Jar of emotions

Five years ago, when I was but thirteen years old, I vowed to never go to therapy again; today I would break that vow. The building was a rather plain building; beige walls, brown sofas and coffee tables, the cliché therapy office. I sat in the waiting room, waiting for my name to be called.

“Aja.” Called the desk lady. I raise my hand slightly and walk into the gestured room. The room was very displaced in the plain building. Unlike the rest of the building, this room was vibrant. It had electric blue walls, a pear white couch, a dark wooded desk in the back, and a white cushioned chair in front of the couch. A nice-looking lady with fair hair and chestnut eyes motioned me to sit on the couch.

“Please, sit.” The doctor said gesturing to the couch. Wearily, I sit down on the couch. The doctor wore a white coat, blue pants, and a white shirt. She held a brown clipboard and black pen in her hand. “My name is Dr. Carol, what brings you here today?” My head snaps up at her soft voice.

“Oh, um, uh.” I stuttered.

“It’s okay to be nervous. Just start by telling me what’s troubling you.” Dr. Carol said.

“Okay, um, five years ago my father was brutally murdered, my mother became a drug addict, so child services took me to live with my aunt. In my life time I have had over fifteen kidney surgeries due to numerous diseases and complications during my birth. I have been told I cannot be fixed. My best friend died last year. My brother refuses to see me, oh and I’m not getting along with my classmates.”

The doctor stared at me, mouth agape.

“Sounds like you have been through a lot these past few…years.” Dr. Carol said. “How do you cope with these emotions?”

“I don’t,” I replied. “I pushed them down a long time ago. That’s another reason why I come to you today. I’ve buried my emotions so far deep that I no longer know how to get them back. I’m starting to feel like something is always wrong, but I do not know what, I am forgetting why I am upset, and I cannot even cry anymore.”

“What do you mean you cannot cry anymore?” Dr. Carol asked.

“Exactly that. I can’t cry. I spent so long forcing myself to swallow my tears that I have forgotten how to. I do not cry at death, movies, while reading sad stories, or when I break bones.” I explained.

“I see,” Dr. Carol said, writing in her clipboard. “Well I have the perfect solution for you. It is something I call ‘jar of emotions’. You are going to write down all your most painful memories and put them in the jar.”

“Are you sure about this?” I asked.

“Yes, I believe that this will help you.”

I give her a slight nod and take the paper and pen she gave me. Suddenly, every violent, brutal memory came rushing to the surface.

“Come on!” I shout to my best friend. “My aunt will kill me if I am not home in twenty minutes.”

My best friend Sarah stumbles to the car, keys in hand. The smell of booze filled the air.

“I got this, just jump in and let’s go!” Sarah slurred. We both jumped into the car laughing and drove onto the highway. The music was blaring, our laughter ringing through the air like a siren.

“Sarah watch out!” I shouted as she swerved into an oncoming truck. Soon real sirens filled the air.

I drop the paper in the jar.

The sound of doctors shuffling about rings through the air. The man who played his guitar and sang to me before this has disappeared. The beeping of the monitor is my only lullaby. I clench my fist till my knuckles turn bone white to disguise the shaking. It is nearly impossible to hear the doctor shouting orders of the clattering of my teeth and the beeping monitor. The male doctor inserted an IV into the top of my hand. I could barely register the pain. I focused on the beeping monitor. Beep. Beep. Beep. The other male doctor with the kind face and fair hair came over to me with a rubber mask. With a wide grin, obviously meant to calm me, he secured the mask onto my face. The words he spoke are lost in my memory; the only sound constant is the beeping. Beep. Beep. Beep. Once the mask is secure, the man shoots me another soft smile and tells me something of what I can make out as him telling me the gas is about to come through. This is the part I dread the most. It all goes well at first. My body goes numb and I feel as though I’m flying. Touch is always the first to go. After about ten seconds of blissful soaring, smell abandons me. Soon after, taste follows. All that is left is sight and hearing. Dark spots cloud my vision as I fade out. Soon, the merciful feeling of unconsciousness over takes me and all I am left with is the beeping of the monitor.

Another paper goes into the jar.

I lay in bed playing with my toys. I know I should be asleep, but I was too excited for my birthday tomorrow. My head snaps up from my game when I hear shouting coming from downstairs. I rush downstairs and peer in between the bars of the stair case into the kitchen. Mommy was crying in the living room while daddy was in the kitchen. Three strangers, all male, were in my house. One held a gun to mommy’s head, the other two were screaming at daddy. One of them got mad when daddy came at them with a kitchen knife and shot him ten times. The sound of the gun firing caused my ears to ring like church bells. The next day on my birthday, daddy was on the news. They said it was because those guys were angry that daddy was putting their boss in jail. I knew daddy should have never become a lawyer.

I drop the final piece of paper in the jar. A tear slides down my cheek. Soon that single tear turns into a raging sob.

“Finally, a break-through.” Dr. Carol whispered into my ear as she stroked my hair.