Session Four — Control

“Just stop trying to control everything!” my therapist screams, her hair frazzled and glasses resting a bit askew on her face. Her eyes look a bit crazed — this isn’t normal. “Let go! Let it go! You’re ruining everything around you!”

“Why are you yelling at me?! You’re supposed to be helping me!” I can’t help but feel absolute fear as this woman I’m supposed to trust goes ballistic. I knew it. I knew it was too good to be true. Nobody wants to help. “I fucking knew it… why the hell did you lie?!” I scream in retaliation.

“Where did you even hear that I would be helping you? You’re making shit up so you can say ‘aha, I’m right!’ when shit doesn’t go your way!” she screams, throwing her clipboard and papers in my direction. “This is the shit I’m talking about! Why can’t you just stop panicking and stop your sobbing?”

The words coming out of her mouth are not at all anything I’d expected. Making things up? Setting things up to fail so I sound correct? I’m not doing any of that. “I panic because I fucking have anxiety! You of all people should know this! You’re a therapist and psychiatrist — diagnose me! Do your job!”

“Oh, I’ll do my fucking job, alright,” she growls, her hands shaking as she raises them toward me. Instinctually, I try to force myself to lean further back into the plush sofa, pushing with my feet as if I’ll magically be able to get away as she comes closer, breathing hard and angrily. “If you would just stop trying to control everything all the time… and if you’d just take one God damn second and quit freaking out over every… little… thing!” The look of murder radiates in her eyes as her twitching, nimble fingers sprawl out like cat claws. She wants to choke me. She’s going to choke me. “Now… just stop. Hold still, you little…”

The echo of a scream I never made is all I hear in my head, trailing off like the remnants of a bad dream. As I look around her office, the therapist observes me, one leg crossed over the other. The clipboard she’d thrown at me still in her hand, partially on her lap as she scribbles. Her glasses are in place, pristine, and neatly resting before her blue eyes, looking at me with remorse. There’s not a single trace of the urge to harm me. My heart starts racing.

“What happened?” I ask.

She stops writing, looking up at me over her glasses, looking a bit concerned. “What do you mean?” she says, “You’ve just been here, sitting quietly for the most part. Are you ready to talk?”

“I haven’t been talking?”

“You’ve… been making ‘m-hm’ sounds when I speak to you — do you remember anything I’ve been saying to you?” she asks, putting her pen down atop her clipboard, really analyzing me, now.

“You… you just got super mad,” I don’t get it. It was so, so damn real. “You said that all I do is set things up to fail so that I can be right about things… I mean, something like that. Along those lines, anyway.”

“Do you do that?” she asks, starting to write again, “Do you… set things up for failure to feel right about stuff?”

Is she for real? My heart is going a million miles an hour. “Everything looks hazy right now… like I’m in some kind of dream. It feels surreal.”

“This is probably your PTSD at play, Jessica,” she explains, “and as a result, you’ve probably slipped into what’s called Derealization… where your surroundings feel unreal or like you’re in a dream.”

“What about everything that just happened?” I asked, “You screamed at me… everyone always just screams at me. When I get depressed or anxious… people just assume I allow myself to slip into these states of mind.”

“While it’s possible to control your emotions, sometimes things like panic attacks and overwhelming depression slip out of your grasp,” she explains, beginning to talk with her hands, gripping her fists, “when we want so, very desperately to hold onto something, like our sanity, we can sometimes try too hard to hold on too tightly, making us more anxious about losing the grip. The thoughts of ‘what if I fail?’ and ‘what if someone sees?’ and other smaller thoughts like that… make us squeeze harder. Squeeze your fists, Jessica.”

I sigh, feeling ignored yet again, “Fine… okay?” I squeeze my fists just like she is. My therapist nods in approval.

“Tighter, as tight as you can, and hold it for thirty seconds.” She watches me clench my fists until they’re shaking and my knuckles are white. Thirty seconds later, she nods, “Now, let go. Really fast. Not gradually, just open your hands. Do you feel that tension? Do you feel the strain yet strange relief feeling? It’s tight, it’s tired, it’s kind of tingly?”

“Ugh… yeah?” I say, rubbing my hands together to soothe the sudden rush of aching. Oh, I think I get it now.

“If you hold on too tightly, you will feel tired and the pain will be sudden, sharp, and overwhelming,” the doctor explains, “We can control our panic sometimes… but when the panic is too much, there’s too much to try and hold onto. You try to hold on and not panic, but instead of grabbing and holding for… who knows how long… the best thing to do is,” she moves her hands outward, cupping her hands like she’s carefully catching something, “slowly reach out and gently hold on.”

“How am I supposed to take control if I’m already in a state of panic, though? People around me just get pissed,” I explain, shrugging, “Damned if I do or don’t, you know? When I’m in an actual panic attack, I cannot actually come-to in order to carefully grasp. I can try my hardest and best to prevent an attack, but what about when I fail to calm down before the panic?”

“That’s where you need someone to help you when you’re stuck inside yourself,” she nods, “Your partner, for example… he can try and comfort you.”

“He gets angry… and he walks away and says leaving me alone is best… but it just feels like abandonment when I really need someone the most,” I say. I lean forward, looking at the clock — that stupid alarm is going to chime. “Everyone abandons me when I need them. If medical professionals saw what my breakdowns look like… I’m very sure I’d be committed.”

“It sounds like he just doesn’t understand the situation… or how these things work. Has he done any research?” she asks, scribbling her notes, clearly punctuating on the paper before setting her notes aside on a small table near her chair. “Perhaps he should sit in on the next appointment?”

“That might be best…” I say. I already feel like giving up. I’m going nowhere. None of my questions have been answered and I have so many more that’ll go unanswered as well. I stand up, just as the alarm chime goes off. “That’s it then? Another session and still no progress. No feeling better.” I shrug, “At least bread is going on your family’s table… I’m glad I could help.”

“Soon, Jessica, you’ll see the progress you’ve been making.”

“What about everything I wanted to know?” I ask, “The receptionist is never here when I make new appointments or check in. Do I even have a record here? I never see other patients waiting — oh wait — it’s Saturday. Most people, including doctors are at home on Saturdays.” I’m starting to get very angry, “I need to know what the hell’s going on… are we treating me correctly? Do I have a record here?”

“Time’s up for now, Jessica — I’m really glad I could see you again. Next week, I’m going to have you fill out a small questionnaire to track your progress, medically rather than just psychologically.” That bitch is seriously ignoring me again. What the hell? “You did great today. Remember for next time, your boyfriend, Devon will come with you, right?”

“I guess… if he won’t mind or…” my heart feels like it’s stopped. “I never mentioned my partner’s name.” I’ve only ever referred to Devon as “my partner”. Something is… what’s going on? Why does she know all of this? “D-did I even get checked in? The receptionist was gone… again,” I’m gritting my teeth, feeling myself get angrier. “Answer me. I hate being ignored, answer me! What’s going on and why does everything keep changing and flipping and…” Before I know it, my therapist is standing before me from inside her own office. Looking around, I can see that I’m in the hallway. I look back to the therapist, ready to lay it further into her. “Answer me, or… w-what?!”

The door is closed and looks rather dingy, like it’s been aged and left in an abandoned building. Looking around again, the whole place looks dreary, old, abandoned, and falling apart. I rub my eyes, taking deep breaths. Derealization. Derealization. I’m fine, I just need to breathe. Opening my eyes, I can see the building is exactly as it was when I came in: simple, bare, school-like walls without any decorations. If this world was a computer program, ‘default’ would be how I’d describe the waiting chairs — simple, cheap things with a simple, cheap cushion. Glorified patio chairs. None of this makes sense. Just a moment ago… the screaming and throwing… and now I’m not in her office — I don’t remember leaving it. I only stood up. I push on the door, opening it to leave where I see my partner waiting in the truck, looking happy to see me like a puppy waiting in the window for his little girl to come home.

“Maybe I’ll be fine,” I whisper to myself, “Maybe I’m just… maybe this is progress.” I approach the lifted truck and Devon hops out of the driver’s seat, coming around to me to get a log stump out of the bed, plopping it down on the ground. I step on it to get into the passenger’s seat — it’s really embarrassing, but such is life. I’m too short. I hear the thump of the log in the bed of the truck and in no time, Devon is back in the driver’s seat. We buckle-up and he starts the truck.

“Mmm? How’d it go?” he asks, focusing on the road.

“Well enough, I think,” I lie, taking a deep breath in, “Um… she’d like if you joined us for the next session. To… talk about how to help me if I’m unable to stop panicking or… you know… yeah.”

“Well… sure hon,” Devon says, shrugging, “Anything to help you get better.”

“You mean that? Are you sure? What if we fight…” I can feel myself ready to cry. A moment ago I was feeling so dominant, as the doctor would say. Now, at my most vulnerable next to the man who saved my life twice, I feel so small and so submissive. So, very feminine. “What if…”

“Sshh, it’ll be okay, Babygirl,” Devon says, his voice soft and true. “We’ll get through this. Now…” he says, changing the topic, “I say… since bills are taken care of and we have some extra money on the card… I can’t think of anything we need, so how about we do Rally’s or Sandy’s for lunch?”

I smile, my needing cry subsiding. The welling in my eyes begins to be welling in my heart and I just… I just want to cling onto this man and hope that he can feel how much love I have for him that for some reason, words won’t let me express. “That sounds pretty great,” I say, my mind finally quiet. My mind… finally behaving the way a head should: quiet with silent slideshows of good memories, creative ideas, and organized tasks by “completed” and “pending”. I reach over for his hand — his nails have grown back and they look wonderfully sharp and strong.

I look at his face, my eyes trailing his jawline and admiring his stubbly facial hair. My sweet-pup of a boyfriend always has his hair in his eyes; it’s so, very difficult to keep myself from reaching over and brushing it out of his wide, deep, dark brown eyes. When the sunlight hits them, they’re copper and gold, and I can get lost in them forever. His smile alone is magnificent — his teeth bother him, they’re not perfect, but his oral health is pristine. The very fact they’re his teeth is what makes them so… unique to me. They add character to his face. He hates his sharp nose, but at the very tip of it, there’s a small dent-like spot where my finger fits perfectly, making for the perfect nose-boop. Don’t even get me started on his hair, his scent, his lips, his body, his voice… oh God, his voice.

If there was a cure for depression that ever worked perfectly every, single time… in my perfect world, it would be how I feel about this man.

“Babe?” Devon calls me back to reality, “Babe… what d’ya want from here? There’s people waiting behind us, Hon.”

“Oh, sorry…” I’m shy again — he’s waiting on me. “Um… let me see…”