Work Text:
Interlude: What’s Inside
“Have you ever been in therapy before, Matt?” Dr. Plant asked, her tone calm, her voice soft. Matt hesitates before responding, thinking back all those years.
“When I was a kid. After the accident, and then again after my dad…” He tapers off, not wanting to touch the still raw place where his father used to be. The momentary silence was, for once, not uncomfortable so much as comforting, Matt thought.
“Did therapy help? Can you remember?” Matt thought about it, the series of counselors in and out of the hospital, the trauma experts and adjustment experts and expert experts, the blur of coping skills and new ways of thinking and realized that he couldn’t remember any of their names, that parade of therapists and counselors.
“I don’t remember much about it. I don’t remember what I was taught, if that’s what you mean. It was irritating, at the time, being told not to think about what I didn’t have, to focus on what I had, what I could do, when everything I knew was gone. Both times, when I lost my vision, and when my dad died.”
“So it sounds to me as though you don’t have particularly good memories about therapy, Matt. Does that seem right?” Matt nodded softly. “Can you tell me more about what brought you in to therapy now?” Matt could hear Dr. Plant shifting in her chair, leaning forward a bit.
“I can’t sleep. I lay awake, trying to sleep for hours sometimes. When I do get to sleep, I toss and turn and when I get up in the morning, I feel like I never went to bed at all. Some days I lay in my bed trying to decide if there is even a reason to get up.” The sound of a pen scratching against paper caught Matts attention.
“Do you mind if I take some notes, Matt? I want to remember the things that sound important that we might want to go back to.”
“No, go ahead” Matt replied, leaning forward a little in his chair.
“How long has this been going on?
“A few weeks, I guess. I never really felt like I needed a lot of sleep before, but I have been so tired lately, and when I try and get some rest, get a full night’s sleep, I just can’t.” Matt sighed, hands clasped between his knees. “I try, and I wish I could just get some rest so that I can just get back to normal.”
“What about your thoughts, when you are trying to sleep? What are you thinking about?”
“Everything. My day, conversations I’ve had, things I did, or didn’t do… My head is just full.”
“Do you feel like the thoughts are racing, Matt?”
“Like, going really fast? Yeah, kind of. But not always. When there are a lot of things, not as much as when it is the same thought or set of thoughts over and over again. That goes faster, if that makes sense.”
“It does, and I have had other clients tell me something similar. What does your body feel like, after nights when you can’t sleep, Matt?”
“Heavy. Unsteady. Like I can barely hold my head up.” Matt sat back, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I feel weak.”
“Are there times you don’t feel weak, Matt? Times when you don’t feel tired, or heavy?”
“Yes” Matt replied, quietly.
“What do you feel like in those times, Matt?”
“Angry. Mostly angry. But I’m not tired, and I can focus, and get things done. I never used to feel tired like this, Dr. Plant. I don’t get it.”
“Do you know anything about any history of similar episodes in your family history, Matt? Did your father seem angry, or have mood swings that didn’t seem to be based on whatever was going on around him?”
“My father was a boxer. I’m pretty sure there has to be some anger in there on some level to fight for a living. But he was never angry with me that I can remember. I don’t really know anything about my mother, though. I never knew her.”
“Are any of your thoughts ever about hurting yourself, Matt? When you are angry, or when you are having trouble sleeping?” The sound of the pen had stopped, the room silent but for the deep breathing of the therapist and Matt. The silence held for a few moments as Matt considered how to answer the question.
“Suicide is a sin, Dr. Plant. A Mortal Sin.” He shook his head softly. “Self-harm is a sin, as well, really.”
“That doesn’t really answer the question, though, does it, Matt?”
“I suppose not.” He sat quietly, thinking carefully about his next words. “I would never consider actively ending my life, planning and carrying out a course of action that ended in my own death deliberately. But I think, sometimes, about how the lives of those closest to me would be simplified if I were dead, if they were relieved of the burden that my life represents. And I would not step aside or avoid being in harm’s way if it meant I was protecting someone else. That’s how I lost my sight. And I would do it again, even knowing that I would be blinded.”
Dr. Plant was slow to respond. Matt could hear her deep breaths, and then the quiet scratch of the pen making marks on the paper, like checking a box or circling something, rather than writing out words. Finally, she spoke.
“I think I understand what you are saying, Matt. So, I have a question for you. There is a word that you seem to be avoiding, and I am wondering why. Is there something wrong with calling what you are feeling right now depression, Matt?”
“I don’t think… I mean…” Matt stumbled over the words.
“You’re a smart guy, Matt. I’d be willing to bet that you did your research before you came in today. Went online, looked up reliable websites, listed your symptoms, or at least the stuff you recognized as symptoms. You probably read up on diagnostic criteria, possibly even types of treatment. You might even have looked up commonly prescribed medications for insomnia, or depression, side-effects, efficacy, the works.” She waited for a denial, for some correction of her assumption, but heard nothing. Matt sat in silence. “So I have to ask you, then, what makes you hesitate to call it depression, Matt?”
“I have to believe that I am stronger than that” Matt whispered. “There is too much in my life that I have to be strong for. I can’t afford that kind of weakness.” Matt straightened up in his chair, pushing his shoulders back into the cushion. “I have responsibilities, obligations. Things I can’t fail at. Things that only I can do.”
“What kind of things, Matt?”
Matt hesitated, listening as Dr. Plant wrote, trying to figure out just how he had gotten backed into this corner. “Just… things. I don’t really want to talk about that stuff right now, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine, Matt. Can we talk about what you are hoping to get out of therapy, instead?” Dr. Plant moved on smoothly, although Matt could hear the scratch of the pen taking furious notes.
“I want to find a way to control what’s inside me. My moods, my sleep, everything that throws me off the top of my game.”
“Does that include your emotions, Matt?” Dr. Plant asked.
“Oh, especially my emotions. Especially those.” Matt thought he could hear Dr. Plant nod as she turned to a new page in her notebook.
“Well then why don’t we start there…”