There are about ten of us. Everyone except one girl is older than me. They pair me with her for the first get-to-know exercise. She’s a vegetarian, likes trains, and dreams of riding the Trans-Siberian, like I do. A few seconds of the joy of recognition. She likes embarrassing situations—likes when she embarrasses herself. Same, I say. We could be friends.

I borrowed the course leader’s book, anonymized psychotherapy conversations. The book is boring, written as dialogues with the occasional empty description of the seasons in the city we both live in. One character is a tiny bit more interesting, an insecure girl, Stina. Maybe borderline. Emotional instability. Periods of darkness. Suicide attempts. The rest is mostly boring. Lately everything bores me. Especially myself. In the writing class I write only superficial crap; I can’t relax around people. I become unpleasant; I want to provoke. I’ve already managed once.

First exercise: we write about an imagined flower. I spit out disconnected sentences. I don’t think; I’ll do that later.

Flower

‘Violet. Pretty, in a bush, surrounded by grass and other plants, purple in color. What is a violet like? Smells nice, uncomplicated, simple, grows well on its own, doesn’t need much care. There in the neighborhoods of my childhood. Original safety. Grounded. Safe. In the little woods of my childhood. I always return to the simplicity of the violet. “A violet is a modest flower, but the whole world loves it.” Shorten, simplify, be beautiful without embellishment. Simple, fragrant. Don’t struggle. Be humble but broad. Close to the earth. Slightly bowed? But content. Color? What is that color like? A blue rim? Violet. Do you look for them? Rest.’

Edvard Munch, Self-Portrait

‘Lord, this is so hard. There he stands, Edvard in his room. An ordinary, simple, spartan room. That naked woman on the wall. He is so lonely. We’re in our shells. Bed, clock, pictures. The door is ajar. How lonely a person can be. A sickbed. Is this world a hospital? Who is healthy? Who is sick? What is what in this world? Why is he making his self-portrait? What does he want? Is he less lonely painting himself? Some days just pass. Time just passes. Think. Be. Choose someone. Be chosen. Settle. Come. Hospital bed. Get up from it. Nailed-down. Stasis.’

Release

‘More and more fragmented. Who, how, and why am I? Maybe listen more. Let tears and joy run. In freefall. Don’t prettify sentences. Hey, today in passing I ran into Meaning. We didn’t recognize each other. Move along. You’re just eating shit. What fucking writing—you’re not cut out for it. You’re a nitpicker; you prettify things. Then things lose their edge, become boring—so prettified. That flow of hers is good. But it’s fucked. First conflict in the healing-writing class. Stick on a band-aid when you can’t heal. Beni, you’re my best friend. You loved me as I am. Fairy tales, flowers, spring. Spasms of orgasm, semen. Plastic descriptions of a dick. I got scared he was following me. He actually rushed to leave. Tanja, what the fuck. What little evil lives in you. Occupation of me. My mother occupied me. Invaded me, she says. Mother’s invasion. My mother’s fairy tales circle through me. Begone, bogeys. Hush.’

Expectations

‘Here it comes, it’s coming! That feeling! After how long? An hour? Two hours? We humans are so boring. You are not special. You are not special. You are just as boring as the ones around you. Everyone wants to be understood. Conversation. Say your opinion. Don’t listen. What do I expect? No negative emotions are welcome. Everything is supposed to be very positive. Ground within yourself. See yourselves in others. Learn more about yourself by comparing yourself with others. You are not special. This is meaningless. I expect nothing. You can’t write like this. You need to be alone. Oh, finally it’s over.’

Documents from drama sessions