Cognitive Therapy

I once had a friend named Briney. He came into my life at the age of 3, shortly after I left daycare at Mrs. Boe’s house in Rapid City and moved to Norfolk, Nebraska. My mom didn’t work for the first few months after the move, so it was just her and I at home during the day, and I missed playing with friends my age. The timing of his arrival was perfect.

He was imaginary.

Briney, named after my dad (Byron) and grandpa (Reiny), was so fun to hang out with – he was willing to play whatever I wanted; he’d even show up for tea parties. He never had to go home for dinner and he was welcome anytime because my parents thought him well-behaved.

During this time - the early 70’s – “the Exorcist” hit the screens, and the book “Sybil”, about a woman with sixteen multiple personalities, landed on the bookshelves. These stories fueled my dad’s imagination a bit, causing him to worry greatly about who Briney might be; therefore, he tried to “do him in” whenever he had the chance. When driving down the road, he would ask if Briney could come up and sit with him. Then, he’d open the car window and throw him out, saying, “There, he’s gone”. I’d reply “No he’s not; he’s sitting right here beside me”. 

Briney left when I went to preschool. The poor kid likely didn’t feel needed anymore. He likely moved on to befriend some other lonely, bossy kid.

I recently had three sessions with a pain counselor, under the discipline of psychiatry (this insinuates that I take drugs for my pain. You bet I do.)  She used cognitive therapy-type-methods to teach me how to pull myself out of the slimy-creature-infested culvert when I end up there.

I began by keeping a journal of the thoughts I have about pain; particularly when I’m having a bad day. Thoughts like this: “I’m so sick of sitting on a couch trying to read a book in pain”, and “Ugh, I just know I’m going to feel this crappy tomorrow too, and I’ll have to leave work early, and I’ll lose my job and have no friends, and my husband will leave me and I’ll grow old and yellow and bony and I’ll be all alone and my kids will only come to see me on Christmas and I’ll die and no one will even want my ashes”.

I brought my journal to my next appointment and read my entries. She responded, “These are ANTS – Automatic Negative Thoughts. Fear is a common emotion of people who have chronic pain.  Therefore, it’s easy to respond to pain with ANTS”. The rest of my time with her was focused on learning how to combat them. The way I understand it, you kind of talk to yourself and say things like “I have many tools to control my pain; enough to still enjoy my life”, and “My boss has not even noticed my struggle because I am still getting all of my work done; therefore, I will not lose my job”. I left, admitting it made some sort of ridiculous sense, like it was actually worth paying her $200 per hour to suggest I begin talking to myself. I decided to give it a try.

Later that week, in the middle of the night, I started to sweat profusely. I got up and felt dizzy, drugged. This is how I know it’s going to be a bad day.

The alarm went off, and I sluggishly hit snooze. My whole body ached; like a silent roar inside. I hit snooze multiple times, and slid out of bed like a slug-like snake. I took a long shower, put my robe on, and warmed up the iron. “How am I going to make it through this day?  I hate this. I never know when it’s coming. Oh my God if I feel like this tomorrow, only worse, I don’t think I’ll be able to get to work and the people there will start to question if I can do my job”. I continued to stare at the clothes hanging in my closet. Then, I felt a sudden warmth next to me, a warmth that had a sense of space and shape. I breathed deep, and felt a twinge of calmness. “Amy, it always gets better the next day. And your tramadol always helps you feel better by mid-morning.” The voice inside my head actually felt somewhat assured, calm.  “And if you have to leave early, it’s ok, because tomorrow you’ll feel a lot better, and no one at work will even notice. Your work will get done.” I noticed that the voice was talking to me as if it were not me. It continued “When you get home tonight, would you like to have a tea party?”

That voice –that voice - it was Briney. He came back. Just when I really needed him.

I have found that cognitive therapy is a bit like having an imaginary friend; this person that has claimed and furnished some space in your mind lives there to tell you it’s all going to be ok, to stop worrying about things that you are just making up in your head. He warns when you are getting off-track, when you are going down that rabbit trail again, and tells you the same things over and over again, things that just seep out through the holes of your mind moments after hearing them.

I think you can tell how crazy people are by the number of imaginary friends they have. I don’t think it’s the people talking in their heads that defines them as crazy, I think the imaginary friends have come to rescue them in their craziness. So you see, the more friends required, the more crazy. Sybil had 14 personalities; the poor thing, she needed 14 friends to keep her breathing in and out. I figure if I have one, that means I am crazy, but for now Briney is keeping me at bay. ---alg