yevlax

Little Blue Room


I think the room might actually be white, but I always think of it as being blue. white reminds me too much of hospitals. It is a negative color. Blue is peaceful. Blue is calming.

Every week I go to the little blue room in a building on a theological campus, for one hour, to talk to a woman who is trying to help me save myself. After seven weeks, I have decided I feel comfortable now. This is the longest I have ever been in therapy, and the first time I have not wanted to bail without warning after two sessions or so.

I feel better about myself now. I no longer want to die.

I was wary going into this, like every other time I've attempted therapy, and I am still far, far from a semi-permanent solution to my health and finacial problems. But I have hope, for the first time in weeks, that I can make it through this part of my life intact.

I look forward to the little blue room. It is no longer the place of wasted time and judging gazes that I've felt from former therapists. My therapist cannot prescribe drugs to me, which was always a concern in the past since I'm already on so many mind-altering medications.

Last week my therapists asked me what I was going to do if I got an rejection letter on SSI. I didn't know. I broke down and cried. I spent a few moments collecting myself. It was not the first time I've cried in front of a therapist, but it was the first time I'd felt better about it afterwards. One of the reasons I'd felt better is she told me something that no other therapist has, after making sure I wouldn't be offended. "I prayed for you."

I did not find that offensive at all. I've long used the phrase 'I'll send positive thoughts' in place of 'I'll pray for you and your family', when comforting friends...I don't actually think I'm sending waves of psychic energy in their direction, but I want to make sure they know I'm thinking of them, and hoping to ease their pain just a little. That's how I see praying, even though I'm not religious. I'm just grateful someone took a moment of their day to wish me well. I'm grateful someone is trying to help. It's a stark contrast to the inhuman feeling I get from dealing with the Social Security Administration, where every worker I meet has a look of pained confusion across his/her face, and is hoping to have me out of their office before lunch. I feel like a human being again, in the little blue room. It's probably why I've been so defensive of religion lately.

My brain short circuts while I'm crying, and it takes me a few moments to collect myself. I hear my therapist looking at me with eyes of concern and asking me if I'm okay repeatedly, and if I'd like to continue. As my thoughts begun to creak back along their rusty treadmill, her voice reminds me of Matt Loomis several years ago after I'd been knocked to the ground by another fighter. We were boxing in the park. I got knocked to the ground, hard. My brain goes blank. I see Matt standing over me, staring at my face, looking at me with concern.

Are you okay? Joey? Look at me. Look at me.

I conisder what I'm going to do if my SSI is rejected. I realize I will not get my medical benefits back. Horrific images of slowly wasting away in a spiral of struggling to survive until I die from kidney failure hits my minds eye. My brain goes blank. I start dropping droplets from eyes, which becomes a flood. I struggle to stop shaking. My therapist sits across from me, staring at my face, looking at me with concern.

Are you okay? Joey? Look at me. Look at me.

I get up from the ground, shaking stars from my head and moving my mouth to see if my jaw has been broken. I wipe tears from my eyes, regaining my vision, and try to think positive thoughts. My therapist asks if I want to continue, or do I want to go on to my artwork? I pause for a few moments, and tell her I want to go on to the artwork. We spend a few moments discussing things I can control about my situation, things we will focus on. I feel slightly better, but still tremble a little as I slowly pull the folder of drawings from my backpack.

My eyes dry and my voice quickens as I begin to explain what each drawing is, and how much I want to make something creative that lasts. I tell my therapist how this is one of the remaining things in my life that brings me joy. I talk to her about the games I play with my friend each week. We have begun to give me homework each week, after I explained that the stillness of waiting for a government-issued letter was adding to my stress. For the last two weeks I have brought in drawings for a webcomic idea I had. I'm teaching my therapist comic book history while I explain to her my repeated failures in creating a lasting comic, or finishing NaNo novels, etc.

My therapist gives me a kind of encouragement that I can't get from anybody else towards the things I create. I feel compelled to try again, and am slowly making my way towards putting a page of this new idea together. She looks at my doodles and arrows and notes and asks the kind of questions that no one else ever asks me about these things. I feel better explaining my creative process to her, I enjoy her teaching her what I'm trying to achieve. This is the kind of conversation I truly cannot find anywhere else, that kind of conversation that I have only had in my life with a rare few people who were either genuinely curious or completely psychotic. I love this part of the session. I begin to understand why people come to therapy.

I am given hope for my future in the things I can control, and hope that I can make something that will last this time. I am happy that I achieved one of last weeks homework assignments (find a therapy group in louisville for kidney disease patients in Louisville) after remembering that Rachel has mad google-fu. I am made to think about the next two assignments, besides attending that group. The first is to finish this webcomic page, the first big step of this idea I'm so excited about. I expressed frustration at not knowing how to put it all together on a computer, and I promised that I would use my resourcefulness to learn.

The second assignment is to draw myself. I joke with my therapist, asking if this is one of those 'how I see myself to the psychiatrist' things? She tells me to take it how I want to. I promise to try.