I'm Just Fine

I had no idea that answering my brother-in-law's question would lead me to a windowless waiting room. He simply wanted to know if I was getting any counseling or therapy. His question was simple. So was my answer. “I’m not getting any.” I responded with a note of pride in my voice.  The look on his face told it all.  He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Thus began a half-hour discussion about seeking professional help (which I didn't need) and its benefits (which I also didn't need).  “I am doing fine, really.”

Dr. Bower’s waiting room was the typical, off-white room with soft chairs, soft music, green plants, and an assortment of magazines.  Although typical in most ways, at least this room’s magazines weren't typical.They were current.  So, as I sat there trying to concentrate on the latest Hollywood gossip about people I had never heard of, I still wondered what I was doing in a therapist's office. In my mind, psychiatrist and other mental health professionals deal with mentally ill, insane, suicidal, addicted, and severely depressed people.  As for me, I was none of those.  I was just fine.

Within a few minutes a pleasant woman opened the waiting room door, called my name, introduced herself as the doctor, and ushered me into the inner sanctum containing unexplored realms of the unknown which were trying to stare me down, get me to blink, and make me doubt my decision to even come.

Our first session was just introductory.  I related quite precisely and unemotionally that my husband of 45 years had molested our grand-daughters and was serving 10 years to life in a Washington State prison. I told her what I had gone through up to that point, and then told her I wasn't sure I really needed to be there because I wasn't psychotic, schizophrenic, or depressed. I was just fine.

Dr. Bowers gently asked me questions about my feelings. What feelings? I was a little ticked off. I was a little sad, but that was it. Besides, I have never been an overtly emotional person. What more did she want or even need? I didn't really want to think about what I felt. If I didn't feel anything, I didn't want to go looking for anything to feel.

To help me explore those places I didn't want to explore, my first assignment consisted of drawing a self-portrait, and writing about lost hopes and dreams.  Drawing a self-portrait, although somewhat childish in my mind, was the easier of the two. I like to draw.  I had also just begun a water color class, so I could experiment with paint. So that is where I started.

My resulting picture was surprisingly more than a children’s drawing.  I had drawn my heart and my mind  in ways I could  never have imagined.  My glasses, graying hair, and slightly overweight frame were the easy parts to draw.  But before I knew it, I was drawing a heart wrapped in barbed wire. There were drops of blood oozing from the punctures and running down the side, but one end of the wire was beginning to come loose.  I had discovered that I was indeed in pain.  Maybe I wasn't just fine. 

What I drew about my mind was also interesting and revealing.  I filled it with a row of filing cabinets that were in disarray.  Drawers that had once been well maintained and organized were now dumped on the floor, their contents strewn asunder. I no longer knew what belonged where.  My world had been turned upside down.  I was confused.  No, I definitely was not fine. I was in need of an aid car.

Thankfully, my entire drawing was not dark. In the top right corner of my paper I drew a circle which included playing children, green grass, colorful flowers and singing birds.  This was my light at the end of my tunnel.  It was my image of what brought joy into my world of pain and confusion.  Ah joy. I had found one more emotion.