When a memory is triggered

Gosh, that is a weird thing to happen. 

The other day, I started with a new therapist. I have seen therapists on and off most of my life. I usually struggle to stay the course for two reasons. The first is that I hate talking about things that make me cry, and the second is usually money. The last therapist we ended because I was feeling better, the sessions were going to go off Zoom back to in-person, and the person I was seeing didn’t have times that I could get to the office and also work. I really liked her, but we had to end. It’s been a few years, which have been pretty hard emotionally. I have set boundaries for the first time in my life, but that also means a few significant relationships have changed. While it’s upsetting, and some days it can feel pretty devastating, it’s better. 

All of that background to say, I was triggered yesterday in my first session. The new therapist had to review a list of questions for the intake portion. What brings you to start therapy? Are you or have you been suicidal? Have you ever received inpatient care for psychiatric reasons? Do you have a family history of substance abuse? And so on. The actual language of the question that triggered me truly escapes me; it was asking something about traumatic experiences as a child. Boom! I’m picturing my dad sobbing in a closet. My parents were in the process of divorcing, and my dad was living in a new house. I don’t know why we went there, but I remember the panic of searching. And I remember the panic of going to a neighbor to call for help. I remember being a terrified child. I have no recollection of anything after going to the neighbors. I don’t know if any ambulance came or the police. I don’t remember any follow-up conversations to see if he received treatment or even if he went to the hospital that day. 

That simple question brought on such weird feelings I hadn’t touched in years since then. The ones I’ve tried to bury. I remember having to go to that new house every other weekend. I remember never wanting to go in that closet, ever. I have no idea what was in that closet; frankly, I’m still not curious, but the door did haunt me. My dad lived in that house for many more years. It was a two-family home with a great yard. He lived on the first floor and had various tenants on the second floor. It had a huge eat-in kitchen and two bedrooms. One for Dad and one for my brother. One small bathroom between the two bedrooms. The living room was large enough with two seating areas. One of the couches was facing the TV set up. It had a tall back and soft cushions covered in a white and green stripe. The fabric was even soft for a couch, and it sunk in places where people sat the most. The other was set up in a more living room style, behind the TV couch, which was tucked into the corner of the large square room. That was also my bed. It was a pullout couch, the kind with the bar in your back. I never slept well there for more than that reason. Dad also had cats, more than I wanted. He had probably two or three in that apartment, and they always slept on or near me. I can still feel the weight of the one that liked to sleep on my head or across my neck. 

The kitchen was the darkest room in the house. It was a large box with dark cabinets around three-quarters of it. As a NYC apartment dweller, it was massive and had great storage. I remember the cabinets being dark wood and the floor a brown linoleum, and it was sticky under my feet. I don’t think it was dirty; I think it was just because of the type of linoleum. I remember my dad always had eggs and toast for me to make in the morning and frozen pizzas for my other meals. I remember him being in the house, but I only saw him a little bit. I remember sitting in front of the TV, wondering when his door would open, and he’d come out. I remember my brother wasn’t there much either. He had a car and a girlfriend and was not interested in his little sister. I watched a lot of police procedurals. I also wonder if, at this time, I was worried a lot about why he didn’t come out of his room. I wonder if, in the back of my mind, I was thinking about the man we found sobbing in a closet and having to run next door to call for help. When I think back on that apartment, I can remember so many details of what it physically looked like, and I remember a lot of anxious waiting while being super lonely. 

This is a lot to unpack from one standard question that I have probably been asked 100 times and why this memory, on this day.