The Absurd and Amazing Adventures of Cafe Girl: Everything

June 10, 2009


Over the weekend, I have a vivid dream. In my dream, I am pregnant, and the doctors take the baby out of me and show it to me. It's a cute baby. It's six pounds now, they say, but it'll be eight. They put the baby back into me.

Later in the dream I bump into an old boyfriend who asks me how pregnant I am.

Three months, I reply.

He says, Well, it's not my baby.

Of course it's not your baby, I say, it's not mine either. I'm carrying it for my brother.

In the midst of sleeping and waking, the words Pregnant with Promise come to me. It seems so hopeful, until I realize that the baby I am carrying in the dream isn't mine.

It's not mine either. I'm carrying it for my brother.

I wake up wondering, whose stuff am I carrying around? And what the hell am I carrying?

The Therapist takes me through a breathing exercise on Monday. She asks me to identify as I breathe deeply (and cry), what parts of my body are in pain.

My shoulders, I say. She asks me to describe the pain or discomfort. I identify a heaviness.

What does it feel like, she asks.

Like I'm carrying something.

What do you feel like you're carrying?


Everything. From fear, to worry, to frustration, to expectation, that on which I put on myself, that on which I perceive others put on me, that on which I think God has for me. Can I hear God? Do I hear him correctly? Am I doing the right thing? What is the right thing? Am I wrong? Am I petulant? Am I stubborn? What do I want? What does God want? The Therapist writes all this down on a legal pad.

How does it make you feel when I say, you don't have to carry this on your own?

I take a deep breath, my heart squeezes, tears start to flow.

You don't have to carry this on your own.

What do I feel? Fear. Anticipation. Sorrow.

After the exercise, The Therapist and I do a little processing.

That's alot, she says to me.

Yeah, I get that, I reply, sniffling, That's why I'm here.

You seem like a really conscientious person who just wants to do the right thing. There is a lot here to go over.
My voice begins to rise, I start to talk with my hands. You know what's stressing me out? The thought of waking up, every day, knowing that it's going to be like this. That I can't breathe and that I'm going to be anxious. Just that thought that I'm going to be like this for the rest of the summer makes me want to lie in bed and not get up. And we only have an hour and I always want to make sure we use it well.
The Therapist ponders. Sounds like you're just getting by, and a week is too long to wait, and an hour isn't enough time.
Something like that, I concede.
Would you consider coming twice a week?
Therapy, twice a week. I laugh. And then I start to cry.

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