Therapy Session #1
Here we have an excerpt from Martha's most recent therapy session. Those of you who are wondering, this is a pretty good insight into what's going on right now, how she's progressing, and how she's feeling. It should be well noted that everything included herein are Martha's views not her mun's. If your muse has been tagged below, it means he or she is mentioned in this passage. But most of her friends are at least somewhat involved.
The grandfather clock across the room holds her eye for nearly a minute. She watches the pendulum swing, back and forth, shielded by the narrow glass door. With each swing, another lifetime passes her by. It started out merely as seconds passing her by. The seconds turned into moments, the moments into hours, the hours into days, days into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, years into lifetimes. Each swing took away yet another minuscule piece of her fading youth. She inhales deeply, as if trying to draw those lost lifetimes back in, close to her, then exhales, finally alleviating her denial and letting them go, as much as it pains her to do so.
"Martha."
His voice is gruff, yet strangely soothing. It is foreign to her reverie of faded youth and lifetimes lost, thus it startles her. She allows her wandering eyes to lose their fascination with the swinging pendulum and drift until they meet his own gray, melancholy orbs.
“What are you doing?” He asks, though ironically he doesn’t sound the least bit curious.
“I’m trying to hypnotize myself,” she replies, her raised eyebrow indicating her sarcasm.
“You like the grandfather clock, huh?”
“I like the pendulum.”
He balances his pen over his currently unsullied and unwritten upon pad of paper, in anticipation of her answer to his potential question.
“But not the rest of the clock.”
She shrugs, dismissively. This conversation disinterests her greatly. Her time is better spent observing every movement of the pendulum.
“I haven’t seen the rest of the clock yet.”
He turns his head, gazing behind his broad shoulder at the grandfather clock. When he returns his attention to her, he sees that she has already lost interest in him and bestowed the honor of her attention on some other random inanimate object in his office.
“Are you ready to talk now?” He asks, tilting his head in a feeble attempt to catch her eye, and therefore her attention, once more.
"Sure," she replies, blandly.
"I want you to know I'm very proud of you."
She blinks a few times, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What on earth did I do right?"
"You've made a great deal of progress in a very short time," Dr. Griffin explains, calmly. "Though I think we still need to work on that penchant you have for self-deprecation."
"Well, I haven't had fun all week," she replies, with a shrug of her shoulders. "If that's what you mean by progress."
He nods, as if he's expected her to say this and has prepared a response days prior. "The problem seems to be that you've been trying to make up for a lifetime of structure and predictability with three months of non-stop frivolity. You're acting out."
This seems to make enough sense to her. "Like I did in college."
"That's right. Then, it was okay. You were still a kid, exploring different aspects of yourself, trying to figure out who you were," Dr. Griffin says, pen hovering precariously over legal pad. "In this case, you're just trying to be someone else. There's a very, very big difference."
She always feels so small when she's in his office, like nothing she's done in her life has been right. "So the only solution is to go back to the way things were three months ago."
Dr. Griffin tilts his head to one side and seems to be considering this. "Well. Yes and no. A lot has happened to you in three months, not all of it bad. You seem to have made some wonderful friends, but also you've lost some. I know how hard it was for you to lose Rachel Dawes."
Martha's gaze immediately falls to the floor. She hates to talk about that. He knows she hates to talk about that.
"And I know you've felt like Rachel unintentionally took all your mutual friends with her. I know it hurts."
She purses her lips, blinking back tears. "Even Chloe," she whispers, as if she hadn't meant to say it out loud. "She's been like a daughter to me since she was fourteen, and now..." She pauses, wiping away the moisture from beneath her eyes. "You know, after Lionel and I slept together for the first time, Rachel said, 'I will never agree with what you're doing, but I will always be there for you.' So much for that, huh?"
Martha doesn't blame Rachel, not really. She doesn't blame herself either. More often than not she thinks of it as a moral impasse.
Dr. Griffin is quiet for longer than she's ever seen him, but still his pen does not move. She's left to fill the silence. "I don't know what it is. Suddenly everyone's treating me differently. It isn't like the affair hasn't been going on for months, this isn't new, and yet somehow it's like something snapped in each of them, suddenly no one can look at me. And I don't know what's changed. Even Pepper, my cheerleader..."
Observing the change in her expressions, he leans forward with interest. "Why do you think that is?"
Her mouth opens and closes several times before anything actually comes out. "I don't know. But I wonder...sometimes I wonder if they expect too much, hold me to a higher standard. It seems most days like everyone I know thinks of me as a...surrogate mother." Somehow everyone she knows is either motherless or has a contentious relationship with their mother. "And I'm honored to be thought of that way, I really am, but at the same time, it doesn't exactly seem fair. Mothers can't be people. They can't have fun, can't drink, dance, dress up, or do anything that isn't modest or selfless." She pauses, dropping her head in her hands and sighing. "I admit that my behavior's been a little outlandish, a lot even, but I'm not sure why they seem to think turning their backs on me is the solution. I need them. And they either don't know that or don't care. I have no one to talk to anymore. People seem hellbent on starting arguments with me, usually over nothing. The only people who don't make me feel like a leper are Jean-Paul, Brooke, and Claire. And Lois."
There, the pen starts moving furiously. "What about Clark?"
This gives her a great deal of pause. Biting her lip, she turns her gaze toward the open window and the light pouring in. "Clark knows something's up. It's hard not to notice when everyone starts treating your mother like the mistress at a funeral, with the red letter 'A' embroidered on her chest. And..."
Dr. Griffin looks at her quizzically. "And what?"
She takes a deep breath. "And...he's becoming close with so many of them that I can't help but worry that soon he'll start treating me the same way. If I lose him..."
She will not cry. She will not cry.
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You think he would chose them over you?"
"I don't like to think of it like we're on...teams. But he's bound to start seeing me the way they seem to see me. However that is."
"Martha..." He studies her for a moment before continuing. "You seem to have this conspiracy theory that the whole world is working against you."
"No." She shakes her head. "I'm just not used to being...shunned like this, if that's even the right word. I'm just...very, very lonely."
"Hmm." The scribbling on his notepad goes on for at least a minute before he looks up again. "What do you think needs to happen before they stop? 'Shunning' you, or whatever the case may be."
She sighs. "At this point, it looks like I'd have to join a convent."
"We both know that isn't true."
"I don't know, honestly. No more drinking - not that I even do it that often, it's just that when I do, I really do - no more...tattoos in Hong Kong. No more Lionel."
"Are you prepared to do all that?" He knows the answer to that as well as anyone.
"The drinking? Yes. Tattoos in Hong Kong? God, yes. Lionel? No. And that's the kicker. But they all seemed to love me just fine three weeks ago, and I was with Lionel then too. I don't know what's different now, I really don't."
"Do you think perhaps it's more that they're...fed up with it? They thought it was just a fling and you'd return to your sense in time?"
She nods solemnly. "Maybe. But I don't see why it should matter to them anyway. They're not the ones having the affair."
"Well, it might just be that they care about you and they don't want to see you get hurt. Or Jonathan, or Clark."
"Right. If they care about me so much, why are they slowly pushing me out of their lives?" She questions pointedly, and then, after a moment: "Jean-Paul told me recently that friendship is supposed to be unconditional."
That statement seems to be enough, and she has nothing more to say about that.
"It's funny. People seemed to like me a lot more when all I did was bake muffins and keep house. Go figure that one."
-
The grandfather clock across the room holds her eye for nearly a minute. She watches the pendulum swing, back and forth, shielded by the narrow glass door. With each swing, another lifetime passes her by. It started out merely as seconds passing her by. The seconds turned into moments, the moments into hours, the hours into days, days into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, years into lifetimes. Each swing took away yet another minuscule piece of her fading youth. She inhales deeply, as if trying to draw those lost lifetimes back in, close to her, then exhales, finally alleviating her denial and letting them go, as much as it pains her to do so.
"Martha."
His voice is gruff, yet strangely soothing. It is foreign to her reverie of faded youth and lifetimes lost, thus it startles her. She allows her wandering eyes to lose their fascination with the swinging pendulum and drift until they meet his own gray, melancholy orbs.
“What are you doing?” He asks, though ironically he doesn’t sound the least bit curious.
“I’m trying to hypnotize myself,” she replies, her raised eyebrow indicating her sarcasm.
“You like the grandfather clock, huh?”
“I like the pendulum.”
He balances his pen over his currently unsullied and unwritten upon pad of paper, in anticipation of her answer to his potential question.
“But not the rest of the clock.”
She shrugs, dismissively. This conversation disinterests her greatly. Her time is better spent observing every movement of the pendulum.
“I haven’t seen the rest of the clock yet.”
He turns his head, gazing behind his broad shoulder at the grandfather clock. When he returns his attention to her, he sees that she has already lost interest in him and bestowed the honor of her attention on some other random inanimate object in his office.
“Are you ready to talk now?” He asks, tilting his head in a feeble attempt to catch her eye, and therefore her attention, once more.
"Sure," she replies, blandly.
"I want you to know I'm very proud of you."
She blinks a few times, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What on earth did I do right?"
"You've made a great deal of progress in a very short time," Dr. Griffin explains, calmly. "Though I think we still need to work on that penchant you have for self-deprecation."
"Well, I haven't had fun all week," she replies, with a shrug of her shoulders. "If that's what you mean by progress."
He nods, as if he's expected her to say this and has prepared a response days prior. "The problem seems to be that you've been trying to make up for a lifetime of structure and predictability with three months of non-stop frivolity. You're acting out."
This seems to make enough sense to her. "Like I did in college."
"That's right. Then, it was okay. You were still a kid, exploring different aspects of yourself, trying to figure out who you were," Dr. Griffin says, pen hovering precariously over legal pad. "In this case, you're just trying to be someone else. There's a very, very big difference."
She always feels so small when she's in his office, like nothing she's done in her life has been right. "So the only solution is to go back to the way things were three months ago."
Dr. Griffin tilts his head to one side and seems to be considering this. "Well. Yes and no. A lot has happened to you in three months, not all of it bad. You seem to have made some wonderful friends, but also you've lost some. I know how hard it was for you to lose Rachel Dawes."
Martha's gaze immediately falls to the floor. She hates to talk about that. He knows she hates to talk about that.
"And I know you've felt like Rachel unintentionally took all your mutual friends with her. I know it hurts."
She purses her lips, blinking back tears. "Even Chloe," she whispers, as if she hadn't meant to say it out loud. "She's been like a daughter to me since she was fourteen, and now..." She pauses, wiping away the moisture from beneath her eyes. "You know, after Lionel and I slept together for the first time, Rachel said, 'I will never agree with what you're doing, but I will always be there for you.' So much for that, huh?"
Martha doesn't blame Rachel, not really. She doesn't blame herself either. More often than not she thinks of it as a moral impasse.
Dr. Griffin is quiet for longer than she's ever seen him, but still his pen does not move. She's left to fill the silence. "I don't know what it is. Suddenly everyone's treating me differently. It isn't like the affair hasn't been going on for months, this isn't new, and yet somehow it's like something snapped in each of them, suddenly no one can look at me. And I don't know what's changed. Even Pepper, my cheerleader..."
Observing the change in her expressions, he leans forward with interest. "Why do you think that is?"
Her mouth opens and closes several times before anything actually comes out. "I don't know. But I wonder...sometimes I wonder if they expect too much, hold me to a higher standard. It seems most days like everyone I know thinks of me as a...surrogate mother." Somehow everyone she knows is either motherless or has a contentious relationship with their mother. "And I'm honored to be thought of that way, I really am, but at the same time, it doesn't exactly seem fair. Mothers can't be people. They can't have fun, can't drink, dance, dress up, or do anything that isn't modest or selfless." She pauses, dropping her head in her hands and sighing. "I admit that my behavior's been a little outlandish, a lot even, but I'm not sure why they seem to think turning their backs on me is the solution. I need them. And they either don't know that or don't care. I have no one to talk to anymore. People seem hellbent on starting arguments with me, usually over nothing. The only people who don't make me feel like a leper are Jean-Paul, Brooke, and Claire. And Lois."
There, the pen starts moving furiously. "What about Clark?"
This gives her a great deal of pause. Biting her lip, she turns her gaze toward the open window and the light pouring in. "Clark knows something's up. It's hard not to notice when everyone starts treating your mother like the mistress at a funeral, with the red letter 'A' embroidered on her chest. And..."
Dr. Griffin looks at her quizzically. "And what?"
She takes a deep breath. "And...he's becoming close with so many of them that I can't help but worry that soon he'll start treating me the same way. If I lose him..."
She will not cry. She will not cry.
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You think he would chose them over you?"
"I don't like to think of it like we're on...teams. But he's bound to start seeing me the way they seem to see me. However that is."
"Martha..." He studies her for a moment before continuing. "You seem to have this conspiracy theory that the whole world is working against you."
"No." She shakes her head. "I'm just not used to being...shunned like this, if that's even the right word. I'm just...very, very lonely."
"Hmm." The scribbling on his notepad goes on for at least a minute before he looks up again. "What do you think needs to happen before they stop? 'Shunning' you, or whatever the case may be."
She sighs. "At this point, it looks like I'd have to join a convent."
"We both know that isn't true."
"I don't know, honestly. No more drinking - not that I even do it that often, it's just that when I do, I really do - no more...tattoos in Hong Kong. No more Lionel."
"Are you prepared to do all that?" He knows the answer to that as well as anyone.
"The drinking? Yes. Tattoos in Hong Kong? God, yes. Lionel? No. And that's the kicker. But they all seemed to love me just fine three weeks ago, and I was with Lionel then too. I don't know what's different now, I really don't."
"Do you think perhaps it's more that they're...fed up with it? They thought it was just a fling and you'd return to your sense in time?"
She nods solemnly. "Maybe. But I don't see why it should matter to them anyway. They're not the ones having the affair."
"Well, it might just be that they care about you and they don't want to see you get hurt. Or Jonathan, or Clark."
"Right. If they care about me so much, why are they slowly pushing me out of their lives?" She questions pointedly, and then, after a moment: "Jean-Paul told me recently that friendship is supposed to be unconditional."
That statement seems to be enough, and she has nothing more to say about that.
"It's funny. People seemed to like me a lot more when all I did was bake muffins and keep house. Go figure that one."
-