Analog Exposure
"Hmmph..." she whispered. She sounded bored. Like all pricey shrinks do.
"What's wrong?" I asked. I was lying on the couch and facing away from her.
"Do it in chronological order," she said.
"Okay," I said. I opened my eyes. The laptop was on the small table next to me. I played my PTSD playlist on Youtube. It began slowly and soon it began to flow, and so I closed my eyes, and went back to focusing on the session.
I began to scan my memories. The music gave me strength, and soon the painful memories returned, and I gritted my teeth and embraced them. Sometimes, I'd be tempted to scream in anger, but I'd resist the tic, and the music helped me relax. It was an experimental form of exposure therapy for PTSD - one that aided your fears and anxieties by coupling the session with music. I'd always pick the dramatic, stoic anime soundtracks.
I heard her voice in the background over the music, and she gave me strength, and soon I went through childhood, high-school, college, corporate america, the first kiss, the last kiss, the first wife, the second wife, the first escort, the last escort, the first presentation, the last presentation, the first meeting, the last meeting, and the meeting the next morning...
"Relax," I could hear her encourage me in the background from the other side of the room. "Just embrace the memories. Don't shy away from the anxiety. Habituate."
As the session proceeded, the anxieties loosened and I could feel my breathing relax from the usual nine to a five or a four. I was almost done, and at the end: that's when I heard the loud snap. It sounded like a violent rubberband snapping at the back of my head, and so I jumped up and out of the therapy couch.
I swore under my breath. I walked over to the small table on the other side of the room, and finally picked up my small, analog tape-recorder. I hit rewind and waited for her to reach the beginning all over again. It was a long tape - the full 90 minutes, but every now and then I'd forget to fully rewind her, and she'd snap in the middle.
Of all my soft traumas, of all my quaint sins, and of all my hi-tech indiscretions - she was still my favorite. She was my lovely analog mistake; and no sexy thing - not you, not the girl next door, not the bouncy naked girl on my 3D flatscreen - nothing would ever upgrade her.
"What's wrong?" I asked. I was lying on the couch and facing away from her.
"Do it in chronological order," she said.
"Okay," I said. I opened my eyes. The laptop was on the small table next to me. I played my PTSD playlist on Youtube. It began slowly and soon it began to flow, and so I closed my eyes, and went back to focusing on the session.
I began to scan my memories. The music gave me strength, and soon the painful memories returned, and I gritted my teeth and embraced them. Sometimes, I'd be tempted to scream in anger, but I'd resist the tic, and the music helped me relax. It was an experimental form of exposure therapy for PTSD - one that aided your fears and anxieties by coupling the session with music. I'd always pick the dramatic, stoic anime soundtracks.
I heard her voice in the background over the music, and she gave me strength, and soon I went through childhood, high-school, college, corporate america, the first kiss, the last kiss, the first wife, the second wife, the first escort, the last escort, the first presentation, the last presentation, the first meeting, the last meeting, and the meeting the next morning...
"Relax," I could hear her encourage me in the background from the other side of the room. "Just embrace the memories. Don't shy away from the anxiety. Habituate."
As the session proceeded, the anxieties loosened and I could feel my breathing relax from the usual nine to a five or a four. I was almost done, and at the end: that's when I heard the loud snap. It sounded like a violent rubberband snapping at the back of my head, and so I jumped up and out of the therapy couch.
I swore under my breath. I walked over to the small table on the other side of the room, and finally picked up my small, analog tape-recorder. I hit rewind and waited for her to reach the beginning all over again. It was a long tape - the full 90 minutes, but every now and then I'd forget to fully rewind her, and she'd snap in the middle.
Of all my soft traumas, of all my quaint sins, and of all my hi-tech indiscretions - she was still my favorite. She was my lovely analog mistake; and no sexy thing - not you, not the girl next door, not the bouncy naked girl on my 3D flatscreen - nothing would ever upgrade her.