Right when it seems we are getting somewhere is when the time is up. This is how I usually feel in a talk therapy session. I can feel it just before my therapist ends the hour. It is uncomfortable.

Yesterday I called it before he did.

“The time is up right?”

Right before then I was processing something that felt life altering. His words had left little bits of ‘me’ scattered about the floor around me. The weight of my head became too heavy to hold up. My torso sloped down. I rested my elbows on my quads.

“Do you have something to say about the time being up?”

I told him the paradox.

He mentioned that he saw me writing in my journal earlier while waiting in the lobby.

“That could be a good way to continue a session outside of here.”

I had arrived 20 minutes early and did not realize he had seen me sitting in the lobby. It felt strange to be observed outside of the session. I thought everything began and ended at his office door.

I observed for the first time since he had moved to a new office that his door marker now says “Chief Resident.” I wanted to congratulate him. He was in an office with a window and a couch now.

But I was quiet and followed the rules. I sat down and we began.

psychotherapy-chair-vintage

At the end of the session I was dizzy and disoriented. I walked out of his office dropping my eyes from contact. I did not know who I was anymore.

I watched someone called me exchange a ‘how are you’’ with the lovely man at the front desk who reminds me of my great uncles.

I landed on a park bench near the World Bank facing a fountain. I pulled out my journal and began scribbling. I reviewed old scenes, made lists, and posed questions.

I guess this is what change feels like. We walk between and among the selves. We time travel and bring resources from the future to the past. We find clarity in the present.

On that park bench I also wrote this poem:

Therapy brain

Dizzy

My head becomes an anvil

Feels like my world is ending

Because it is

The outside stops and becomes a blur

Internal internal

Something breaks open

Sunlight enters

The questions keep coming

But the conveyor belt slows

And dizziness gives way to cooling embers

Life is a struggle

It is the struggle

The puzzles live forever

But there is sunlight we can swallow

I closed my notebook and walked towards the gym. I still felt like a compost heap, but I was back in my body, and I could feel the turning of new soil.