Chapter 23
Cassidy
Therapy is lifesaving
Today is my first date with Avery. Instead of excitement filling my body, I feel disconnected.
It’s as if I’m watching my body from afar.
Why does this have to happen today, of all days?
My phone pings with a reminder to leave for my therapy session in twenty minutes.
Maybe Dr. Z can help me figure out what the hell is going on during therapy today.
I’m in a daze driving to therapy as my thoughts drift back to my first session.
First Therapy Session
I didn’t want to be here. A therapist wasn’t going to help me.
I was too damaged. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting as I walked into the building, but it wasn’t this.
The waiting room consisted of two overstuffed, chocolatey-brown chairs with a wooden coffee table in the same color directly in front.
As soon as I sat down, the couch completely enveloped me, almost like it was trying to tell me I was safe.
The walls were a soft white or cream color, I couldn’t tell from the dim lighting.
Soft meditation music drifted through the speakers, bathing me in a tranquility that helped regulate my breathing.
The peacefulness of the space threatened to lull me to sleep, but the door opened and out walked a woman.
She seemed to be in her mid-thirties with wavy brown hair and eyes so blue they were almost transparent.
Her smile was warm and genuine. Before my brain could process what it was doing, I was on my feet.
“Hello, you must be Cassidy. My name is Dr. Z,” she said, reaching out her hand. When my hand grasped hers, the remaining tension I had held in my body melted out of me.
“Hi,” was all I managed to get out.
“If you’re ready, you can follow me,” she said.
Dr. Z gave me the choice to enter the room or leave.
I nodded my head and followed her into the room she’d gestured to.
Her office had hunter-green walls with random quotes scattered across them and two velvety, dark brown chairs that looked soft and inviting.
An oil diffuser sat in the corner and next to it a basket that I assumed held every oil imaginable.
The therapist must have caught me looking, because she spoke. “Feel free to get up and pick a scent or two. I have a booklet in the little drawer underneath if you want a specific scent combination.” Her voice was as smooth as butter with undertones of patience and understanding.
I flipped through the booklet and noticed various combinations, from relaxation to sleep to memory enhancer and, finally, anxiety relief.
After mixing the proper drops into the diffuser, I turned it on and allowed the smells to hit my senses.
Who knew the combination of lavender, roman chamomile, and clove would be relaxing?
I sat back down, ready to get this session over with.
“So, have you been to therapy before?” she asked.
“Yeah, during my treatment last year, but that was for my addiction issues. I've never really focused on my mental health before,” I replied.
She nodded her head and continued. “That's great that you took the opportunity to heal. I know this can be intimidating. The fact that you showed up today is huge. Our first session will be mostly information gathering so I can help find the proper diagnosis and treatment plan for you.”
“Diagnosis?” I panicked. “I thought I was just coming here to talk. Why do you need to diagnose me? People will think I'm crazy,” I stammered while looking for my exit.
“Mental health is nothing to be ashamed about. It’s more common than most like to believe it is. I have had my own battles with mental health,” Dr. Z tried to reassure me, but it confused me instead.
“You have mental health battles? How is that possible? You’re a therapist. You aren’t supposed to have problems,” I said, completely dumbfounded.
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.
“PTSD comes 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.