Before The Sunrise

colors

I can't start my new job till Tuesday because after school on Monday, Bradford drives me to Annapolis to visit the latest brain shrink. This is the fourth one he's made me try. I wish he would've given up by now. All of them have specialized in this specific brand of therapy that claims to be incredibly effective in treating victims of childhood trauma.

I can't remember the names of the therapists or what the method was called, but I remember the results, which ranged from dissociated to bedridden with a migraine. Each time I refused to go back after a session or two, and I'm sure this one will go just as poorly, no matter how well-respected this person is in the field.

After a boring hour-and-a-half of highway, we pull up outside a bright blue house. Bradford comes into the office with me, and I squish some fidget toy from the table in my hands, zoning out while they talk. Then all of a sudden, he's gone, and I'm alone in the office with a 40-something white lady with frizzy hair and glasses.

She hands me a neon yellow remote thing on a lanyard.

"Press the button," she tells me.

It clicks. That's it. What am I, a fucking dog?

"It's a trick I use with nonverbal clients," she explains. "Click once for no, twice for yes. Do you understand?"

I'm not sure why fucking shaking my head or nodding won't do the trick, but I click the thing twice.

"Great. So, James. Is that a good name for you?"

Two clicks.

"Were you listening when I was talking with your guardian earlier?"

One click.

She laughs. "Fair enough. My name's Beth, and I have all the degrees I need to treat you. Do you believe that?"

I narrow my eyes, clicking twice.

"Well, if you need proof, my diplomas are behind you."

I don't need proof. Beth leans over and opens a drawer into the coffee table separating us. She pulls out this big laminated poster thing that looks like a placemat for children and lays it out on the table facing me. It looks like a picture of a four-square court with words on it.

"So, these are the zones of regulation. Essentially, a lot of people have trouble understanding their feelings and expressing them, so this psychologist created this system to sort our emotions into states of energy and alertness." Beth points at the blue square in the top left. Inside the square, it has a sad face with the words "bored," "sad," "tired," and "sick" listed in big, black letters. "If you're in the blue zone, it means you're in a state of low energy and awareness. You might be experiencing brain fog or moving slowly."

Then she gestures to the bottom right corner, in bright red. The face in that square has its eyes squeezed shut and its teeth clenched in a grimace. The words in that box are "overjoyed," "panicked," "angry," "terrified." I don't quite understand how overjoyed and terrified go together in the same box.

"So then, if you're in the red zone, you're so high energy you might feel out of control. Your heart races, you feel hot, and your muscles are tense, for example. Take a look at the other ones and click twice if you understand."

I observe the other two colors, green and yellow. It looks like green is chill, in a good mood, relaxed, while yellow could go either way. The yellow box has the word "excited," but it also has "frustrated" and "worried." I point between the words, looking back at Beth curiously.

She nods. "Yeah, so those seem pretty different, but it's not really about the root of the emotion, per se, as much as it's about the state of energy it's putting you in. Are you okay with sports analogies?"