Communion Heals

Dee has struggled for years with voices, urges to cut, multiple personalities and suicidal impulses. She has been in and out of psychiatric hospitals. She has suffered every winter with severe depression. I have been seeing her for years.
            Here we were again. It was late fall and she was decompensating.

            “I found a box of cutter blades left by the carpenters,” she began, “I want to cut. I hear my father’s voice telling me to ‘go ahead.’ That’s what he used to say when I told him I felt like killing myself. He and my mother had eight living children and four children that were miscarried or died before they were strong enough to leave the hospital. We were poor. He would have been just as happy to have one less mouth to feed. He would yell at me or slap me when I didn’t move quick enough for him. I always felt he hated me.

            “Right now I feel like I want to die. It would be such a relief if I could cut myself.” As we talked her speech and tone were becoming more childlike.
            “Would you like to draw a picture with me,” I asked.
            She shook her head in assent like a little girl. I got out an artist’s sketch pad and crayons out from a cupboard in my office. I put them on the floor and sat down across from her. I chose a brown crayon and made an elliptical mark with the crayon and I asked, “Can you make something of that?”
            Immediately she chose another brown crayon and she began drawing fiercely with purpose. What she drew looked something like a snake with a large head. When she finished she wrote the word BELT on the page. Clearly she was implying that this was a belt with a large buckle like one her father used to beat her. When she was finished she was staring at the floor, unable to look up.
            I turned the page to a new blank page and I said, “I am not your father. Look at me. I am sitting over here. I will not move closer to you. That would scare you. I will not hit you or punish you. Look at me. Can you see I’m not moving and that you are safe now? And if you are making me into your father at least can you see I am a different father?”
            Then I turned to my dog, Greco, who had been lying on the floor during this session.
            “Greco,” I called.
            Greco got up stretched and came to me. I patted my left leg and Greco laid down with his head on my leg. I began to pet him.
            “See,” I said. “Greco is not afraid.” I continued to stroke Greco as I talked. Then I selected a green crayon from the crayon box and drew a different elliptical mark.
            “Can you make something of this?” I asked.
            She selected a lighter green and began to draw a scene. Her movements were slower and less frantic than the rapid forceful strokes she made while drawing her last picture. She drew a scene of a blond girl riding a bicycle, smiling. With each stroke of her crayon I spoke encouraging words like an adoring parent. Words like, “that looks good,” and “this is a happy scene” and “I see a bicycle emerging.” and “that’s a blond girl, like you,” and “she is smiling.”
            When she was finished I said. “I asked you to draw with me so that we could share something together. What I really imagined was that if you were a five year old girl and I were your father that I could try to tickle you and you me. We could laugh together. But I’m sure the thought of that scares you.”  

 She nodded in assent.

            “But I would still like to laugh with you,” I said. “So let’s play the silly goose game.”
            “What’s that?” she asked.
            “I will go first,” I said. “I will say I am a silly goose because…and then I will say why and you can laugh at me and I will laugh with you. Then you will say I am a silly goose because…and you will explain why and I will laugh with you.
            “Okay, me first. I’m a silly goose because I tried to plant grass seed and I forgot to rake the ground so the seed could not take root. No grass grew. I’m a silly goose.”
           She laughed a small laugh and I laughed with her.
            “I’m a silly goose for drawing a belt and thinking that you were going to beat me,” she said and then she looked at me and laughed and I laughed with her.
            Then I said, “I’m a silly goose because I drove too fast last week and got a speeding ticket,” her smile and laugh were growing now and I laughed and smiled with her.
            “It’s my turn,” she said. “I got a good one. We just got a new screen and I’m not used to it being there and sometimes I don’t see it and sometimes I walk into it and get knocked back.” She laughed a strong laugh, putting her hand to her face as if to cover her embarrassment. And I laughed along. “This was a good laugh we had together.”
            “Is this better than cutting?” I asked.
            “Yes,” she said. “I was looking for some way to release the tension and we did that when we laughed together. First, you helped me feel safe by sitting on the floor and drawing with me. I liked seeing you pet Greco. There was something about that that was very calming. And then you made fun of yourself and we laughed and I made fun of me and we laughed and the tension somehow left me. And I don’t have a scar on my arm and I don’t have the memory of hurting myself. This was better than cutting.”
            Dee is a devout Catholic so I used the imagery of her faith to explain what we just shared together.

“This is communion,” I said. “It is what you do every Sunday in church. It begins with the confession that we all make messes. It is modeled after the last supper where Jesus was laughing and drinking with his friends. This is what we just did. We confessed that we make messes and we laughed together, forgiving each other for the mistakes we make and sharing our human frailty with each other.”

            “Communion is much better than cutting,” Dee said.