In Session

Sarah Senft

I had my first breakdown when I was nineteen.

I stood in the middle of the campus bookstore. I recognized one of my professors. His distinctive leather crossbody bag was slung over his shoulder. He gave a sharp nod in my direction. I tilted my head back, gazed at the ceiling, and opened my mouth. It began as a low groan. My chest vibrated. My voice climbed into a sharp, tearing shriek that caused the same professor to spill his coffee all over the shelf labelled Introduction to Accounting. When it didn't stop, two burly security guards appeared by my side, linked my arms in theirs, and half carried me, half dragged me out of the store to the sidewalk.

That little episode bought me a ride to the emergency room in the back of a police car. I spent ten hours in the emergency department, evaluated first by a nurse, then another nurse, and lastly a doctor. He nodded in the right places and patted my hand at the more difficult parts. I was discharged back to my dorm with a prescription for two medications I can't remember the names of. I slept like Rip Van Winkle. I woke up to find that I had missed two out of five of my midterm exams. To retake Introduction to Neuroanatomy and Introductory Cardiovascular Physiology, I needed to present the school with a letter saying my breakdown was over and thus I would never cause a ruckus in the bookstore again. 

They enclosed the names and phone numbers of a few psychologists recommended by student health. I chose one close enough to walk to after class, unless it rained, of course.

Session one:

The entrance to the building was easy to miss. It was hidden to the left of a popular student pub called The Goat Broke Loose, or just The Goat to those of us who knew it. I’d been here many times before my breakdown and had never noticed the narrow blue door or what was behind it. I pulled it open and climbed the two flights of stairs to his office. The space was small. One large window looked out over the city of Cork. You could see St. Patrick's Cathedral in the distance, its spire peeking above the smaller office buildings. The roof sloped down on one side. Tucked underneath it was a small couch. His desk and chair sat right under the windowsill. When he opened his mouth, I realized he had a South African accent. Our first visit was superficial introductions and a garbled explanation of why I was there. Before I knew it, I was back on the street. The lights were coming on. The air had turned crisp and bitter in my mouth.

Session two:

Our next appointment was a week later. I opened up to him. As he listened, I watched. He was short and slender with black hair that looked like he had just rolled out of bed and bangs that flopped into his eyes. Every now and then he would brush them impatiently away. He looked about thirty. He wanted to know what I was feeling right before my “incident” in the bookstore. My thoughts raced as I took myself back there. Flashes: dark cold, nights. Heavy breathing. Bad men and women. I giggled. I couldn't help it. He looked concerned. When I couldn't stop, he asked what was so humorous. Well that set me right off. Something in his eyes. At the end of the session, I fled into the street. Gasping for air as if I had been under water holding my breath. I bent over in the middle of the busy sidewalk, my hands on my knees, and felt the night air fill my lungs. I was alive.

Session three:

The rain was coming down in sheets. I could hardly see. By the time I reached the blue door, the water was dripping from my eyelashes. I left a trail of small puddles on each step as I made my way up the stairs. I wore my favourite pants, blue flares. They turned a deeper, darker blue when wet. He picked up his pen and notepad. I began to pace. I rambled about dark dreams. I wanted to talk. I wanted to collaborate. Why wouldn't the words come out? He chewed the top of his pen while watching me. He offered me a towel. And then he offered me more than that. And I greedily took it all. It was still raining when I left. A light mist now. I decided to take the bus.

***

The Therapist

Session one:

She looks younger than the age she wrote on her intake form, a gamine look to her. Shy and not making much eye contact, she seems to float to the couch, hovering gently above it. I stay very still. Concerned. Watching carefully. I want to hear her speak. I worry I’ll spook her if I'm too forward. I probe gently and she starts to look flushed. She begins to stutter and stammer through what brings her into my office. An interesting presentation. A sense of care rises inside me. I feel for her. Our time, over too soon. I swivel on my chair as I lean over my desk to write some notes. I tip slightly backwards, face to the ceiling, and close my eyes.

Session two:

She arrives three minutes early, bringing the smell of the outside with her. She still doesn’t make much eye contact. Do I sense some fear there? I can help alleviate that. Maybe there will be more words today. Can I get her to open up? I ask her about what happened in the bookstore. When I look away, out of the corner of my eye I can see her staring at me. She has large eyes. Like a calf. I don't want to startle her. I watch her left foot, toes pressed into the ground, her right foot flexed like she's ready to run. I stay very still. Where does she want to go? Out of nowhere, a peal of laughter. An unexpected sound. I expect tears or anger, not this. Momentarily taken aback, I pause and wait. A curious turn of events. At the end of the session, she bolts from the room so fast I feel the hairs on my head fall into my face with her momentum. Curioser and curioser. This girlchild.

Session three:

It's Friday afternoon again. She's dripping rainwater on the wooden floor. I offer her a towel from my gym bag to dry off. She takes it. Grateful. Once she dries off, she paces in front of me. I watch her. I remind myself: no sudden movements. I can help her. There is something in her that I recognise. She takes all the warmth I offer her, like she's starving. When she has taken her fill, I release her and watch as she leaves. She doesn't turn around. I pick up the towel and stuff it back in my bag. I think I helped her.

About the Author

Sarah is a writer from Cork, Ireland, now living in Vancouver. Her work has appeared in The Closed Eye Open, 50-Word Stories, Bending Genres, Ivo Review, The Piker Press, Wingless Dreamer, and Prosetrics with forthcoming work in Wordrunner, Halfway down the Stairs, and Fish Girl Collective.