The buildings in downtown Cheyenne all have their own names, and long-time residents expect everyone to know those names. Clara’s directions started with, “My office is on the second floor of the Majestic Building.”
“I’ve no idea which building is the Majestic.”
“It’s one of the old buildings on Capitol, across from the Union Pacific building.”
“Sorry, still doesn’t scan.”
“If you come in from East Lincolnway, look to your immediate right after you turn onto Capital Avenue. It’s easy to find, I promise.”
I headed out the door, unsure I’d be able to find this Majestic Building, and scarcely brave enough to try. The night was pitch dark, and it was so cold the inside of my nose froze with my first breath. Our next-door neighbor was shrieking obscenities at his dogs. Maybe he believed his neighbors couldn’t hear him hollering inside his tin-and-cardboard trailer. Maybe he didn’t care. I should have been inured to his nightly tantrums, but his shouts made the outside world feel even more unsafe.
The interior of our blue ’76 Cadillac seemed even colder than outside, and the ratty fabric seat whisked the heat from my back and thighs on contact. To add insult to injury, the defroster was broken, so I had to drive with the windows cracked to keep the windshield from fogging up. By the time I found Capital Avenue I felt frozen and battered, and wanted to give up and go home when I saw the street was packed with cars. I’d have to hike a couple blocks in the icy darkness. Only the knowledge that I’d never muster the courage to call this therapist again if I stood her up tonight kept me moving forward. I found a spot to park, and set out.
“I’m a mammal, I'm a mammal, I'm a mammal,” I chanted to myself as the deadly wind scythed through the zipper of my coat. “Mammals are designed to survive in freezing weather. I’ll be fine.” My pep talk didn’t make me feel any better.
The Majestic Building was close to the corner of Capital and Lincolnway, just as Clara had promised. A touristy nameplate hung over the sidewalk, and the name was repeated in gold letters over the door. The grand tiled foyer with its art-deco-style moldings and marble wainscoting boasted of turn-of-the-20th-century construction. The ancient elevator had a sign on it that read, “Closed for the evening,” and it looked as old as the building. I smiled and patted the ornate brass and copper cage that surrounded the lift as I walked past.
The building itself was so charming I could feel my anxiety drain away. I admired the thick wooden stairs, the transom windows over the office doors; I’d wandered into a 1930’s detective novel.
The therapist’s office was easy to find, right at the top of the stairs, and I could see through the toy-cluttered lobby into her office. She rose from her chair when she saw me, and hurried to shake hands; her hand was even colder than mine. “I’m Clara,” she said. “You must be Heather.”
That’s me,” I replied. “Heather.” Having exhausted my stash of repartee, I studied my new acquaintance. Clara wore her medium-length blonde hair in a no-nonsense bob, and looked casually professional in a scarf and cashmere sweater. Her body language conveyed nothing but friendly respect. I was impressed; no lies here.
When we sat down and she didn’t reach for a notebook, I was even more impressed. Therapists with notebooks were suspect. How could anyone promise confidentiality, and deliver on that promise, if they wrote down everything and chucked the notebook in a desk drawer?
A stuffed toy posed on a side table caught my eye. It was a lynx, and a tiny lynx kitten dangled from its jaws. Its crooked ears, scruffy fur and expression of earnest confusion struck a chord in me. I identified with that lynx. I, too, was a mess, but a mess who wanted to be a good mom, and did the best she could.
I wanted to get started with Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy, but Clara wanted to chat. So I told her about the Monsters in the Dark memory that led me to the psychiatrist, and about hearing children’s voices in my head. I told her I might be schizophrenic. The psychiatrist might have missed it because he didn’t know about the voices; I didn’t choose to mention them. Maybe everything I’d experienced was symptomatic, and none of my memories of the abuse were real. She was skeptical of my self-diagnosis.
“Before we can do EMDR,” Clara explained, “we need a few basic tools in place. For example, you need to be able to visualize your ‘safe place.’”
“What is a ‘safe place’?”
“Any place where you feel safe. It can be a real place, or it can exist in your imagination. It could be anywhere.”
“Let’s be honest,” I said, “It could be nowhere. It will have to be imagined. There’s no such thing as a safe place. How could I possibly have one? How could anyone? The concept itself doesn’t make sense. Anyone could be attacked anywhere, at any time. Even bunkers like NORAD aren’t safe, because the security of those facilities relies on the integrity of the people in charge of systems operations. A single traitor could bring it down.” I was a little surprised that she didn’t seem to know she’d asked for the impossible, and wondered if this was some sort of test.
She suggested various safe places to me—a beach, the mountains, a cubbyhole—and I rejected them all. There was no such thing, and trying to pretend there was couldn’t possibly be good for my mental health, could it? Wouldn’t that just be self-delusion? Isn’t self-delusion something we want to avoid in therapy?
She urged me to mull it over. Since no real place felt safe, what place could I imagine that would be safe? Reluctantly, I tried to imagine a safe place. It would have to be a world in the midst of creation—with no animals added yet. Animals could attack. And I’d have to be in a boat, in the middle of a small lake, a quick swim from safety if I fell out, yet far enough from shore that I’d have plenty of warning if anything approached. The shore would need to be guarded. But who or what could guard me? Without a guard I still didn’t feel safe.
Clara sighed; we were almost out of time. “In EMDR, we bring up a lot of unpleasant memories. If you can’t feel safe, you can’t recover your equilibrium. Please think of a safe place for next time.”
It seemed ridiculous. I couldn’t believe my ability or inability to visualize a safe place was going to make or break EMDR therapy.
Before ending the session, Clara gave me an assignment. “I want you to get the book, “The Courage to Heal,” from the library or a bookstore, and read the first chapter before we meet next Tuesday.”
I smiled as an inner voice teased, in a cartoon voice, “She don’t know us vewy well, do she?” I read voraciously. I’d power through this Courage to Heal book long before our session next week. Reading was my most persistent, intense addiction.
I still couldn’t twist my mind around the concept of a safe place; it sounded like more black magic. The psychiatrist was right. The only difference between the crazies and the therapists might be which of them was in charge of the keys.
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