PLAY THERAPY
I just returned from the weirdest thing. They called it “Play Therapy.” Only a handful of us were there, while the rest were at something called “Tough Love.” I feel so immature, like why did I have to play while other people got some tough lovin’? Actually, I could have played all day because Justin was in Play Therapy with me. Swoon.
Some flaky woman with the craziest giant black hairdo—like, so over-the-top
Hairspray the Musical
you wouldn’t believe it—brought us up in the elevator to the top floor (with only five of us in the ’vator, it was hard to get any arm-touching action without being obvious). The light in the room was gray, although it was warmer than the screened-in light of our floor. The only furniture was a circle of (nonfarting) chairs. Why are they always seating us in circles? So we don’t kill ourselves on the corner of a square setup? Anywho, the hair lady, who I shall now call “Big ’Do,” spoke in what she thought was a soothing manner. I wondered whether it was condescending or genuine. Big ’Do explained, “Welcome to Play Therapy. For those of you new to the experience, I hope you will find this a refreshing way to look at your ‘issues.’ [Finger quotes here.] Play Therapy allows us to use
our imaginations to free us from the constraints of physical walls … .” She went on from there, but that calm voice and the rocking motion of her ’do nearly put me to sleep. The gist of it was that we were given a topic, and we had to use our imagination to re-create that topic physically without actually using anything tangible, except the other people in the room. Of course, the people weren’t actually tangible either, since we aren’t allowed to touch anyone. Does any of this make sense? No? Example: Today the topic was “safe places.” We had to sit for way too long and think about what our favorite safe place was. Then we had to use what was in the room (i.e., the chairs and the humans) to re-create that place.
Big ’Do set the rules, “You must guide each other with your voices. If you describe the scene well enough, it will fall into place organically.” What does “organic” mean when it’s not describing fruits and vegetables? The whole thing was a little flaky. I thought this could have been my chance to get a little arm-on-arm action with Justin, but not a chance. The ’Do watched us like a hawk with big hair. Any time one of us got close to touching an arm, she would give a “gentle cough” as a reminder of the rules.
I chose to re-create my bedroom. I set up Sandy as my stereo (with Morgan as a speaker), Victor as a Willy Wonka poster, Colby as my bulletin board with the collage of punk and skater hotties you and I made, and Justin as—you guessed it—my bed.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” Big ’Do exclaimed. “This says a
world about you without you having to say anything at all. Now, go play!”
“Play what?” I asked her.
“Play like you are in your safe place. Use your safe objects and show us all how good it feels to be in this place.”
I walked over to Sandy and pretended to push her nose in as if I were turning the stereo on. I was this close to pretending her boobs were the radio knobs, but I thought better of it. Instead, she held up her fingers like buttons, and I pretended to put a CD in.
“And what kind of relaxing music are we listening to?” Big ’Do asked.
“The Dead Kennedys,” I answered, knowing this was not the answer she was looking for. Bobbing my head to the “music,” I walked to the Willy Wonka poster and the bulletin board and pretended to admire them by putting my hand on my chin and stroking it. I soon realized that people only do that when they have beards, and stopped. Victor cracked a wicked grin, and I was glad to see that Big ’Do allowed it. I smiled back. I could almost hear the corners of our mouths squeaking after not having used our smile muscles for so long, like the Tin Man in
The Wizard of Oz.
“Oil. Can.”
I slowly approached Justin. I made him lie down on the floor, arms to the side, legs straight out, to give the illusion of a bed. What was I supposed to do? I would’ve freaked if I could actually have lain down on him (although I would also have been petrified
that I would crush him). I looked at Big ’Do and said, “This is my bed. I like to lie on top of my bedspread and listen to music.”
“Go ahead, dear, just do it without touching.” Did she expect me to levitate? I overexaggerated a fake yawn and stretched, then slowly placed myself on the floor parallel to Justin. I turned on my side and curled into a loose fetal position. I could see the side of Justin’s face, the patches where he was starting to grow hair and the patches where he couldn’t. He had a small layer of fuzz on the rim of his ear, which looked like it had a velvety animal quality. All I wanted to do was reach out and touch it, touch him. I could hear his breathing, and I tried to align mine with his. It was almost impossible because I was so afraid of him hearing my breathing and thinking that I had fat person breath that I kept holding my breaths, until they ended up coming out in quick puffs. Justin’s chest rose slightly, and I saw the corner of his mouth spread. He was quietly laughing. I totally thought it was because of my breathing, but then he turned so his whole face looked in my direction and said in the quietest of voices, “This is pretty weird, huh?”
I let out a relieved sigh (but made sure not to do it in his direction in case my breath stank) and smiled, “Yeah.”
It was weird being in my “bedroom.” I haven’t thought about it in a while, how much time I used to spend there. I wonder what my parents are doing to it. My posters better be in the exact same place when I get back. What if Mara has moved into my bedroom now that I’m gone? She was always complaining about
how much bigger my room was. Nah, she’d never do that. She loves hanging out in her big sister’s room, I can tell. My bedroom door is the only one that she knocks on before she comes in. I miss her. But right now the only bed I’d like to be in is the one in front of me.
“Do I make an OK bed?” he asked me. Before I could think of a witty yet somewhat seductive remark, Big ’Do said, “Victor, it’s your turn.”
Foiled by The ’Do.
You will die when you hear what Victor’s safe place was: Wal-Mart. Isn’t that hilarious? Everyone busted up laughing when he said that, and Big ’Do told us that everyone is entitled to their own safe place without being laughed at.
“That’s alright,” Victor told her, “the only reason they laughing is ’cause they know Wal-Mart is safe ’cause I never got caught shoplifting there.” He thought this was very funny, and I wondered how serious he was. I remembered what he said back in Group about his mom having cancer. “I’m just playin’. It’s like they got everything I need right under one roof. And have you tried the popcorn from the snack bar?” I had, actually, and he was right. Quite good.
Big ’Do interjected, “I seem to recall from your files that your mom works at Wal-Mart.”
“You read my files?”
“It’s part of my job to get to know all of you,” ’Do explained calmly.
“Well, yeah, she used to work there. In customer service. Before she got sick.” Victor looked at Big ’Do accusingly. “Thank you
so much
for bringing that to everyone’s attention.”
“I’m sorry. I thought that was part of your safe place exploration.” ’Do looked concerned in a glazed way. The rest of us waited. I wondered if Victor would cry.
Victor glared at Big ’Do for several seconds, then dropped his head and balled his hands into fists. He took one big breath, then another. Quite suddenly, he lifted his head and announced, “Free popcorn for everyone. Anna, you stand over here.” And like that he directed each of us to our places amongst Wal-Mart’s rollbacks and cheap clothing. I admired Victor for being able to hold it together like that. I hoped that someday I could be that strong.
Sandy chose her grandparents’ house as a safe place. I got to be her grandpa’s favorite old recliner. Justin was the TV set that still had a rabbit ear antenna. All Sandy wanted to do was sit around and watch game shows.
Colby didn’t have a safe place. “This is Play Therapy, dear,” Big ’Do urged. “Pretend you have a safe place.” This didn’t help Colby, and he chose to pass.
“If I had known we could pass, maybe I woulda done that,” Victor argued.
“We’re very proud that you didn’t, Victor.” Big ’Do smiled knowingly.
“Speak for yourself,” Justin said. “My popcorn was stale.”
“And mine didn’t have enough butter,” I joined in.
Victor looked at Justin and me with a grateful smile on his face.
Justin’s safe place was, as expected, very cool. He set us up as his 1989 maroon four-door Volvo that his uncle Barney, a mechanic, fixed up for him. Victor was the obnoxious horn, which he took the liberty of demonstrating every time the room seemed just a little too quiet. Sandy and Morgan were the brake lights. Colby was a bumper sticker that said “Fight Racism,” and I was his stereo. Each time he pretended to turn me on (ah, who’s pretending?), I blared a little piece of a Doors song. He laughed, changed the station, and I sang a different song. “When you’re strange …” Turn turn. “Come on, baby, light my fire …” Turn turn. “Love me two times, baby …” He kept me on this channel, and I struggled to remember the words. I tried to use my best, sexy singing voice. As Justin sat in a chair in front of me and I stood, his radio, I felt so in control. My voice has never been a thing I hated about myself, and I could tell Justin wasn’t hating it at all. He even joined in and sang with me! I stopped singing for a second to hear his voice, and then he said, embarrassed, “I always sing along when I’m alone in my car.”
“You’re not really alone, though,” I pointed out.
He blushed a little and bit his lip. “I guess not.”
And then, “HOOOONK!!!”
“Thanks, Victor,” Justin said, smiling through gritted teeth.
“Just getting you back for the popcorn comment.” Everyone laughed.
Singing to Justin today was the first time I have sung in almost two weeks. And even though it was The Doors, it still felt really good. So good that I wish I could do it again. There’s no way I could sing in my room here, though, without some adult running in and telling me to be quiet. I love the irony of the Quiet Room: It’s the only room in this whole place where people are allowed to be loud.