Session one

I stare at the solid Oak door. My eyes trace the grain of the wood. The long winding paths that they make, crossing over one another every so often on their varnished travels.


I knock on the wooden door. Its solidity raps against my knuckles. His familiar voice beckons me in. I walk over to the black leather sofa and sit down. The cushions are so soft that I’m half expecting to fall into another world. A world where there is still hope.


He opens the conversation with the question he asks me every single week. “How are you feeling today, Grace?” His pen held rigidly in his hand ready to jot down notes in the secret journal that contains my darkest, most disturbing secrets.


I answer with the same answer as I always do.


“Fine.”


He scribbles something down then replaces the cap of his Parker pen with a click. His eyes meet mine. I look at the pictures on the wall, cradled by the sickly pea green wallpaper, the flower pot in the corner, the fish bowl on a wooden stand by the window. Anything to escape his intruding stare.


“I would like to ask you a question – and I would like your answer to be truthful.” I look down at my hands. He takes my hesitation as a yes. He points at the chain around my neck. Another betrayal of who I should be. My eyes stray to the open window, the warm summer air tickling my spine. I look amongst the trees and the people in the street getting on with their lives. Their perfect, problem free lives. I envy them. They have no idea how lucky they are. I don’t know who I am.


“Are you a catholic?”


I close my eyes. I don’t understand. Why is he asking me this? And what has it got to do with why we are here?


I open my eyes. “Used to be.”






He jots something down. “Then why do you still wear your crucifix?”


I could feel his eyes burning into me.


“I lost my faith when my father passed away.” He was writing again. A knot had grown in the pit of my stomach. His question had disturbed something deep within me; placing a tight grip around my heart.


“When your father killed himself?”


I was now in a lift freefalling twelve floors to the ground. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve casually and continued to stare out the window at the outside world. The breeze made the leaves dance on the arms of the trees. A squirrel ran up to it with an Acorn in its mouth.


“So you have gone from a Catholic to an Atheist?” Pen at the ready.






“Even Angels fall from Grace sometimes,” I whispered.






“You have lost all of your beliefs over one incident?”






Incident.






That word tore its way through my chest, my lungs. My head. It left a gaping hole within me. The grip around my heart increased ten-fold.






“I have my own beliefs now” I muttered, looking down at my hands cradling the sleeves of my jumper, concealing my own dirty little secret.


“Maybe I would like to hear them sometime.”


“Maybe I’d like to keep them to myself.” I felt a fireball rise up through my now heavy stomach. My head was waging its own silent war with my heart, as the lump in my throat grew. I stood and walked to the door, placed my clammy hand on the cool steel of the doorknob. I turned it.


“How can you expect me to help you when you can’t even help yourself?”


I stopped. Closed my eyes. Whispered.






“Only God can still help me when I don’t want to be saved…”