“Mr. Sloane told me that you probably need intensive therapy.”
I sighed. I guess it was finally time to get some professional help.
For the first time in a long, long time, I finally started to have some hope.
----
S o , for the rest of the morning, I talked with Dr. Valence. At first, it was difficult. I didn’t want to talk about what had happened to me. But she convinced me that this was necessary, as it was the key to my recovery.
“I need to help you find a better way of processing your trauma,” she said. “So, as soon as you’re ready, I would like for you to tell me about your traumatic incident.”
Oh, boy. Here we go….
I took an enormous breath and tried mightily to calm my pounding heart. “Okay, well, let’s see. It was an ordinary day. My mom lives in Brooklyn. She was pretty young when she had me – I just turned 24, and she’s only 40 years old now. She got married again about five years ago, and she was surprised when she was able to get pregnant right away. Not that she was particularly old, but I think that she wasn’t really wanting anymore children. But you know what they say – you make plans and God laughs.”
I was stalling and I knew it. I had to give some kind of background information to what had happened, but I wasn’t at all anxious to have to relive that day.
She chuckled politely and said nothing.
I took another deep breath. “Okay, well. I had a little brother. His name was Nathaniel. I think that he was born when I was 20. So, obviously, there was quite a generational gap there. But I loved him all the same….” I took a long pause. “So, it was an ordinary day, really.” And then my heart started pounding again. I was going to have to relive it, and I just didn’t think that I could. “An ordinary day.”
“Okay,” she said. “And what happened that day?”
I bit one of my nails and looked down at the floor. I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t face what I did. How could I tell even this woman about what a horrible person I was? How I was a murderer? How, if it weren’t for me, that little boy would be alive today?
I shook my head. “Nothing, nothing happened that day. I mean, something did. But I just can’t talk about it. It’s too horrible. It’s too shameful.”
She put one sympathetic hand on mine. “You can talk about it when you’re ready. Perhaps we should gear this session towards something else, such as coping mechanisms. Have you ever heard about cognitive therapy?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve read all about that on the Internet and on my message board group. I’m also in a chat room with other people who are shut-ins like myself. So, yeah, I know about that.”
“Have you tried the techniques that you have learned about from your peers?”
“I have. I must not be doing them right, though, because they haven’t helped.”
“Okay,” she said. “Then we need to practice them right now. I can give you homework to do and maybe having a more structured environment for your therapy will eventually allow you to be able to leave the apartment without panicking.”
I nodded. I was feeling on more solid ground now that I knew that she wasn’t going to push me to tell her about what had happened to me. To Nathaniel. Sweet, handsome little Nathaniel with the blonde curls and the mild disposition. He would have been such a happy little guy if it weren’t for me.
“So, do you think that I have a chance to become less of a basket case one day? I mean, are people cured of this type of thing?”
“Remission is probably a better word,” she said. “It’s like any other kind of chronic condition. You might have a recovery, but you always have to be diligent to make sure that you don’t have a recurrence. That’s where many patients go wrong. They’re able to start going outdoors again, and they believe that they’re cured. So, they stop seeing their therapist. But then something might trip them up, and they end up not being able
I sighed. I guess it was finally time to get some professional help.
For the first time in a long, long time, I finally started to have some hope.
----
S o , for the rest of the morning, I talked with Dr. Valence. At first, it was difficult. I didn’t want to talk about what had happened to me. But she convinced me that this was necessary, as it was the key to my recovery.
“I need to help you find a better way of processing your trauma,” she said. “So, as soon as you’re ready, I would like for you to tell me about your traumatic incident.”
Oh, boy. Here we go….
I took an enormous breath and tried mightily to calm my pounding heart. “Okay, well, let’s see. It was an ordinary day. My mom lives in Brooklyn. She was pretty young when she had me – I just turned 24, and she’s only 40 years old now. She got married again about five years ago, and she was surprised when she was able to get pregnant right away. Not that she was particularly old, but I think that she wasn’t really wanting anymore children. But you know what they say – you make plans and God laughs.”
I was stalling and I knew it. I had to give some kind of background information to what had happened, but I wasn’t at all anxious to have to relive that day.
She chuckled politely and said nothing.
I took another deep breath. “Okay, well. I had a little brother. His name was Nathaniel. I think that he was born when I was 20. So, obviously, there was quite a generational gap there. But I loved him all the same….” I took a long pause. “So, it was an ordinary day, really.” And then my heart started pounding again. I was going to have to relive it, and I just didn’t think that I could. “An ordinary day.”
“Okay,” she said. “And what happened that day?”
I bit one of my nails and looked down at the floor. I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t face what I did. How could I tell even this woman about what a horrible person I was? How I was a murderer? How, if it weren’t for me, that little boy would be alive today?
I shook my head. “Nothing, nothing happened that day. I mean, something did. But I just can’t talk about it. It’s too horrible. It’s too shameful.”
She put one sympathetic hand on mine. “You can talk about it when you’re ready. Perhaps we should gear this session towards something else, such as coping mechanisms. Have you ever heard about cognitive therapy?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve read all about that on the Internet and on my message board group. I’m also in a chat room with other people who are shut-ins like myself. So, yeah, I know about that.”
“Have you tried the techniques that you have learned about from your peers?”
“I have. I must not be doing them right, though, because they haven’t helped.”
“Okay,” she said. “Then we need to practice them right now. I can give you homework to do and maybe having a more structured environment for your therapy will eventually allow you to be able to leave the apartment without panicking.”
I nodded. I was feeling on more solid ground now that I knew that she wasn’t going to push me to tell her about what had happened to me. To Nathaniel. Sweet, handsome little Nathaniel with the blonde curls and the mild disposition. He would have been such a happy little guy if it weren’t for me.
“So, do you think that I have a chance to become less of a basket case one day? I mean, are people cured of this type of thing?”
“Remission is probably a better word,” she said. “It’s like any other kind of chronic condition. You might have a recovery, but you always have to be diligent to make sure that you don’t have a recurrence. That’s where many patients go wrong. They’re able to start going outdoors again, and they believe that they’re cured. So, they stop seeing their therapist. But then something might trip them up, and they end up not being able
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