Three Therapy Rooms

BY Mary Spring

The old therapy room could be compared to a boot room. A tiny space of Dickensian dockland proportions. I half expected Fagin, the Artful Dodger or Bill Sykes to surface someplace around a corner of the narrow-structured building which housed this therapy room. A tired 1970s magnoliapainted room with its near inaccessible high window, it looked out on other hemmed-in edifices. Four doors were negotiated and if I went to the loo either before or after the session, well then, within the hour I would have opened and closed ten doors. The symbolism was not lost on me.

The room’s footprint meant that two decent strides over a lino flooring could see me easily exit the place but it also meant that, when seated, two people’s feet were quite close – though over time I could not but be impressed by the wide selection of shoes worn by the Imelda Marcos of the local therapeutic community! Of course, this was all projection on my part. I come from flat-shoe country. I wonder is there a younger version of me that would have liked to, at least, play with the idea of wearing high-heeled or more fashionable shoes. What would that have been like? What would have happened next?

Positioned on the low couch were a multitude of cushions. I’ve never been a fan of soft furnishings. I have never felt the need to gather them to my chest and hug them. Instead, my weekly ritual was to place most of them at the far end of the settee so that they sat there like a ginormous plate of pancakes; any remaining cushions were stuffed in by the wall. At the end of the session I would pause to conscientiously restore them to their original position rather than leave an impression that I was tossed and thrown by the hour’s movements.

The old room’s wall hanging invariably stirred a reaction in me. Feeling a bit bolshie, I found myself refusing to collude with this potential Rorschach Test lest an uncomfortable projection was to be unearthed out of the labyrinths, stairwells, doors and rooms of my unconscious. Yet, when sometimes gazing into the middle distance of a wall while urgently needing to stray miles from the therapist’s eyes, I would land on this mindbogglingly abstract picture. Feeling on the surface a jagged irritation and, at a deeper level, discomfort, I silently concluded I wanted blank walls; they breed some level of ease.

My hypersensitivity to movement, reaction and response meant I was watchful of the therapist’s own movements in this room. Where did she go in the regular silences that hovered at times like a loud hum? Why did she wear all black on one session? What, on another occasion, was the reason for her distraction or remoteness while sitting inches across from me? What was in the tired looking eyes? I noted my curiosity. I noted my concern.

The therapist in time moved her practice to another part of town. So I, as the client, moved too. In hindsight I regret that I didn’t mourn the tiny old boot room. I blindsided the therapist (or was it myself?) by occasionally commenting on the change with a light-hearted and a complimentary touch – a touch that I think belied something deeper, personal, meaningful and authentic. In the therapy room, everything is relevant … everything.

The new room had a Georgian elegance about it. It was spacious. It was carpeted. Tall walls with a freshly painted light grey hue and windows that ran nearly from floor to a high ceiling gave it a polished finish. Sturdy chairs that would not be out of place in a residential care setting were positioned in the near corners of the space. The de rigueur clock was positioned behind me. Two small picture frames adorned the watching wall. More abstraction, for good measure.

In this new room my vigilance eased. The therapist’s library of shoes became less an object of curiosity for me and the passing years encouraged me to drop, at times, my protective armour and come more and more into the sometimes unsettling and turbulent here-and-now of my life. During tough periods the room became a very comforting sanctuary. A deepening sense of care and mutual liking grew.

Time passed and I began to meet my own clients. I decided to meet them in my home setting. What is the room like? Three bare white walls are warmed by the fourth wall’s distinctive purple colouring found on the wrapper of a Cadbury’s bar of chocolate. Two armchairs are positioned diagonally, and at a distance that reflects the times we live in. A picture depicting a wooden pathway and, potentially a revealing therapeutic tool, has yet to be hung in the last seven years and, in all probability, will never be hung. There’s not a cushion in sight.

To access the room, clients walk down the side of the house. Invariably they encounter Belles, aka HRH (Her Royal Highness), the beloved, beautifully-natured and well-proportioned cat who has a penchant for fillet steak. Some clients ignore her. She ignores some clients. Other clients, I suspect, wish to see her more than they wish to see me. They call her by name as they reach the back garden and she basks luxuriously in their gentle strokes. She has even sat in on a session or two, albeit on the gestalt-styled third seat. Of course, I have checked with the clients that her presence is ok – I am ethically-minded! Her third-party purpose has not been to witness a client’s movements but true to a body-mind approach to therapy and to life in general, she self-soothes – she sleeps, she snores, she raises an occasional caustic eye and throws out a paw or two in a delightful stretch.

It’s dawning on me that this piece has become a homage to a cat. I think I might just stop here! When you reflect on it, however, our therapy rooms are richly significant. They are not simply a location; they are a space in time where two hearts meet. Our response, be it as a therapist or a client, to these rooms is worth being curious about. And as I close this piece, I think of the three therapy rooms that have been intrinsic parts of my life. How do I feel? I feel lucky. I feel blessed. I feel at home.

 Mary Spring is an accredited psychotherapist with IACP. She has a private practice in Galway city and is a tutor/lecturer with ICPPD.

IAHIP 2022 - INSIDE OUT 97 - Summer 2022