by Isabel Jolie
“How long has the pain level been at a ten?”
“Since Maggie left.”
“Maggie, your best friend?”
I nod.
“What do you mean by left?”
“She moved to Chicago.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay. Did you get a chance to read the material I sent you? About brainspotting? And EMDR?”
I nod. Brainspotting is an advanced brain-body therapy that focuses on identifying, processing, and releasing imbalances, trauma, and residual emotional stress. It is based on the premise that “where you look affects how you feel.” They believe eye positions correlate with unconscious, emotional experiences. It seems crack-pottish, but when desperate, it’s worth a try. It can’t hurt. A shrink and meds are an option, but I’ve already fried my brain. I’d rather avoid dousing it with more chemicals.
This woman sitting in front of me comes highly recommended by Janet, Sam’s assistant. She has vast resources to research medical professionals, and she swears Shannon, Dr. Clemmons, knows her shit.
“I’ve found brainspotting can be helpful, especially when past experiences may be too painful to share or relive.”
I nod. I heard it all on the video she sent over with the information. They use it a lot on PTSD patients. Trauma. I haven’t had trauma, but again, it can’t hurt.
Shannon hands me a headset connected to an outdated iPod. I slip it on my head and resume staring at my favorite spot on the floor.
“I want you to follow this with your eyes.”
She’s holding out a thin, expandable metal rod with a white cloth rounded end. She’s holding it directly in front of her face. The pain in my chest intensifies, and I want to look away, but I force myself to focus on the white swath. The sounds of waves crashing on a beach filter through the headset.
Slowly, Shannon moves the rod to the left. “I want you to pay attention to the pain in your chest. I want to find a location where you feel the tightness intensify.”
A little voice that sounds a lot like Adam says, “What a crock of shit.” But I have nothing to lose, so I trail the rod.
As the rod moves farther away, my chest lightens. It’s noticeably easier to breathe. The crushing pain is still present, but as she returns the rod to the front of her face, it tightens again, and I shake my head and point, directing her to return it to the side.
She does so, this time lifting the rod higher to the right quadrant. I hold out my hand, telling her she’s found a good place.
“Now what?”
“Focus on the end of the rod.”
She doesn’t provide any other instructions. The waves crashing sound louder, and a drumbeat joins in.
I stare at the white tip. Milky white blurs my peripheral vision. I blink to maintain focus. The sound transitions to rain and thunder.
Moments from my past, visuals frozen in time, flip by.
The first is the memory of a photograph from my baby book. It’s me, with a cone birthday cap strapped on, blowing out candles on a white birthday cake with yellow dots around the perimeter.
The second is Dad, pushing my bicycle down the street. I remember the day. The image is of my back, a perspective I wouldn’t have had unless somewhere there’s a photo.
Then my mother, sitting beside me in the emergency room, as I pick out the color for my cast.
The white around my periphery intensifies, and I blink, breathing deeply. The pain crushes me, and I glance back to my carpet spot for relief. Then I return my focus to the dot.
Snapshots of ski vacations over the years flit through. No surprise. My parents’ house was covered with these shots. The photos where you’re positioned by a photographer on a picturesque mountain spot with your group, and the resort logo is emblazoned in the bottom right-hand corner. Image after image flashes by. At first, it’s me and my parents, then we’re joined by the Dukes.
Then images of the day. The images I relive in my nightmares. I keep staring. The pain slices and hurts. My parents, in their caskets. The music transitions to an orchestra, and the constant drum keeps pace. I open my mouth to breathe in, gasping.
All I see is the dot. Waves crash through the headset. I pull the headset off. She didn’t say how long, but I’m done.
I hand the headset to her.
“Are you done?”
I nod.
“Are you ready for me to put this away?”
“Yes.” She smiles her doctor smile.
“How was that?”
“Intense.”
“How do you feel now?”
I close my eyelids and rest my head against the back of the couch, taking stock. The pain in my chest, the suffocating sensation, it’s all there. But it’s slightly better.
“A little better.”
“What would you say your pain threshold is at now? On a scale of one to ten?”
“Eight. Maybe nine.”
A relieved expression flashes before she says, “That’s good. Do you want to tell me about your experience?”
“It was like I saw photographs. From the past.”
“From one specific period of time?”
I shift back on the uncomfortable couch, cross my ankle over my thigh, and resume staring at my spot on the carpet as I think about what I saw.
“Mostly from my childhood. My parents.”
“You don’t mention your parents in your journal. What happened to them?”
I tilt my head back until it hits the wall, then rub my hand across my face. What the…? I pull my hand back. It’s wet. I’ve been crying. I don’t cry.
I grind my teeth. Close my eyes. “They died in an avalanche.”
“Were you with them?”
“No.” I shake my head, this time fully conscious of the tears streaming. “I should have been.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They’d still be alive. If I had gone with them, they wouldn’t have been where they were at the time of the avalanche. They would have arrived at the spot a few minutes later, maybe five or ten minutes later, and the avalanche would have been over, and they would be alive.”
“Jason, it’s not your fault your parents died.”
“Yes. It is. I wanted to go skiing with my friends. They wanted me to spend the last day of our trip with them. And I didn’t. If I had just gone with them.”
Shannon moves to sit beside me on the sofa. She’s the first person I’ve ever said this to. On some level, I know I sound illogical. Even so, it’s true. Therefore, not irrational.
“It’s not your fault.”
I break down, crying like a child.
“It’s not your fault.”
I cry harder.
“It’s not your fault.”
I cry. She keeps repeating those four words. “It’s not your fault.”
Chapter 35
Jason
“You know, the problem with this despondent thing you’ve got going on is I don’t know if I should be concerned or not.” Sam sets the thick pint glass down on the wooden table with a thud. He forced me to come out for drinks with him. Olivia is home studying. They moved in together over six months ago. Right around the time Maggie moved to Chicago.
I respond by sipping my lukewarm beer. Sam and I are close enough that if I don’t feel like talking, he can deal with it.
“All right. Let me try a different angle. Mom…you remember her, right?”
Patti Duke’s concerned. She’s been my surrogate mom since my parents passed. She’d probably be blowing up my phone, except she’s careful with how she expresses her concern. When I was younger and didn’t handle things well, I lost control. Let her have it when she was suffocating me with her worry and pity. Now she employs Sam as her concern funnel.
“It’s not cancer.” We stare at each other. I cave. “I’ll call her.”
“She’d appreciate it. She loves you, you know. Dad does too. We all do.”
“I k
now. I love you guys too.” He stares me down. I exhale loudly so he knows I don’t appreciate the inquisition. Then guilt kicks in. It won’t kill me to let him in. “It’s been hard since Maggie left. I miss her.” Missing her is an enormous understatement, but it’s Sam I’m talking to.
“You guys were kind of inseparable. I can see how it would be an adjustment.”
“You have no idea. I go to text her to ask what she wants to order for dinner, then remember she’s not here. I find myself walking to her apartment all the time and catch myself when I’m about a block away. It’s like I’m on autopilot. It’s like…have you ever heard that when someone loses a limb, they have phantom pains?”
He nods.
“It’s like that. I expect her to still be here, the same way I’d expect my leg to still be there if it was amputated.”
Sam’s index finger traces the condensation on the side of his glass, pensive.
“Do you think she’s seeing anyone?” It’s a question I keep asking myself, so I ask out loud.
“How would I know?”
“You wouldn’t. I’m just…we’ve never gone this long without talking. I’ve lost my best friend. It sucks.”
His face contorts.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s good to hear you talk about what’s going on. We all had theories, but never mind. As far as Maggie goes…” He spreads his hand out flat on the table. “Even if she is dating someone, you can still be friends. Over the years, you’ve both dated other people. It got awkward. You never said much, but I could tell things were tense. But your friendship survived.”
“It got awkward?”
“I mean, from the outside looking in. Remember the time she backed out last minute from Mom’s birthday brunch in the city?”
“She had something come up with work.”
“It was when you were dating some girl. Stacy, maybe?”
“Maybe Sara. It was an S. It doesn’t matter…what are you saying?”
“She didn’t come around as much if you were dating, but then your friendship picked back up. And remember when she was dating Glen?”
“That guy was such a tool.” Just remembering that guy makes my shoulder muscles tense, which is saying something because I’m not exactly happy-go-lucky these days.
“You spent more time with me. And they were together for, like, a year.”
“A long damn time,” I remember. He and I did not like each other.
“What does it matter if she’s dating someone now?”
“It doesn’t. But I think not knowing makes her move away suck even more. I fucked up. We crossed the friendship line. She wanted space. How do I know when she’s had enough space? It’s been months.” I’ve been debating reaching out to Maggie and planning a visit. We didn’t see each other over Christmas break. She wanted space, and I’ve given it to her in spades.
“Reach out and ask.”
I’d already bought plane tickets to visit her when she told me not to come. Had been planning to surprise her and be there all week helping her get situated. Figured we could paint her apartment, and I could help her find furniture. Help her find a car and negotiate the price for her since she hates negotiating. But standing by her moving van, she made it clear she didn’t want me there, so I canceled that trip. She gave me no choice.
“Why don’t you want to date Maggie? I know Ollie and I joke about it, but I really thought you’d end up with her.”
I chew on my thumbnail as I consider my answer. “The short answer? I was just lost in my head.”
“You’re not now?”
“I don’t know. I’ll probably always be a little fucked up.” It’s the truth. Sam taps his glass against mine.
“You’re not fucked up. You’ve just been through a lot.”
“No, I blew it. Maggie’s the best thing ever, and I kept her at arm’s length.” For her—I did it for her. But I didn’t do it well. I hurt her.
“Well, maybe you blew your chance of a relationship with her. But you don’t walk away from a friendship like yours. Reach out.”
I did call her Christmas morning. I’ve spent many Christmas mornings at her parents’ home, so I could envision everything on her end. The Christmas tree with their family decorations, many of them featuring a photo and the year, the holiday moose collection her Mom scatters throughout the den, and the constant holiday music playing through Alexa.
When she answered the phone, it was the first time we’d spoken since she moved. Our conversation was filled with awkward silence. We didn’t have anything to talk about, really. I mean, I had a million things to ask her, but she gave clipped answers. When her Mom called her away for breakfast, we both wished each other a Merry Christmas. I told her I loved her because I do. There was a pause, and I held my breath. I half expected her to hang up. But she didn’t. She said it back.
No matter what happens in our lives, or how we evolve, we’ll always love each other. Deep down, I know this. This separation period she’s asked for, it’s hard. Bloodcurdling hard. I miss her. I miss talking to her. I miss having her in my life. I miss sharing life with her.
A part of me hopes she’s found someone else. A great guy who will take care of her, have kids with her, and be her partner. She deserves it. That’s the rational part. I’ve been told I have an extraordinarily high IQ, and this is the part I let lead me through life. I love her, and I want the best for her, and I know I’m not the best that’s out there.
Then there’s this emotional side of me. This side isn’t rational. It resides with all the pain Shannon has been working on releasing in our weekly whacked-out staring sessions.
When I think of Maggie with someone else, the emotional side gets knifed repeatedly. The sharp pain cuts through and makes it hard for me to do anything. I sit on the sofa, still. It’s my new nighttime routine. I often skip dinner, and I’m not hungry in the morning.
I have no energy, but I have been forcing myself to go on runs. Short runs, maybe one or three miles, but I force myself out the door, hoping the endorphins will kick in. Hoping I’ll feel better.
Sam still reaches out regularly, as does Ollie. I answer the phone and respond to texts often enough they don’t pound on my door. I never miss class or an office time. I function. But at the same time, I wonder why I try. What exactly am I living for?
When those thoughts invade, guilt rushes in. Adam would have so much to live for. He’d give anything to be in my shoes. I hate myself for not doing more with what I have. I got to live, and yet I’m not happy. It’s like I’m broken, or something is wrong with me.
“Hey, where’d you go?” His foot taps mine below the table.
“Thinking.” I clink my glass to his. “Thanks for being a good friend.”
The next day, when I push open Shannon’s office door, I want to talk. It’s not that I mind the brainspotting sessions. I don’t. They do make me feel better. Often, I’m tired and sleep after them. I sleep better for the next couple of days. But I need to talk to someone. Maggie isn’t here, and it’s not like this therapist I’m paying can replace her, but I need to talk through these circles.
She’s helping with my overall pain. I don’t dream about the day on the slopes anymore. If I talk to her, and we do more brainspotting sessions, it’s possible I can find my way out of this funk.
I set my journal down on the coffee table. She’s typing at the computer but says hello. I don’t know why I bring the journal, but she still asks me questions and has me write something each week, even though she doesn’t always read it.
“How are you doing, Jason?” She steps away from the computer and joins me in the sitting area of her office.
“Good.” It’s an automatic response. I have no idea why I say that to everyone who asks. It’s so rarely true.
She reaches for the headset, which sits in a basket by the couch.
“I was wondering if we could talk today, instead of doing the…” I point at the headset. I hate that word, brai
nspotting. “The EMDR thing.”
“Certainly.” She sets it back down into the basket. “What’s going on?”
I rub my forehead and stare at the corner of the room. I didn’t plan what to say or how to begin.
“Would you like to write it down?”
“No.” I press my eyelids shut and squeeze the top portion of my nose. I can do this. “The stuff we’ve been doing has helped, but at times, the pain…it hits me hard.”
“When does this happen?”
I lean back on the couch and smack my skull against her wall. I rub the back of my head, then more slowly rest against the wall and close my eyes, preferring not to see.
“It happens when I think of Maggie with someone else. It hurts. I need to find a way for it to not hurt.”
“Jason, we haven’t really talked about Maggie. I know from your journals she’s important to you. Is she dating someone?”
“Probably.”
“Jason…did you and Maggie ever move beyond friendship, into a dating relationship?”
“No.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“It wouldn’t be fair to her. I want more for her.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Can you explain that to me?”
I shift forward, elbows to my knees, forehead resting on my palms.
“She wants a life with children, and one day grandchildren.”
“That’s a common desire. Not everyone wants those things. Do you not want those things?”
“No, I’d love to have those things…with Maggie. But that’s not in the cards for me.”
“I’m not sure I’m following. It sounded like Maggie wanted more than friendship with you.”
“She does.”
“Right now, it sounds like you’re saying you want a relationship with her too. A commitment with her and a life with her.”
I lift my head. Shannon seems genuinely mystified, and that annoys me. It’s not rocket science. “I had cancer. It could come back. I watched her beside Adam’s grave. You read about it in my journal. She deserves a healthy partner. Not someone she’s going to have to bury.”
