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Finding that Special Place

By Cynthia M. Saracco

When therapy just isn't working!

Ten of us sit in a semi-circle facing Allison Cranston, our group therapy leader. Bobby, a pimple-faced college student, cracks his knuckles. Jennifer, an unemployed bookkeeper, pulls at her thin eyebrows. Eileen, a middle-aged homemaker, rocks back and forth. I stare at the floor.

“We’ll start with our deep breathing exercise. Who remembers how to do that?” Allison glances around the room. No one responds.

She tells us to close our eyes. “Take a deep breath and slowly exhale. Pull the air into your body and concentrate on the rise and fall of your chest.”

We sit like this for several minutes. I wonder if Allison is taking a nap.

“I bet you’re feeling better already.”

I’m not. My butt hurts from sitting on a plastic chair made for a midget, and I’m pissed off at my husband for making me join this idiotic group and waste a perfectly good hour every Thursday night.

Allison’s perky voice interrupts my thoughts. “I hope you’re keeping a journal of your feelings. Who has something to share?”

Eileen starts rocking faster.

“Jennifer, how about you?”

I fight the urge to groan. Jennifer is an aspiring poet who writes in monosyllables and likes to rhyme every four words. Her work makes a Dr. Seuss book seem sophisticated. She pulls a notepad from her purse and reads a tribute to Tweeter, her dead parakeet.

“Thank you. Did it help you to write that?”

Jennifer nods and dabs her eyes with a tissue. I steal a glance at my wristwatch: 45 minutes to go. I start to sweat.

“Who’s next?”

No one speaks.

“Bobby?”

He looks like he’s just developed Parkinson’s disease – his head shakes, his eyes are glassy, and his lips quiver. I wonder if Allison took up therapy just so she could torture people.

“Bobby, can you answer me?”

Everyone stares at him, and he looks like he wants to die. I clear my throat. Heads turn in my direction. Allison glares at me for a split second and then softens her eyes. “Karen, did you have something to say?”

“Why do you go after Bobby all the time? Can’t you cut him a break?”

“Sometimes people need a little encouragement,” Allison says. Her tone is gentle, but I’m certain she’s furious.

“Maybe he doesn’t want any encouragement,” I argue. “Maybe he just wants to be left alone.”

“Perhaps. But it’s not good to guess what other people are thinking. Remember how we discussed that the last time? How we agreed that false assumptions can lead to false conclusions and unnecessary anxiety?”

She’s speaking to me like I’m a four-year old. I want to strangle her.

“Since Bobby’s right here, let’s ask him.”

She turns away and asks Bobby again if he’d like to say anything. He mumbles “no,” and I cock my eyebrow at Allison. She ignores me.

Allison polls other group members. We listen to Ed, a Korean War veteran, complain about how kids today have it too easy and how his wife uses too many paper towels. By the time we begin our group meditation exercise, I’m ready to scream.

“Close your eyes and let your mind take you to a special place, a place where you feel safe and secure and happy,” Allison begins.

I go to the beach. Then I start thinking about sand fleas, and pretty soon I’m itching all over.

“Are you there yet?”

I throw myself into a mountain retreat. It’s windy outside, so I head for a nearby cabin. The place is dark, dank, and dirty. I start rummaging around for Lysol.

“Good. Take a big breath and hold it.”

I start to panic. The cabin’s musty and I want to choke. I force myself to think of some fairy-tale field of wildflowers, but then I remember I’ve got allergies.

“Now exhale. Imagine yourself sitting in a comfortable chair and letting your worries fade away.”

I open my eyes and look around. Eileen’s stopped rocking. Everyone looks calm. I feel like an idiot.

Before snapping my eyes shut, I glance at Allison. She’s staring at me. She tells everyone to stay in their “special place,” to make a conscious effort to relax their bodies and clear their minds. Then she instructs everyone to keep breathing deeply for a few minutes while she leaves the room. She motions for me to follow.

“This form of therapy doesn’t seem to be working for you,” Allison begins. “Perhaps you should consider an alternative.”

I think about arguing but decide it’s not worth it.

“There are many options – individual counseling, for instance.”

I frown. “My insurance won’t cover it.”

“There’s also drug therapy. Have you spoken with your physician?”

“I’ve tried Zoloft, Prozac, and a bunch of herbal supplements. Nothing’s helped.”

Allison bites her lip. “Try to think of someplace you can go or an activity you can do that makes you feel good. Look into your heart, and connect with what you love. Then you’ll be able to work on your anger and anxiety issues.”

I nod. Allison returns to the group, and I walk to my car, wondering what the hell I’ll do. I drive by my old high school, hoping the sight of it will rekindle some long-lost dream. But my school’s now a strip mall, complete with a Starbucks, Walgreen's, and Hallmark store. I pull in anyway, not sure where else to go.

That’s when I spot it: a small establishment tucked next to the dry cleaner’s. I walk inside. Sturdy wooden chairs rest beneath tables topped with floral prints. I approach the glass case and smile at the young woman behind the counter.

“I’ll have one dark mocha truffle, one hazelnut truffle, and one coconut truffle.”

When I finish eating, I’m ecstatic. I’ve found my “special place,” and I plan to come here every Thursday night.