In the realm of counseling, we unearthed the truth: my father grappled with bipolar disorder, necessitating a need for daily medication to stabilize his mood. In November of 1977, our family embarked on our inaugural counseling session. The sacred walls of a classic brownstone, securely nestled in downtown New Haven, provided the backdrop for our transformative experience. I was nine years old. I felt awkward and uncomfortable. I chose to sit alone so I sat upon an old lumpy leather maroon chair, adorned with intricately carved claw feet that nestled against an ancient radiator. The room had huge ceilings with fancy moldings intricately carved and massive, single-paned windows, warped with age. Musty bookcases lined one wall, their earthy smelling shelves cradling volumes of wisdom next to an aged mahogany desk, laden with stacks of books and papers. I felt too old to play with any of the toys that were offered in a wicker basket on the floor and too young and uninterested for the cerebral arguments my parents were having along side my brother on the huge couch they all shared.
As I absorbed the scene, I suddenly felt as if I were disappearing or rather disassociating when I gazed up at the late afternoon sky which loomed heavy above. The sun, veiled in a muted gray hue, barely casting a glow upon the late afternoon sky. I quietly sat gazing out of the distorted windows watching the snow begin to fall as my brother engaged in a heated triangular dance with our parents. Lost in the moment, I allowed my imagination to weave a cloak of invisibility around me, longing to fade into the background, hoping to disappear entirely.
Little did I grasp the profound truth that, unbeknownst to me at the time, I would return to many more couches and leather chairs time and again over the course of the next three and a half decades of my journey through life.
