I am unobtrusive and silent, offering my presence quietly to whoever needs me. You usually find me on the left side of the sofa where people usually sit when they tell their stories.
There are stories within stories within stories. Like nested Russian dolls. Like dreams. Like life.
And I am their witness.
You usually find me on the left side of the sofa where people regularly sit when they tell their stories. I am unobtrusive and silent, offering my presence quietly to whoever needs me.
I am usually the listener, but now I will be the one telling the story. It’s not so much mine; it’s the story of some of the people who sat next to me. Or hugged me. Or punched me.
I hear stories of loss and stories of love. More often than not, of both.
I hear stories of regret. “I wish I told her how much she meant to me.” “I wish he knew how much I admired him.” “Now that I look back, I am sorry I haven’t called more often.” “Why didn’t I pay more attention?”
I hear stories of anger. “How dared they treat me like I was nothing?” “Why didn’t I stop that f***** monster?” “I want to go back and shout it in their face - You were wrong!”
I hear stories of hopelessness. “It’s no use.” “It’s pointless, really; it’s never going to change.” “I don’t know why I bother”, “I’ll never find what I’m looking for”.
And then there are those stories that stop abruptly. “I’m sorry, I can’t continue”, and then they leave. Their burden is such that being in this room feels like an indulgence, like cheating pain, like undeserved kindness. I wish I could tell them more than to any others - “you deserve kindness, whether you believe it or not”.
From where I'm sat, I hear other types of stories as well.
Stories of redemption - “I never thought they would want to speak to me again, but they did. I wish I spoke to them sooner.” “I’m glad I built up the courage to address this; it made such a difference.”
Stories of hope - “It’s not perfect by any means, but now I can see a way out of this. I know there is something on the other side of this pain. And I know I can get there.”
Each story has a turning point, and I am witnessing it or hearing about it. Most of the time, this turning point catches people unaware, and in the moment very few realise this is “the turning point”. But everyone recognises it when they look back. So, it might seem it is worth walking towards it even when it seems futile.
And so, I sit here, a silent sentinel on the left side of the sofa, ready to catch the echoes of life, the whispers of hope and regret, the quiet turning points that make up the symphony of human experience. For, in every story, no matter how messy or incomplete, there is the potential for change, redemption, and a new beginning.
Each time I witness change, however small, I am reminded of the resilience of the human spirit, the unyielding ember of hope that flickers even in the darkest corners. And that, perhaps, is the most beautiful story of all.
Who am I, you wonder? The blue checkered pillow in the therapy room.