Thursday, October 24th, sometime around 11pm
"You'll have to sit really far over, because the middle sinks," the therapist said on our first day, which was exactly one week ago.
And now, after a week of looking forward to this second session (pining for some clarity), I finally sat there, my purse and my keys slowly sliding away from me into that gaping sinkhole that was the middle of the couch.
"So, what's going on?" She asked. "You seem sad."
"I'm tired," I said. I rubbed my eyes. I pulled my hat down farther over my x-shaped scar. I nestled into the cushions of that plaid couch, wanting to fade into it completely.
This is not fun, I thought.
I began to talk, her questions guiding me hither and thither, across the many different terrains of my life, the good, the bad, the awful, the horrendous, the joyful, the mediocre.
And
Friday, October 25th, 1:52pm
At work, people asked me why I was down. Here's the thing, I didn't even know.
That therapy session had opened a box of dark, old pain. And I had pulled out things I hadn't discussed in years (if ever, at all...).
"I like to close my sessions well," the therapist said. "I don't want you to leave here feeling raw."
Well, consider me raw.
I thought writing would help me move through these murky waters of whatever-this-is-I'm-feeling, but I sit here unable to capture it. Maybe it's one of those situations beyond words.
I think I would like to dig my hands into some clay, to feel the ache in my arms as I push and pull against the rhythmic spinning of a lump of earth not yet formed into anything. Or to graze the blade of a tool across the outside of a bowl, watching the excess ribbons of clay shedding over the wheel.
Or maybe I need to play the piano, to lose myself in that way. The keys have always provided some distraction.
I threw myself into paperwork during my shift, training the newer staff, reading over scholarship applications and trying to dull that ache with productivity.
It didn't really work.
On my break, I went to the childcare center. I had started working there when I was 19. I remember the long shifts spent staring at the clock as toddlers tumbled around me. I saw my reflection in the glass as I ambled down the hallway. I am 23 now. Sort of a woman. My wedges clicked loudly on the tile and I considered how many different versions of me have walked that hall.
"I'm here to hold a baby," I said as I waltzed into the youth development center.
"Um... okay..." the staff said as she handed me a baby who still had tears in her eyes. She had no idea who I was, didn't know that this had been my job long before it had ever been hers.
I wrapped my arms around the little one and breathed out a sigh of relief. It was physical connection with another human being, something I hadn't experienced in weeks. I smelled her baby head and felt her chubby fingers explore my face.
Who are you, stranger? She asked with her big brown eyes.
We walked over to the window of the youth center and looked out to the lobby, waving to my coworkers at the front desk. They are also my babies, and I watched them closely through the glass, waiting for the moment they would wave me back to help them with something.
The little one stared at me. She was tired, and occasionally let out a whine, her head bouncing into my shoulder. She was resisting sleep.
Behind us, the cries of another infant rose shrilly. Three staff gathered around him, rocking the carseat and shaking a rattle.
The raw pain of a baby crying is just so relatable to me. I had been trying all day to get tears to come, and they simply wouldn't.
I remembered when I was a nanny to my sweet little blond love of a baby, JB. When he was very small, he would cry sometimes, and if he was inconsolable, I would cry with him. This baby reminded me of him. Of all the crying babies I have held. With my little brown-eyed companion still nuzzled into my shoulder, I knelt down next to this tragic little fellow and started to rub his foot. It's what I always used to do with the upset babies in the youth center.
I used to sit in the rocking chair, the babies laid out across my lap. With one hand I'd cradle their necks, and the other I'd rub their feet. I was amazed how many times it soothed them, even when a bottle or a song wouldn't.
This little one, distracted for a while by my foot rub, stared at me with huge blue eyes, his lips quivering as his tears paused on his cheeks. For a few minutes, he was completely calm. We shared a look, our blue eyes meeting, tears in his, none in mine (frustratingly enough).
Rising up from the side of his carseat, his cries started again. A little pang shot through my heart. For five minutes I had soothed myself while soothing him.
I handed my little brown-eyed girl over to her mother, who had come to collect her, and I walked back to the front desk, running into my coworker on the way.
"I was hoping you'd get out of your funk at some point tonight. Glad you finally did."
I watched the lights of the youth development center flick out one by one as the staff closed up for the night. The lobby became quieter, my coworkers started to dwindle out of the building as it got closer to ten.
On the drive home, my tears welled up in my eyes. Whenever I feel pain like this, it is so bittersweet, because it is so mixed with other things.
I sat down last night at my laptop and attempted to explain. But sometimes, I can't with words. I was considering a hundred different things at once as I sat there.
Being kissed on the parkway under a dark night sky. Dialing 911 from a locked bathroom in Atlanta. Petting the curly head of my dog as she heaved her last breaths on the floor of a vet's office. Waiting on hold with a rehab center while I tried to find out where my boyfriend was. Waking up in an ambulance and not knowing my own name. Being seven years old and seeing my new backyard for the first time. Falling on my knees in the snow at age 14, utterly convinced there was a God up there who loved me. Ten years later, seeing a shooting star and thinking the same thing.
There is just so much. It is overwhelming.
As I pulled into my driveway last night, I could still smell the sweet baby scent on my jacket. It was comforting to think of those little ones, by now at home, sleeping soundly. Or perhaps not. Either way, they were loved.
And I am too. I went inside and gave my mother a hug, thinking how precious it is that once upon a time, I was her baby.
Tears finally came this morning. Alone in my house, I sat down to write, and I ended up crying.
Do I feel better?
I don't know that I feel better. But I feel something. And that's all I needed.
