I arrive to find Olympia and her new beau Patrick visiting on the couch in the waiting room. I have not told you their story and the mysterious way I met Patrick but for now suffice it to say that I am so happy to see them both, and together, and I feel like a flower turning toward sunshine. Even on this rainy day. We speak lightly of pleasant things and I give her a thank you present of an organic cotton t-shirt with a peace sign spelled out in leaves.
She worked my head and worked my head. An hour of working my head. The roly poly strange stiff ball of my head. The shrunken head brought back to life. The ball of dough becoming me. She worked directly on that right sided area that has become so deadly. She suspects my cranial nerves are perpetually flared up so we work to calm them.
I am raised like marigolds out of a tomb of the winter earth.
She takes my pain in her hands and she works it, works it.
She takes my head in her hands and she works it, works it.
She takes my skull in her hands and puts it in her hands.
I turn myself over to her.
She takes the tendons and ligaments in my neck and she pulls at them, like stretching taffy, like a weaver at her loom, only my tendons and ligaments are her threads, her warp and weft.
She weaves me back together, and as she does she separates me from the pain.
She breaks its chokehold.
She interrupts its scream.
She gives Munch’s painting back to the museum.
Session 9 and I am getting my own identity back.
I am being sifted out from the pain.
I am being separated out from the pain.
When I leave her table, I feel eye-bright and nearly ready for anything.
Patrick has arrived with vegetable soup. He is waiting for her.
And I go to re- greet my life.
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