As we progress, the time I head into the London office of my nice Couch Man becomes more and more valuable. It takes a chunk out of the day-if my appointment is at 10 then I have to leave the house by 7:45, and I won't be home again until 12:45 or so. I spend my time with men in suits dashing for trains, their minds full of charts and graphs and action points, I sit across from women with pinched lips and angry lines. I ride the empty trains out of London when it's done-no one has business the way I go, and the peace and quiet is something I'd pay for. It's a 5 hour journey for a 45 minute meet but more and more it dawns on me how worthwhile it is.

The iPod is strapped into my ears, chiming the likes of songs that serve the specific purpose to simply surf the brain waves, not churn them. I dress comfortably. I take care to do so, remembering even in my dark days in Sweden when I had my twice weekly meet with the therapist there I would take a shower beforehand.

I was terrified he would commit me otherwise.

My calm, gentle therapist has created a space for me the likes of which I have never before seen. His office space-a loft with Scandinavian design-is also his home. He has minimalist decorating and it suits me fine. In his space I find I can talk about anything and everything, there is nothing too painful and nothing that makes me cringe. I start opening up from the moment I set foot on the tube platform in his neighborhood-on one visit, I even crumbled into heaving sobs at that one gentle step, when I had been so controlled, so locked and contrived up until that very moment. Above all, I never ever step outside of myself in there. Something he has created, something he has gotten across to me keeps me locked inside myself. It doesn't mean I feel everything, it doesn't mean things get to me. All it means is I'm never standing in a doorway watching myself.

As time passes, I continue to appreciate, respect and admire him, and not in an icky way-he simply is, and I simply thank him for it.

Sometimes he finds the emotions for me. On one occasion, I sat there on the couch, locked inside myself. I wasn't watching me, but I wasn't upset either. I was a lonely little petunia in an onion patch, and the tears came from him for me.

The greatest part of the work we're doing is re-building my behavior. I have to start from the bottom up in terms of discovering and re-creating Helen, and this is both exhausting and victorious. My one big focus is to break cycles-throughout my past and throughout the history of my family we have recurring themes that come along and knock us down. I want the KO to stop, and I want to be the brick wall that does it.

Talking to him yesterday, he asked me about my weekend. I told him that I spent Sunday painting the walls of my study-two of them are a rich, deep burgundy color, balanced by the opposite walls painted in a smooth taupe. I tell him about my own personal bible-the Dulux catalog. I proceed into no known venture without my Dulux catalog. I love the damn thing so much, in fact, that I have 4 catalogs, all equally worn.

He smiled at me. "How is your house painted?"

I grin back, giddy. "Every room is a different color."

"And all the rooms are painted?"

"All of them but the hallway, which is the next project."

He smiles at me again. "You sound so young and happy when you talk about this. In your head, do you see anything?"

I smile. "Funny you should mention that..." The truth was, as I talked about the catalog and the painted walls, I did have a picture in my head. It was me, at about 5 years old. I was wearing my favorite dress from back then, a beige crochet number (hey! It was the 70's!) I was walking along a path through some woods, the light coming through the leaves. I had a rolled up piece of paper in my hands and my grin could have split my face open.

I tell him about it. I feel ridiculous, I don't subscribe to this.

"Helen," he says softly, "I think you're finally getting in touch with the you from the past. The young you."

"You know I don't believe in that stuff, Doc," I reply.

"I know. But it's there." He leans forward, maybe aware he's on new ground. "How do you feel about the 5 year-old you?"

I consider this. "I feel...protective. Calm. Loving. I want to warn her that life goes downhill from here, that there are horrible things coming. She's going to be lost forever."

"No," he counters. "You've just found her."

I don't know if I believe that or not. All I know is that there in my head is the little version of me, and she's smiling. There is light all around, light, light when the whole future she has ahead of her is darker than midnight.

"It sounds like she's a happy little girl. And it sounds like she likes color," he says gently.

I think about the entire lifetime of military white walls I've had. I remember all the apartments I've lived in, all the houses we've rented. We were never allowed to paint the walls, never allowed to have a stamp on who and what we were. A life behind industrial white emulsion, light bouncing off and away. Only once before moving to England had I ever painted a wall in the house I lived in. Only once had I ever felt I could.

"No more white walls," I say simply. "Every room needs to be a different color. And I fucking love it." I look out the window, and all I see is the 5 year-old me, smiling.

Welcome to color.

The first of many cycles has now been broken.

1 down, 4,346 to go.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:48 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
Post contains 1052 words, total size 6 kb.

1 Hallelujah! That sounds like a good breakthrough to me. I think I need that therapist. Too bad he lives so far away.....LOL

Posted by: kenju at July 18, 2006 12:44 PM (2+7OT)

2 Go baby! Lots and lots of color! Woo-hoo!!!

Posted by: ~Easy at July 18, 2006 01:21 PM (18jln)

3 So similar. One of the best things I've done since my divorce is paint the walls of my house...the bedroom is a soft soothing periwinkle blue, the color I always imagined it being. The hallway is a vibrant apple green with framed black and white pics of my kids on the wall. The bathroom was recently painted a bright sea blue with white accents. I love the space I've created. It is my sanctuary, and it is healing.

Posted by: trouble at July 18, 2006 08:58 PM (j2vfb)

4 I couldn't help but think of this: She comes in colors ev'rywhere; She combs her hair She's like a rainbow Coming, colors in the air Oh, everywhere She comes in colors Happy painting, Helen!

Posted by: Deb at July 18, 2006 10:01 PM (GOFVL)

5 wall painting is the one thing I cannot wait to do.

Posted by: caltechgirl at July 18, 2006 10:04 PM (/vgMZ)

6 H... Here is to living a colourful life... and breaking the cycles for both of us

Posted by: stinkerbell at July 19, 2006 10:57 AM (p6odB)

7 I painted my family room 2 weeks ago. This is after over 10 years of being an adult with white walls. I loved it! My family room is now brick red. Very liberating! I'm happy that you have multi-colored walls!

Posted by: Suzie at July 19, 2006 11:06 PM (4rffT)

8 I'm about to buy a house but don't like the current color scheme. I've been thinking about what to do with it... so thanks for the link to the Dulux page, it's a lot of fun! Besides the fact that it should make sure my house doesn't clash.

Posted by: Hannah at July 20, 2006 07:39 AM (5w+E2)

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