Page 37 of Be Your Somebody
Dr. Z blinks a few times before softly chuckling. “Being a mental health professional doesn’t mean I’m free from my own issues. I mean, who would want a therapist that’s perfect?” she asked. I never thought about it that way. If my therapist were perfect with no problems, I probably wouldn’t talk to them.Not that I would talk to this therapist, I thought. Coming to therapy was just a one-time deal then I’d be back to pretending my problems didn’t exist.
“Okay, so today is more about me asking what feels like very intrusive questions. You don’t have to disclose everything, only what you’re comfortable with. I need as many answers as you can manage, but a little summary is fine if it’s too much. So first, let’s talk about how you are feeling right now and what brought you in to see me.”
I sat there for an eternity as I pondered her questions. My first reaction was to lie, but that felt counterproductive. If I’m honest, though, that meant admitting there was a problem with me. Either option felt like a loss, but waking up in a cold sweat panicking was getting old. I took a deep breath in and swallowed my pride. Then I told her about not knowing how I felt. As I went into why I was there, she asked more invasive questions.
“That has to be such a scary feeling waking up in a panic. Can you tell me more about the symptoms you’re experiencing?” she asked. But before I could answer, I was distracted by her pulling out a notepad.
“What are you doing with that notepad?” She must have heard the terror in my voice because she reassured me.
“This is just for me to take notes on what you tell me today so that I can remember what you told me later. I only take notes when I find it’s important for me to remember something or when gathering key information. I then transfer all of my notes to a password-protected document right before shredding the physical copies. If you need reassurance, my shredder is in the corner over there.” Dr. Z nodded her head in the direction and my eyes followed toward the small, black, box-like object.
“Does that ease some of your anxiety?” I nodded my head and continued to answer all her questions. It wasn’t until we got on the topics of substance use and family that my heart began to race and my face felt too hot.
The room began to disintegrate before me. The sound of Dr. Z’s voice slowly faded into the background before I was transported to that same scene I had in my grandparents’ kitchen. I was unaware of how long I was in that alternate universe, but Dr. Z’s calm, buttery voice pulled me back.
“Cassidy? Are you with me?” I blinked rapidly and found myself in the same four walls I had walked into earlier. “What are five things you see in this room?” I looked at her hesitantly, but obliged. I mentioned the green walls, diffuser, brown chairs, dark brown door, and a little clock next to the diffuser. She then has me tell her four things I can touch, three things I can hear, two things I can smell, and one thing I can taste. Before I realized what was happening, my heart rate slowed down and I was back in her office again.
“What you just experienced is a flashback,” she stated and began to educate me on what they are and why they exist.
“Flashbacks? Are you telling me that was what I’ve been experiencing every morning?” She nodded at me, and her next words stopped me cold.
“Yes, I believe so. They are one of the many symptoms of PTSD.”
“PTSD? But I’m not a war vet, so I’m not sure how I could have that,” I said, completely baffled.
“PTSDcomes from any significant traumatic experience. Flashbacks are a way of remembering that experience.”
“But I don't remember anything that bad ever happening to me. In these ‘flashbacks,’ the place I’m in seemed familiar. I’m only able to catch quick glimpses, never the full picture before I wake up in a panic.”
“That can happen, too. Our body stores our trauma and protects us until we’re ready to deal with it. Oftentimes, we tend to block out difficult feelings due to their uncomfortability. What have you done to cope with intense feelings when they come?” she asked.
“I, well, I…” I hesitated. A part of me still felt shame at my upbringing, but fuck it. If I’m to get any better, I need to share it all. The good, the bad and the ugly. I took a deep breath before letting Dr. Z know about my abusive childhood with my father, Frank, and how it got so bad that my maternal grandparents stepped in and took me under their care. I’d shared it all, even the shit about me turning out like my father in regards to being an addict. I’m out of breath and exhausted from divulging everything to her. My hands fidgeted in my lap, my eyes remained downcast, afraid to look up. Her silence felt deafening, and even though it was brief, it felt like it went on for eternity.
“Okay, so it seems that substances were used as a distraction skill to avoid feelings. You’re currently sober now?” I nodded and she continued. “Now that you have taken away your only coping skill, everything’s emerging tenfold. I think if we continue to work together, this trauma that’s been so stuffed down will resurface. We can then begin to understand what’s been going on.” She continued her questioning and I was drained by the end of the session.
“So that’s our time for today. I think that weekly appointments might be helpful for you right now, does the same time next week work for you?” I took a couple of minutes to think about my answer. On the one hand, I wanted to just go to therapy just to say I did it and move on, but, on the other hand, something was telling me that Dr. Z was how I would get answers. Following in my father's footsteps was no longer desirable to me, so I nodded my head.
“Yes, that works for me. I’ll see you next week.” I’m unsure how I made it home, but I was out like a light the second my head hit the pillow.
Present day
Cas’s therapy appointment
It’s been a couple of months since that first session, and honestly, most times, I look forward to seeing Dr. Z. But today, I’m incredibly grateful. I need answers. We begin with our typical weekly check-in before she asks me what I want to focus on today. I explain the feelings I have been experiencing as she nods along empathetically, this time choosing not to take her notes.
“And today, I am supposed to feel happy and excited because, well, remember when I talked about Avery?” When she nods, I continue. “We’re going on our first date later today.”
“How exciting. I see why you’re supposed to feel excited and happy. You’ve been waiting a while for Avery, haven't you?” I nod and she asks her next question. “It must be frustrating feeling so disconnected. Tell me, have you had any more flashbacks this past week?” I nod.
“Yes. And I’m not sure if the flashbacks are getting worse or better. They’ve been happening almost every day. And now, there’s also a little boy who looks strangely familiar. He’s scared and alone, and I don’t know why, but I feel scared and alone, too. It is the most bizarre experience ever. Is this making any sense?” I ask her.
“Actually, yes, and it looks like there are some confused feelings, as well. I think that’s a natural emotion, given what you seem to be dreaming about. I have a thought I would like to share, but it might be possibly triggering. Remember, at any point, if you need a break to collect yourself, all you have to do is ask. Are you okay if I share my thoughts?” I nod once, hoping to hide the terror over what she’s about to say. Of course, she picked up on my feelings because she’s that good.
“Before I continue, let’s take a few of our four-six-five deep breaths. In for four, hold for six, and out for five. As you’re doing that, let’s say to ourselvesI am not my anxiety nor my trauma. Anxiety doesn’t meanI’m broken, it means I’m a warrior. I think five of these will be helpful, but if you need more, let me know.”
My relationship with my anxiety has come a long way. Something I used to hate with every fiber of my being is now something I’ve learned to embrace. Some days are easier said than done and Avery is a huge reason for the shift in thinking. As someone who struggled with it her whole life, I realized the more I hate that part of myself, the more I hate that part of her. And hating any part of her doesn’t sit well with me. So yeah, I have anxiety and PTSD. Some days are easier than others to accept that, but I’m a work in progress and my healing is a journey not a destination. Ever since the topic of anxiety came up in therapy, guilt has weighed heavy on my chest. I need to apologize to Avery for all the hurtful things I said. I need to own up to the things I made her believe with my cruel words. But every time I find the courage, my voice stops working and it feels like I’m on the verge of a panic attack. I know I’ll have to have this conversation soon because if I want a future with her, I have to atone for the mistakes of my past.
We breathe together, and after the last four-six-five breaths, I feel calmer and let her know she can continue. “Okay, so with what you’ve shared so far, both verbally and with your journal, I’m wondering if, in this most recent flashback, the little boy you are seeing is actually you.”
