Dr. Marsh tells me to breathe, deeply. Again. Once more. I start to feel myself slipping into a state of...something. I’m calmer. I’m getting closer to the snowy beach. But I find this state to be confusing. I know, for a fact, that I could jump out of it at any moment and walk around feeling fine, but I just don’t want to. It’s like those moments when you’re about to fall asleep, but you still can consciously hear the ambulance siren noise from the street below.
That’s what Dr. Marsh’s voice is like: faint sirens in the distance that I kind of want to ignore, yet I’m still intrigued by where that ambulance might be headed, and think about who’s in trouble, and if they’ll be alright.
The session lasts about twenty minutes. I drift in and out of listening to my doctor, sometimes hearing every syllable out of her mouth, really trying to focus on myself, on my sexual state of mind, to channel her encouragement: “Keep in mind that you’re still in complete control of your body, I’m simply guiding you,” she says. Other times, Doc might as well have been speaking Mandarin, as I’m caught in my own head, questioning why we’re on Earth and trying to remember who killed Laura Palmer in Twin Peaks.