The Start of a Process

She sat, staring at the tree in the corner of the room, wondering about the fake snow on its branches. She had chosen this tree, a symbol of change, and insisted it be put up on the very first day possible to make happiness flow into the room. “You can't force joy,” she thought, “but you can cultivate it. You can invite it.” Her husband put a warm mug of something down next to her...tea? Had she asked for it? Probably. She couldn't keep track of the passage of time so accurately recently. Her husband's kindness and caution sat with the cup on the coffee stained arm of the couch, and his...nervous? Frustrated? His energy was bouncing out of the kitchen with the clatter of the washing up, a video on in the background to cover up the odd weight in the living room that was his wife's confusion.

She was muddled. And she took a sip of the reassuring drink, (ah, tea), and felt care pour down her throat, and wished she knew how to be more receptive. So she said “Thank you for doing the dishes,” and he said “it's fine”, and she thought “I love you, are you mad at me?” and didn't say anything more while she sat, and she sipped.

He didn't know what to do about his wife. When she talked, he could see glimpses of the bright, forceful woman he knew to be locked inside of her. Her anxiety would pulse through the conversation like unexpected electricity cuts, derailing the dance of conversation and turning their eyes inwards towards the strange chronology that ticked, disordered but constant, in her head. He loved her. The way she would kick and shriek against the confusion that sat on her chest, the intensity of her search for clarity and hope, frying her nerves until they splintered like fireworks and her brain saw sparks, and she'd sit, and he'd bring her tea.

What would he do without her? The many possibilities that sprang to mind coiled up tightly in his chest, rising to anxiety, or hope.

This woman would be her therapist. The therapist sat in a metal chair with a foam green cushion, a computer propped open on a table that reminded Sienna of church potlucks, with folding legs and a fake wood top that she remembered from experience would smell medical after being wiped down. Sienna felt vaguely aware of an air of concern in the room; perhaps she was in trouble? No...had she missed a question again? The woman, with short cropped grey hair, had a tattoo on the inside of her wrist. She was looking at Sienna.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

The therapist nodded gently. Good, not in trouble. “Do you know what you want to get out of these sessions?”

“I'd like to know what happened to me? I need to be better. My brain is out of order and it's like another person is sitting in my body, blocking me, and I can't get out?”

“So you'd say you have memory loss of the event?” The therapist is folding her hands earnestly together on the table. She's wearing a chunky necklace. Lots of colours. Sienna wonders if they all look like that.

It's a good question, about the memory loss. It's maybe not so much loss, she thinks, as it is I can't remember what I want to, when I want to. “Sometimes I know the details exactly,” she hedges, “and sometimes my husband has to remind me. But then I remember that I've remembered it before. And I can't tell you the exact order of things because it's...I can't tell you the exact order of things. And I suppose that means that I probably can't get better, until I do.”

The therapist looks sad. A lump rises in Sienna's throat as she catches the feeling of empathy pulsing through the room. The air suddenly feels thick and she blocks it, “So anyway I don't know if there's a system of something that can help resolve the issue, I've done some research on trauma treatment and I think that CBT sounds like it might re-traumatise me, and I think EMDR has some efficacy.” Clinicalise it, which makes it feel better. The therapist is slightly taken aback. Sienna is uncertain about whether this is a positive move but the air feels less oppressive.

“You're right that EMDR is quite effective in the treatment of acute, disordered trauma. CBT can be effective for some, too. But yes, we don't want to retraumatise you.” The therapist lets this statement hang in the air for a bit. Sienna thinks about her husband, who is sitting in the cafe of the hospital, just ten minutes away. She knows she could bolt to him if need be, if this therapist is mean. The adrenaline of threat rises from her stomach to her shoulders and leaves a metallic taste in her mouth. She runs the therapists words and body language over in her mind, trying to control her breathing. Is this woman threatening her? Her cheeks are hot, not safe, no, this isn't safe—tears well up in her eyes and she stares at the ground.

“Sienna, I can see that this is incredibly stressful for you. It looks like maybe you don't feel safe? I'd like you to stay here with me, if you can.”

Sienna looks at her. The words make sense but the threat continues to rise. The therapist leans back in her chair, slightly increasing the space between them; she is looking just beside direct eye contact, and her hands are open, relaxed in her lap. “Let's think about a safe place, or a moment, something with rich imagery, and some smells, and some voices.”

Sienna grasps at this potential “out” and her mind is flooded with being ten again. Her socks are wet in puffy boots borrowed from family friends, and she is sitting in a mini van with the heating on, the caked snow melting off her her mittens. They are going to the fire station after picking a Christmas tree. The inside of the station flashes in her mind; white walls, folding tables, people in ungainly snow clothing. The hot chocolate served there is rich but in a paper cup, and Sienna remembers the taste of the paper with the heat of the drink, and the sludge at the bottom when she'd finished, which she could pick at with her forefinger.

The therapist is looking on kindly when Sienna drifts back. “That seems like it worked. Could you tell me a bit about it?”

She purses her lips. How do you explain the sludge at the bottom of the cup? She gives a brief overview to the therapist. It feels lacklustre. It feels sad to be back in this room, this situation and adult body, and no mittens or snow. But she doesn't feel panicked anymore.

“That was a combination of grounding, which engages your senses, and safe place meditation, which reminds your body of how to feel safe again when you're starting to go into fight, flight, or freeze, which is a trauma response. It's a tool you can use until we meet next time, to help with your adrenaline. Next time, I think we will start EMDR, so we will need to carefully revisit your trauma, safely, in small pieces, to make a map of what we need to process. How does that sound?”

Sienna puts on a mask and agrees heartily. She shakes the therapists' hand, leaves the room. She feels vaguely like a trick has been played on her, that she was fooled into feeling safe. And safety, she realizes, is terrifying, because it leaves her unprepared for the next attack. Intellectually, she knows that this is not a healthy, measured response. Right now, however, it is the response of the moment. Keeping her eyes to the ground, she walks slowly across the parking lot and over to the next building. Her husband sits in the cafe, his smart, combed hair slightly disheveled from where he's been running his fingers in thought or anxiety. He is staring intently at his phone. Next to him, a half finished milky coffee cools in a hospital style ceramic white mug. Sienna always wonders how he doesn't finish his drinks—she can't bear to let hers sit, always needing to consume any heat available to her. He looks up when she walks over to the table, and smiles. “How did it go?”

“The therapist is nice,” she finds herself saying, and well, she was, wasn't she? “It felt scary. I don't know. I'll go back.”

Her husband seems to approve of this answer. She's promised to go back, she thinks, and so it can't be said that she's not trying. And what right does anyone have to say she's not trying? No, that's another thought spiral, no one is saying that-- “coffee”--she blinks, shakes her head, looks at her husband. “Do you want to go get a coffee? And a biscuit. You've done a good job.” Oh. Had she? She can't quite believe that, but the coffee as a reward feels like a good idea. Her husband takes her hand and guides her out of the cafe, and she wonders how he tolerates her at all, distant as she is. She cannot, in this moment, identify why someone would stay in this relationship with her as a shadow, when they could start over with someone else who was more. More...capable? The kind of woman who smelled like steam and musk and energy when they stepped out of the shower, and who liked fireworks and wouldn't flinch at the loud noises. And this woman would have energy, and would smile to herself when no one was looking because she could think of the many things she had happening in her good, controlled life, the humour with her friends and the memories from funny slip ups on dates, and the times she carved pumpkins as an adult because she wanted to get messy and the times she laughed at herself for burning her dinner, could laugh at herself--

The first day of therapy, he sat in the cafe at the hospital. Jay wondered at the smell in here; it was like all hospitals had the same program. The tables smelled a bit like damp rag, reminiscent of childhood lunch hour. The coffee was metallic, and extremely hot. The scent of cooked tomatoes, used for lasagne or whatever else was the dominant scent in the air. It wasn't reassuring. But the people serving were kind, and gave him a warm smile and cracked a few jokes as he ordered. He grabbed his coffee and a brownie and made his way to a table, feeling a wave of relief at finally being able to sit, alone, and just be. And then a brief sense of guilt grabbed hold of that relief, and he pulled out his phone and scrolled on social media, which was a welcome distraction. Nearly an hour had passed and he realised his eyes were hurting a bit from the screen, though he couldn't quite remember what he was looking at or what he'd been thinking about. An itch of worry about how the appointment was going forever nagged at the back of his mind, and he sighed, pointedly closed his phone and looked up around the room. A young woman met his gaze quietly. She had kind, chocolate coloured eyes and brown hair honey'd with highlights. They smiled at each other and he felt a surge of lust rise in his chest. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked away, feeling frustrated that his mind would seek emotional release like that. That wasn't who he was. His wife would never be mad at him for smiling at another woman, but how could he betray her like that when he was supposed to be protecting her? Always protecting her. It was exhausting. Fear washed over him, fear of something he couldn't quite name, and he flipped his phone back open and scrolled. The light changed slightly and he looked up to see Sienna, back from her appointment. He felt relief, and sorrow.

Sienna felt a warm hand take hers, and felt a knee brush against her leg. She looked up to see Jay in his housecoat, having finished the dishes, looking tired. She burrowed her face into his chest and sighed, and resisted to the urge to ask if he was mad, because he was here, putting his arm tightly around her shoulder and smelling her hair. And she loved him completely, and hoped that he knew, and hoped that it wasn't too late.