Weird Client Session

The next morning is a Monday, and I wake up confused. Things feel more normal, but also… not. I get dressed slowly. Black leggings and a cozy grey sweater. Also, a sense of black dissolving, at the edge of my mind. I gather my things together, put them into my leather purse. Phone. Wallet. Keys. Water bottle. I grab an oversized scarf and wrap it around my neck. Boots. The ground feels like it’s tilted in a direction, but I can’t tell if it’s forwards or backwards. Or to the side. It’s cold outside, compared to previous days. Sixty degrees Fahrenheit, maybe. Which would be fifteen degrees Celsius. The coldness becomes part of the dissolving, like little ice crystals turning into water drops at the periphery.

I get into my car to drive to work. I’m still moving slowly, as if I’m not sure of the reality around me. Whatever that was yesterday, it definitely upset my sense of realness. Things feel unsolid, ephemeral. I get to my office, glad to be able to put my butt in a chair. My client this morning is a guy named Will, who is in his early twenties and struggling with depression. He arrives a few minutes late. “Hi Leia”, he greets me. “Hi Will!” I echo warmly. My voice sounds strange in my ears. The warmth sounds tinny, like a tiny robot speaking far away. 

“How are you doing today?” I ask Will. It’s strange that we ask that question. Formulaic. Strange how much of our daily lives is lived through little formulas. “I’m okay” Will says. Okay, with Will, usually means not so great. “What’s going on?” I ask. He shrugs. “I don’t know. Just… tired.” As he speaks I can feel what he means. The tiredness is like a big grey cloud around his head, a dense, fog-like substance that moves less than the air around it. Somehow I’d never noticed that. I shake my head, as if to shake off the fog. I really must still be feeling a little weird from yesterday. The fog has a quality that draws you in. As I pay attention to it I notice that it has little black tendrils, pervading it. They seem rather unpleasant. Like they’d hurt you if you touched them. 

I shake my head again, and continue with my therapist script. “How has your week been, Will?” He pauses, as if my words have to first find their way through the fog before he can interact with them. “It’s been… okay”, he says again. The words come slowly, almost like he is a little confused by the question. Like the fog is confusing him, making him slow. I can feel the effort it must take to move words through this fog. Like one would need to use one’s facial muscles to generate enough force to push anything outwards. I can tell that Will wants to, that he wants to connect to the world around him. It’s just somehow too hard with that fog there.

“How is your mom doing?” I ask Will. His mom has cancer and treatment has been rough. “Not so great”, he answers. The fog becomes a little denser, its grey color a little darker. “How do you feel about it?” I continue to probe, almost on autopilot. My impression had previously been that the depression is connected to his mom’s illness. It started around the time she got sick. As he starts telling me more details I watch the black tendrils swirl around. They move at different speeds, the ones to the front are faster than the ones around the back of his head. And denser. The tendrils scare me a little. Like there is something hidden inside that fog that shouldn’t come out. A dangerous knowledge, that we’re not ready for. “…And then she said she was okay. But I could tell she wasn’t really okay.” I snap back to what Will is saying. I’m really usually not this distractible. “Why do you think she said that?” I ask, buying myself some time to catch up to what he has been saying. 

In the background, in my mind, things have started dissolving again. It’s hard to form coherent thoughts, to live up to what my role requires. It’s hard to do anything but watch Will’s fog and the tendrils swirling in it. Something about them is hypnotic, like it won’t let you go. Will is talking a little more animately now, even though I’m barely following. “…It’s like she doesn’t really acknowledge that she’s sick.” I nod, trying to get my wits together, to say something insightful in response. The moments pass, and my mind generates a whole lot of nothing. A whole lot of dissolving. Will continues. 

The session ends, and Will leaves my office. He seems marginally more chipper, which is good. I barely remember what happened though. Part of me worries about my next session. Another part of me simply sags in the chair, feeling relief that I’ve made it this far. Yet another part idly worries that I might be losing it. The dissolving has slowed a little and now feels almost pleasant.