone else’s silhouettes. We all looked kinda like a family of bats hanging upside down in peaceful, creepy sleep, or like corpses caught and wrapped in colorful spiderwebs, spinning slowly and silently, also creepily. I wiggled and squirmed around, completely enveloped and feeling safe and relaxed, and it was warm and sweaty, and at the end I emerged – was born from the hammock – feeling new and different, albeit sweaty and sore. (So I guess my two emerging themes are both about change and transformation: one about sleep, death, corpses…and one about cocoons, wombs, rebirth and metamorphosis. Joking aside, the symbolic implications of this experience were extremely palpable for me. My high school English teachers would be pretty proud.)
I pushed my body to do things I wasn’t sure I could do. The teacher demonstrated an acrobatic move at the end and I wanted to give it a try even though it kinda wigged me out. I needed help getting positioned on the damn hammock, which cut into my side fat like that string you use to tie up a turducken (I don’t cook, clearly), and my movements were far from graceful, but I DID IT! I was inverted and pulling myself up and sliding through and hanging by one leg and I’m just proud of myself. And it was all safe, in this controlled environment. Pretty perfect for me.
Even before the night was over, I could tell that my body would be screaming in protest at all this…exertion. I wasn’t wrong. My triceps are shot and my side fat (ok, fine, love handles) is bruised and I learned that I have these things called “lats,” and guess what – they hurt too. And don’t even give me crap about toxins leaving my body – the pain is still here and I think it’s camping out for a few days.
But. This kind of soreness – the kind where I’m not injured, just hurting – is the best kind. It’s proof that I did something awesome with my body. I actually used it and pushed it to do cool stuff I didn’t even know I could do. Total empowerment, not even kidding.
So I’m writing this to capture the feeling I felt last night and continue to feel today. Maybe I need to go back. Maybe I need one of those things installed in my house. Not creepy in the least.
I didn’t even know aerial yoga was on my bucket list until I crossed it off.
I swear, you guys, I’m totally sober right now.
At least I think I am…I’ll let you know once the room stops spinning with joy…or is that nausea? Hard to tell sometimes.
Ok, so this is my official hangover-Freshly Pressed post, only there’s no wolfpack, it’s just me.
Thank you to the Freshly Pressed Gods and thanks to everyone who clicked and read and commented and followed.
Welcome new readers!! From time to time I’ll refer to y’all as Psychos or Babblers or Hey, You! Just know that I say it all with love. And cheese. Also know that I hope I won’t disappoint you for a good few months or so. No promises, really.
—-
I was warned before this all happened- that being Freshly Pressed was gonna be a whirlwind of comments that may be exciting and ego-boosting but also may or may not be annoying.
Allow me to describe my hero’s journey through the land that has been pressed ever-so-freshly, kinda like the Shire after the orcs are done trampling through.
Now I know how Johnny Cash felt.
Before being Freshly Pressed, it’s this innocent and hopeful time. I’m just focusing on the music, you guys, and I am doing this for the fans. You know, whatever flows, I just let it be what it was created to be. Sure, I’m just scraping by and hoping for the best, but I just wanna stay true to my craft.
And then came the email, like a record label hearing my jam for the first time and telling me that I had something. This is my big break! Am I good enough? Will my indie fans accuse me of selling out? Will I get hoards of screaming fans to rival those of The Biebs? Let’s just ride the wave and see where it takes me…
And then, it happens. The Big Break. The freaking Ed Sullivan Show. It feels sublime, like my first taste of black tar. I’ve been jonesing for this…..and I deserve this, but I’m still humbled by this…..and I knew the band was always gonna make it, you guys, and FUCKYEAH, let’s get shitfaced and trash a hotel room after I’m finished ear-humping you sweaty masses with my sonic genius!!!!!
The next day, the buzz is starting to wear off, so let’s invite some new groupies back in, slip me another jeffrey, and put on some Johnny Mathis (he always gets me pumped up). This ain’t over yet, babe!
Day 3. My eyes are bloodshot and I’m sleep deprived. What city are we in? Wait, I still have to do normal things like clean the toilet and make dinner? Fuck that, my new blogging friends fans will keep me full of validation and wrapped in comment notifications undying love and adoration. Keep on rockin in the free world!
Day 4. Starting to get the shakes. My cat can answer my dwindling fan mail while I am busy praying to the porcelain gods.
Day 5. Hello? Anyone there? Will someone please make the walls stop spinning?!
And now, after a few refreshing weeks at Betty Ford, I’m getting calls from Dancing with the Stars.
When you’re at rock bottom, there’s nowhere to go but up.
Psychobabble 