Monday was flying by, and I wasn't sure how I felt about it. Some days, it felt as if the world was barely turning, and every movement made was as difficult as walking through quicksand. Sinking lower and lower with each step toward a goal I no longer recognized. Hand outstretched and thinking, if I just, if I could, if I… but I never could grasp it.
Other moments felt as if everything was rushing by around me as I stood frozen in a singular moment. The world carried on impervious to my pain. Why didn't the world feel this crushing despair the same way I did? Wasn't it obvious? Life shouldn't continue for anyone else when my world had ended. It only seemed fair that everyone else waited, it was selfish actually for them to carry on.
Or maybe I was the selfish one for wanting others to feel this debilitating grief and sadness with me?
Some days, I could recognize it wasn't fair of me to expect that, and others, I couldn't care less as I floated adrift, lost in the sea of misery.
Today felt in-between. It was flying by, but I didn't feel as stuck in the same spot as usual. For once, I was moving forward, albeit slowly, but I was advancing. This new sensation, this foreign concept, it was the thing that had thrown me. Why now? What changed?
"Loren, your 4 pm is here," Doris pronounced, breaking me from the stare-off with the wall I was having.
"Thank you, Doris," I muttered, trying to ground myself back into the present. Her soft smile hinted at knowing I'd been far away but too kind to point it out. Such a sweetie that Doris.
Putting down the pen I was holding, I stood and straightened my dress. I wasn't sure what possessed me this morning to wear a dress, but something about it had called to me. Memories of the other night in the club flashed through my head, temporarily sending a rush of heat through my body. Now was not the time to be pulling those memories up. Shoving them down into the dark recess of my mind, I made my way to the lobby.
Opening the door, I found Imogen sitting in the same chair as last week, but she was alone this time. Well, alone was debatable, as I expected the massive man in a suit who stood in the exact corner her brother had was for her. I was becoming more and more curious about this family. The man eyed me, and something about him flitted across my mind in recognition, but Imogen stood and made her way toward me before I could think about it for too long.
"Hello, Imogen," I greeted, warmth filling my voice. Her posture relaxed some, and I felt assured, sensing she appeared comfortable in my presence at least. I could be a fuck-up in my own life, but I put everything I had into helping my clients. It might be a weird form of masochism, but at this point, it was all I had going for me. I wasn't sure if that was just sad or noble.
"You can call me Immy," her quiet voice replied.
Though her voice was low, I could hear the strength resonating in it this time, giving me hope. We made our way into my office, and she chose the same seat as the last time on the couch. Taking my seat across from her, I gauged how she was doing based on what she was presenting. Imogen was sitting back against the sofa this time, arms down by her side and picking at a piece of string on her jeans. Her hair wasn't as much in her face, and she was looking up from time to time instead of hiding herself completely. Overall, I'd say Imogen appeared more open and accepting based on her body language.
"How was your weekend, Immy? Did you do anything fun?"
"I, uh, I went to a new sushi place, Sushi Roll, with my brother."
"Oh, that sounds yummy. Was it good?"
"Yeah, it was, actually," she smiled, recalling the memory.
To help ease conversation, I proposed a game I had for therapy to present different conversation starters. Imogen was interested, so we took turns answering them. Rapport building was the hardest part of therapy at times. If people couldn't trust you, they would never tell you the things really going on or listen to what you had to offer.
If I started too intensely, or demanded answers too soon, it formed a barrier between us, or worse, causing them not to return. Creating a safe environment and therapeutic relationship made it possible to challenge clients later, allowing them to believe in the process. I'd found that the cards made them feel relaxed and not put on the spot, creating an organic conversation flow. People shared things more freely than if you were to ask a direct question.
"Have you ever wanted to go to public school?" I asked, lifting the card off the table.
"Not really. I mean, there are some things I wonder about, like the stuff I see in movies or read. But the flip side is I also see bullying, and I don't really stand for that, so I think that aspect would be hard for me. I'd end up in the principal's office all the time or worse, turn into a heinous mean girl cheerleader," she chuckled.
"Would you believe I was a high school cheerleader?"
She looked at me quizzically, trying to put two and two together. It was funny watching her as she worked this out for herself. There was a little fear, too, from her statement that I might take offense to her comment.
"Nope, don't see it. You're just so… nice."
Laughing, I thought to myself how easy it would be if we were all some archetype from a book or movie. At least then you knew your motivation and the choices to make—took out all the guessing.
"Well, thank you for that. But I was, in fact, a cheerleader," I chuckled, the shock on her face making me laugh even more. "I was also on the debate team and a hundred other clubs. I was what you call an overachiever."
"I can relate to that. My dad… well, he um," she swallowed and cast her eyes down, gathering herself before she continued. "He has, or had, very high expectations. He pushed me to do things that I loved, but it only caused me to hate doing them in the end. Does that make sense?" Immy asked hesitantly as she peered up at me.
"Total sense. Sometimes, the expectation of others can suck out all the pure joy from something. I realized only yesterday how true that was in my own life. I stopped doing something from my teen years because it didn't fit my mother's plan unless I became a prodigy at it. When there's that much pressure pushing down on you, it feels hard to breathe, much less enjoyable," I admitted more honestly than I meant.
"Yeah, that's it. I've always loved the piano. Ever since I can remember, I would sit down and just play. I would make up my own songs and stories, not really caring how it sounded. It was just fun. Once my father clued in and saw my 'potential', well, that's when it started to become something I hated. I haven't played in six months, but lately… lately, I've been wondering if it would be different now, you know." Immy searched my eyes, looking for an answer to absolve her of some pain.
"How would it be different?" I asked delicately. I had a feeling this was connected to whatever had happened.
"Because he's gone, and I won't ever let him hurt me again."