The Witness

1

"I want my old life back," I sneered, my jaw clenched and my toes curled uncomfortably inside my Keds. "I've been stuck here long enough!"

Our sessions always started the exact same way. I'd always have to answer the same question.

How are you feeling?

What a joke of a question! I didn't feel anything; nothing was normal and nothing made sense. Without realizing it, I had inched to the edge of the couch with clenched thighs and balled fists. I was ready to jump into action, to fly from this cookie cutter exam room and do something.

Anything.

"Samantha, could you please sit down so we can continue the session?" My counterpart was sympathetic, but rigid. I wondered how many years it had taken this woman to master that balance. And then I wondered how I'd gotten to this standing position, trembling yet frozen.

My therapist tucked a stray piece of jet black hair behind her ear and peered at me over cherry red glasses. "Why don't we try a breathing exercise? You may find them useful when your situation gets to be a bit too much outside of our sessions."

"A...breathing exercise." I repeated flatly, my back slamming against the couch as I flopped to lie down.  As soon as I finished my theatrics, I regretted my childish behavior.  But I was too for in at this point to stop the anger facade.  So, I focused my thoughts on exactly why I didn't want to be there and tried to settle into the couch.

Keyword: tried.  The couch was godawful. Stiff. Rigid. Uncomfortable. But the pillow...the pillow was heaven.

"Alright," I sighed and closed my eyes.  "Let's do this."

With my eyes closed and my circumstances clearly not changing, what harm could a breathing exercise do?

The session was only an hour, anyway.

"Excellent. Now, breathe in deeply and count to five," My therapist's voice was eerily soothing, like a pre-recorded meditation series.  Without realizing it, air expanded each of my lungs and I was counting.  My counterpart, pleased, continued her calm instructions. "Excellent. Now hold the breath until you need to release, and then exhale slowly with another count to five. Control the exhale...great job, Samantha - "

"Sam," I corrected her, all the air in my chest quickly expelled as my breathing trance broke.  Every session, we had this debate.  Every single session. Twice a week.  For the last six months.

Six months which was originally two weeks. Then two months. Then nobody knew anymore.  

Regardless of the amount of time already passed, the fury at being called by a name that I didn't like ignited a fiery disdain which extended through every nerve ending in my body.  With one eye open - and peering ominously in the direction of my therapist - I completed the other half of my standard response.  "My name is Sam."

My therapist - Judy, but calling her 'my therapist' helped me to see her as part of the Program - acquiesced.

Sam it was.

So we continued. I breathed in a slow, steady string of oxygen and began my counts.  My therapist continued to guide me in my breathing journey with an emotionless string of compliments and instructions.  All the while, my mind was racing with disjointed thoughts and jumbled emotions.

1... I should have been home by now.

2... My life was ruined.

3... I was alone.

4... This exercise wasn't going to get me anywhere.

5... Therapy was still stupid.

My thoughts swirled until the ache in my chest begged for an exhale. And so I did, taking care to count my way to completion.

1... I didn't want to be on this couch.

2... I didn't want to remember what got me here.

3... I didn't want to go to work today.

4... I didn't want to be mad anymore.

5... Wait, was this actually working?

And we continued. Ten minutes of breathing exercises. With each exhale, I felt myself relax until my trembling stopped. I could think again.

But I didn't want to think.

"Very good, Sam. Why don't you stay lying down today?" My therapist seemed pleased. "And...why don't we talk about what's been making you so upset this week? What about your 'old life' is causing you to feel this way?"

A tell-tale rustling signaled that my mandatory confidant had readied her notebook, followed by the all-too-familiar click of her ball point pen. I quirked my head slightly so I could hear the soft cough she made when clearing her throat in this preparation process. Her mannerisms were the only constants I had in my life.

How pathetic.

"I don't know. All of it," I muttered, aware of the bitterness laced in every syllable. Knowing that my answer wasn't enough, I tried to express the poisonous thoughts that held my mind hostage. "The fact that I'm here, months beyond what the police promised. The fact that I watched someone get murdered in cold blood...again. The fact that I keep having to dye my hair - and eyebrows - red. The fact that you're one of two people here who know my real name!"

A soft thud hit the pillow beside me and I opened my eyes, perplexed.  Another followed suit, this time accompanied by a slight splattering of moisture against my earlobe.  My fingers caressed my cheeks until they found the undeniable water stain.

When had I started crying? My body had betrayed me.

No, not my body. My mind.

"I can't imagine how frustrating it is to be in this position," my therapist murmured slowly, her pen scratching away endlessly on her secret papers. Her assessment of my behavior no longer interested me.  I gave up trying to give the 'right' answer months ago. Being brave hadn't gotten me home any faster. "Being angry is a normal reaction - it means that you're beginning to process the shock. But today I don't want us to focus on the anger...I want us to go back to your life before the incident."

"The incident," I snorted sarcastically as I wiped the tears away. "Cold-blooded murder is merely an incident now?"

"Certainly not," my counterpart sighed as her loud scribbling stopped. "An old adage reads that one can only eat an elephant one bite at a time. Your journey has been...tumultuous. So let's take today to go back to the good."

"The good?" I croaked, tears silently erupting once again. When was the last time I used that word? And how could remembering everything from before - everything I've lost - be helpful? "Why?"

"Because, Sam, you've given up," my confidant resumed her writing, her scratchy cursive a fog horn to my clouded mind. Her matter-of-fact tone was startling, leaving me momentarily speechless. "And right now I need you to remember."

"Remember?" I propped myself up on my elbow, my confusion clear from my furrowed brow to my pursed lips. "Remember what?"

My therapist grinned at me as her eyes locked with mine, unyielding and fierce. "I need you to remember what it is you're fighting for."