Afternoon Eighteen

I am sitting in this hall again, making notes. An elderly woman comes up to me and says, “I could write that fast too. Back in my day, I worked at a job where I had to type blindfolded. That’s a good skill for young people nowadays with computers. Good luck with your writing,” she told me, and then she left.

I feel better since yesterday. What happened yesterday? It was a day full of therapies. In group therapy, we talked about how important it is to have a social circle. We also discussed how many people are around us, what roles they play in our lives, how close they are to our hearts, and what benefits or harm they bring to us. This made me feel two feelings: gratitude and sadness.

Gratitude for having my family so close to my heart, something I didn’t realize before. My perception of family is limited to my siblings. I felt special gratitude for the sister who moved in with me without hesitation after learning that I had thoughts of ending my life. Moving in is an understatement. She now lives in my appartment, while I am in the clinic… but when I am allowed to go home to practice daily activities and gradually get used to the stress again, she is always there, creating a safe and caring environment.

Sadness, because this exercise also reminded me of how my friends left me alone in front of my demons. How my sense of loneliness began and living alone with depression started. It was hard for them to listen to me, to bear my feelings, and they turned their backs on me. I lost the feeling of belonging to their group, felt excluded, and my pain grew. Not everyone can be a friend in times of trouble. It’s true that a friend is tested in hardship. Only a few friends passed this test. They will remain in the close circle the therapist had me draw around myself on paper.

After these ambivalent feelings, I went into an individual session. That’s where everything started again. The therapist mentioned my father, I mentioned death, which led to “premonition of imminent death,” “family without me,” “closeness to death,” “fear, disgust, hatred,” “love, longing,” “being left alone,” “unmet needs of the inner child and disappointment,” “my father again” and that’s where it started again… My brain squeezed, my body lost strength, the therapist’s figure stretched in my eyes, the background blurred, and my breathing decreased… another new dissociation episode… and here came another new hell. Tears brought it out, and my body froze…

After that, I remember going home and sleeping. I feel better since yesterday… How long will it last like this?…

I hear the sound of a cello from the next room. Another patient here is playing the cello. He is a musician. He is doing self-therapy with music. He practices scales and plays pieces. He spreads hope, the hope of doing something and stopping being a stone. He is Spanish. He has blond hair and is tall. He seems cheerful and open when this illness isn’t affecting him. He lost two beloved dogs and his father in one year.

He has distanced himself from his mother and sister for his own well-being. What does that mean? I don’t know, I haven’t asked. Here, we fellow patients take care of each other by not sharing our traumas and by conserving information. We are cautious with each other, but he clearly said he has no friends or family in Germany. He’s been here for only a year, and he has spent the last few months in a psychiatric clinic. I don’t know if his remaining family knows about his situation… Where does he find solace? Where does he find hope? What is his reason for waking up in the morning? I don’t know that either, I haven’t asked…

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