TMS JOURNAL: SESSION TWO
The IMAX Screen
Written by Elaine Degro
Disclaimer: This series reflects my personal experiences and opinions. It is not intended as medical advice. Individual experiences with TMS and mental health treatments may vary.
I arrived at the session positive and upbeat. I had virtually no physical side effects from the first session, other than being able to sleep very well. The doctor placed my cap, and off we went.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
My jaw clenched violently.
Day two, the attic returned… but it had changed.
On the right side of my brain was the attic. On the left, a long warehouse—also filled with boxes, but sturdier. The attic was still damp and musty.
The dose increased again—90%, with the intention to reach 100% in this session alone.
My jaw clenched hard. I heard a crack—like a filament snapping. In my mind’s eye, in my peripheral vision, the scene changed. I was suddenly in something that felt like an IMAX theater.
On the far left: blue sky. The sound of waves.In front of me: the warehouse. Enough light to see the boxes clearly.On the right: the attic—dark, tattered, smelling of rot.
A box tipped over.
Tennis balls spilled everywhere.
I remember thinking, what is it with these fucking tennis balls?
I couldn’t place the memory. Then it clicked, when I was younger, I had been given a tennis racket set in a professional case. I was obsessed with it. That’s what my brain was pulling from.
More boxes fell.
During the final ten minutes, my dose was increased to 100%. The attic stretched further. At the far end was a soggy box. Water poured from it. It just kept pouring violently, from this squashed, shitty ass soggy box. I felt my chest tighten. The rickety wooden floor beneath me became water. I suddenly collapsed into it, and I was drowning.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.
I swam upward and tried pulling myself out, grabbing onto any old box until I made it out, soaking wet. Lying next to this disgusting, soggy box, I decided to look inside it.
Inside the soggy box was my baby blanket. My teddy bear. And an orange box of basketball collector cards. It belonged to my dead half-brother, the one who changed my life when I was only four years old.
I touched nothing else.
I took my blanket. My bear.
I looked up as the tapping sounds were now loud as fuck and said:
This needs to go. This one needs to be eliminated. I know what he did to me, and I no longer need it inside me. I release it.
In my peripheral vision, the IMAX screen stretched. It grew. The waves grew louder. The blue sky expanded… just enough. A horizon appeared. A familiar beach.
And then the doctor tapped me and said, “We’re done for today.”
