Paper Cup

If only good things lasted. Maybe not forever, but for as long as we need them.

This section of the riverbank has been my favourite haunt for the past year. There’s a chill in the air and my feet scrunch along a well-worn path. Ancient half-bare trees sway a little, their curling leaves settling after a languid descent. Soon they will be little more than trunks with skeletal branches; passers-by will observe them while clumping along carpets of rusty red and gold. Then they will turn to mulch, and traipsing visitors will long for the promise of Spring. On the river, a boat chugs past and I wonder where it’s headed. I like to think I will return to this spot, but what are the chances? After today, life will move on, and the scene will fade into a distant memory.

In half an hour, I will be at my weekly port of call. A place where for the past year I’ve found respite from life’s storms. Today is my last “session” with the kind of therapy group I might once have disdained until I needed help. It’s hard to take the finality on board now I’ve come to care for its members, listened as they poured out their troubles, and revealed their innermost thoughts. Every Monday afternoon, apart from a brief comfort break, we spend two hours forming a circle, sharing one another’s tears, trials, and occasional triumphs.

It will be horrible not seeing them again! However, by its very nature, life is punctuated by a series of partings.

***

My meandering has made for a late arrival at the adult education centre where the psychodrama group holds its sessions. Yes, you heard it right. Psychodrama. Something recommended for me by a therapist because it’s good to interact with others. Dashing along the upstairs corridor, a familiar mustiness overlaid with the lemony tang of cleaning agents, assaults my senses. The door opens onto a room normally used for student drama classes; for me, it feels like a cocoon for the oppressed and struggling.

Breathlessly apologetic, I take my usual seat, seeking and finding reassurance in Sarah’s smile. Out of the group, she’s the one I’m going to miss most. 

Apart from the first session, there’s never been a “full house.” Originally ten members joined the group, but it soon dwindled to seven or eight regulars. The leaders, or facilitators, are a tall man with long grey hair tied back in a ponytail called Josh, and a raven-haired woman called Ronnie, who wears various coloured capes. Today’s one is made of a serene green velvety material; her hair is pulled into a coil and fixed with a wooden clasp. Whereas Josh is a mask of fortitude, Ronnie’s expression is more open.

Closeted in a room on the upper floor, we prepare to take on the world. Perhaps because it’s my last time, I’m more aware of my surroundings. To one side, there’s a long table covered in theatrical props. These papier-mâché objects which have lain dormant all these weeks, now assume a fresh poignancy.

It would normally take years to get to know people that to all intents and purposes are strangers, in this way. I rarely see members outside this room – for the group is held some distance away from my hometown. Like battle-scarred veterans, we’ve shared much together: despair, sadness, laughter, anger, and the pain of regret.

Josh leans towards me, his hands forming a steeple. I know what’s coming next because there’s a pattern to these events. When someone’s come to the end of their time, members are expected to contribute in a way that will help the person to deal with the world “out there.” A place entirely lacking the solace that exists in this room.

“Well, Dawn. Today, it’s your last session.”

“It is.”

“How are you feeling about leaving?”

“I don’t know.” Inside I’m crying. “Erm… it’s going to be tough not coming here. Not to have the weekly support, I mean.”

Faces nod encouragingly. When they too have to move on, I won’t be there to see it.

I’m going to miss everyone so much! It’s going to be hard not knowing about their progress, or lack of it, once I’m gone. One of the group rules is that there will be no contact outside the group. It goes without saying that everything that passes between us is confidential and not to be discussed elsewhere. However, nothing’s mentioned about what happens once a member leaves. For my part, I’ve not spoken to anyone about what goes on here, not even Vic. It was the only part of my life I withheld from him. Ironically, it was our damaged relationship that led me to the group in the first place.

Faces look on expectantly.

“I feel like a baby who wants to stay curled in its mother’s womb.” Everyone laughs at this, but it’s exactly how I do feel.

Ronnie pats my arm. “You are ready Dawn. You’re so much stronger than when you first joined the group. We’ve all seen you grow. And now you’ve got your first job acceptance” That’s huge!”

“Yes, it is pretty great.”

“And you finally seem ready to move on from Vic.”

Everyone has seen me in pieces over Vic. His rejection cut me to the core – even when I came to see it was more about him than me. He had little love for himself; still less to give to anyone else. I see that now. It’s hard to believe he walked out only four months ago leaving me to contend with an empty flat and the unforgettable parting shot that I’d be better off without him.

Truly, I don’t know how I’d have managed without the group’s support. It was like being embraced by the branches of a tree while the wind howled above me. I seem to have come a long way in a short time, finding tracks in a life that had become rootless.

***

There’s a heroic quality to Sarah who joined the group a month after me. A cushion behind her, she arches her back, wincing slightly. Her hair hangs loosely over her long oval face and her eyes are the golden brown of a sun -kissed earth. Before she injured her back, she was a hospital ward sister; now she can no longer work. She once told the group she kept herself sane by making origami creations and gift cards. I imagine if I stepped into her house, it would be full of pine furniture, white walls, with posters of Picasso and Monet (it is possible to appreciate both), and fine Moroccan rugs. When I asked her about the origami, she explained her best pieces were suspended by wires from her studio ceiling.

Ronnie interrupts my train of thought. “If you’re comfortable with this, Dawn, we’ve decided to do things a little differently today. As you know, when it’s someone’s last session, anyone who wants speak about their time here, can. The difference today is that Sarah’s offered to write it all down – if that’s alright with you.”

I nod. “Thank you. That’s a great idea.”

“It will be something tangible, for you to look back on,” Sarah says.

Prophet-like, Sarah unrolls what looks like a scroll but is actually a large piece of paper. Another prop. As she clips it onto a board, I’m soothed by her calm aura. Yet I also recall the times she’s spoken of living with chronic pain and fatigue and the effect it has on Claire, her partner. The deepest hurt is that her parents have never accepted she is gay.

When Sarah shifts, her face momentarily etched with pain, I have to fight the impulse not to leave my seat and go and hold her.

“Well, if I can kick things off, I think you’ve come a long way in recognising your self-worth, Dawn.” Her tone is clear, but conveys strong emotion. And it’s true. When I first joined the group, my self-worth had drained to a trickle. Now, it’s starting to emerge like a lotus flower surfacing from a pool on a stalk, opening its petals to receive the sun.

Bert, who is crippled by shyness and sexual terrors, barely able to look a woman in the eyes, says, “You are stronger than you think, Dawn.”

It’s the first time he’s spoken my name. Only the week before he’d related his terror at being suffocated by another person’s body, of being smothered to death in the sexual act. His fantasies are so lurid, he’d be ashamed to speak about them. Even with us.

“I can see you moving forward when you leave here, Dawn. You’ve been freed up.” This from Zach, a more recent, somewhat outspoken member, who struggles with severe depression most days.

Sarah continues writing in large looping strokes.

“It was great to see you turn your energies into applying for a job,” Priya, a woman who was an executive before she got burn-out, tells me. I remember one session where she broke down admitting she’d hated having to be ruthless at work all the time. Before she’d left her job, she’d come to the point where she was unable to leave the house. She turns to me. “I remember you telling us you weren’t able to make decisions before you came here, and now you’ve managed to get yourself a job.”

“I feel less clogged up now that Vic’s gone.” I can’t believe I’m saying it, but it’s true.

“Better to be on your own than in a toxic relationship. You’ve been released.” This from Roger, a man who is desperate for a relationship, but has never got beyond kissing a woman from his church.

Their words are like a balm to the soul. I will carry them with me when I need them in the weeks and months ahead.

Pausing, Ronnie asks me to select one of the theatrical props.

“Choose whatever you like and then bring it back to your seat.”

I return with a large goblet and hand it to her.

“But this is for you, not me,” she says. “Think of it as representing all the good things that are coming your way after you leave here. Please. Take it.”

To my amazement, I’m unable to accept this “gift.” I gulp back mutinous tears. I refuse to cry on my last day.

“What’s happening here?” Ronnie asks.

“I don’t know. I’m struggling to accept it.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I don’t think I deserve it,” The revelation is shocking. Deserving to be happy hadn’t occurred to me.

“I want you to accept the goblet,” Ronnie says.

“Okay, I’ll try.”

She passes me it, but I hold it at a distance. Ronnie’s eyes glisten, the professional mask slipping. “Take it, Dawn. You deserve it.”

“Do I?” I’m finding this... It’s a bit like climbing a mountain when I’ve no head for heights.

“What does it feel like to hold the cup?” Bert asks shyly.

I turn it round in my hands. “Physically, it’s light. I mean it’s made of paper and glue. But emotionally, I don’t know. It’s going to take some getting used to.” Getting up, I return the goblet to the other side of the room, then spend the rest of the session unable to take my eyes off the thing.

After the session, Roger asks if I’d like to meet up.

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.” The words feel mean somehow – especially after all the nice things he’s said about me during the session. Having experienced rejection in spades from Vic, I hate having to reject anyone, but I’m not attracted to him. I know he will want more than I can give. Besides which, it’s going to take time to get over Vic.

Somehow I reach the door, having managed to say nearly all my goodbyes without collapsing, when Sarah taps me on the shoulder.

“Hey.” She holds out her arms and I catch the familiar jasmine scent, feel the warmth of her embrace. I long to suggest meeting up, except I’m scared. While I dither in an agony of hesitation, she hands me a small envelope. “A little something to open later,” she says. “My way of expressing gratitude for being there for me.”

“But I only listened, the same as everyone else,” I say.

“No. It was more than that. You got me. And you didn’t judge me.”

“Why would I? We’re not here to judge other people.”

“Oh, but people do. All the time.”

I clutch the envelope. “I’m so glad you wrote everything down. I’m going to treasure these words.”

“The least I could do. My way of saying thank you. I hope you find it helpful.”

As we head towards the door, I have only good memories to take away. Maybe it’s better to leave on a good note, not try and turn it into something more.

Outside, a woman is waiting in a trench coat.

“There’s Jane, my partner. We’re planning on heading for the park. In my case – it will have to be a slow stroll. Well, all the best, Dawn. Good luck in your new job.”

“Thanks. All the best to you too…”

Sometimes words are inadequate.

***

Riding on the top deck of the bus on the journey home, both elated and sad, I process the many images of my time at the group. The paper with Sarah’s writing is rolled up in my bag like a parchment. I’m dying to find out what’s inside the envelope.

The first thing I do when I get home is unroll the paper and study the words. The heading is underlined with a felt pen and entitled “Dawn Is.”

In this instance, Dawn is determined to keep busy. I find a spare clip frame, place the paper inside, and hang it on my bedroom wall. I want it to be the first thing I see when I wake and the last thing before I turn off the light. I place the envelope in the back of a drawer – I know I’m going to need to open it at some point, just not right now. I’ll wait until I’m feeling really low.

That low point comes a few weeks later when Vic passes by on the other side of the street without acknowledging me. I feel frozen inside but keep walking. Admittedly, our last meeting went badly. We were unable to part as friends so his avoidance shouldn’t come as a surprise.

Suddenly I can wait no longer. Imagine my surprise when on opening Sarah’s envelope I discover a tiny origami cup. Unless she was psychic and had known in advance about me choosing the goblet prop, she must have worked on it during the group’s break.

***

It’s been a long time since my last group session. I sometimes find myself wondering how everyone is getting on. Apart from once encountering Roger in a shop where we both waved awkwardly, I’ve never come across anyone else from those days.

Slightly faded, the paper still in its original frame and fixed to my bedroom wall, is an embodiment of hope. I’m forever grateful for Sarah’s composition of these meaningful affirmations. Concentrate on something good for long enough, and you may actually start to believe it. Now, as I reach for the origami paper cup, it feels like a vessel to hold space for my own happiness.