Seeking Participants for: VIDEO THERAPY Study
Video Therapy is an innovative way to achieve better mental health. Participants control their counseling by taking an active role in therapy. Video Therapy focuses on the people in your life instead of the situations you are in. Participants take a survey at the end of the yearlong study. Why Video Therapy? Because sometimes you need someone to only listen.
• Yearlong Study.
• Innovative Therapy.
• Sessions are at the Psychology Research Lab on campus.
• Completely Confidential.
• Free. No cost to you.
• A licensed therapist will guide you to further help if needed.
• Stop by Lab for more information and to sign up.
Research Study Introduction:
What if the best advice you can get for yourself is from you? When someone is listening, it gives strength to our voice, even if the person listening doesn’t respond. Hearing our life out loud gives us clarity to self-heal. When listening to what is going on in your life, you often hear the solution.
Method:
Participants:
Adults living near the University Research Lab who volunteer for the study.
Materials:
Subject room with window to therapist room, vintage-style video camera, blank VCR tapes, white board/marker, stool, microphone.
Procedure:
SUBJECT enters room with a list of people in their life and writes the first name on the board. A therapist and vintage-style video camera are visible through the glass window in the adjoining room. Therapist doesn’t speak to SUBJECT, but hears SUBJECT over the microphone. Therapist turns camera on; a red light glows, indicating recording. Therapist’s room darkens. SUBJECT freely talks about person on the board. Everything said is confidential. Sessions are scheduled at SUBJECT’s convenience, with a minimum weekly attendance. During the next and subsequent sessions, SUBJECT discusses the next person on the list. SUBJECT may not talk about the same person in consecutive sessions. At the end of the yearlong study, SUBJECT takes a survey on the therapy received. The videotape is theirs to keep or destroy. Lab keeps no record of what is on the tape.
Session 1 - Subject #57: Eddie
Topic: Grace
So, this is weird, alone in a room, spilling my guts to no one. No one I can see, anyway. But I know you’re listening, and I’ll assume you’re watching through that window. Even though it’s dark in there, I can see a tiny red light from the video camera. You do realize no one has a way to watch a VHS tape anymore, but the vintage aspect is cool. Okay. The rules were on the flyer. Write a name on the board. Sit on the stool. Speak into the microphone. And, no one else will hear this, right? First, my name is Edwina. People call me Eddie, and I’m fine monologuing, by the way. I like to hear my voice. It’s just...it’s nice to see some kind of reaction, so I know how far I can take things. So here’s my warning. Some things I’m going to say will be shocking. At least I’m going to try. I refuse to be seen as mundane.
I’m starting with my daughter Grace. She’s the reason I’m here. She’s special, has this curiosity to soak up as much of the world as she can. I like to think I’ve had some influence there. She’s alive because it was my choice to have her, even though the circumstances weren’t ideal. She’s my purpose for living, and I want to be the best mom possible, which, I’m aware, is hard for some people to believe, those who judge as soon as they see me. This last thing is where I’m having some difficulty. I mean I like drama, but this is too much. Our happy little world suddenly exploded, and for the first time, I don’t know what to do.
Where to begin? We live just north of the university, and we’re happy here. I’m in the dining room, sewing at my worktable when Grace comes home and says, “It was outside, leaning on the wall next to the door. Everyone got one.” This was three days ago. She’s holding a large envelope the color of caution. It can’t be good news. She must know it, too. She’s gone pale.
I’m a fabric artisan, fancy name for a seamstress, and was making curtains for a new client when she came in. They’re a mucky blah-tone. Who chooses brown when there are marvelous colors like teal and magenta? Or a calming purple, like my hair. I should have recognized the muck to be an omen. The death knell to life as we know it presents itself as a bright yellow envelope. I blame the ugly curtains.
My friend Arjun peeks in right after, and says, “Did you hear?” His face is full distraught. I’m not sure why, but I’m suddenly anxious, and I flee the muck at my machine. Grace hands me the envelope and waits, frozen. I open it, but can’t focus, so I pretend to read the top page of the small stack of paper while Arjun makes everything clear. “They’re selling the building.” And just like that, my mind is vacant, and so is our future.
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So why should this matter? We move a lot. Always have. This happens when you’re renting. Grace is on her fifth home, and next fall she’ll be in fourth grade. So if you do the math, we move about once every couple of years. People question if this is good for Grace, but she transitions well, and all that moving has taught her how to make friends quickly, and that’s good. Right? So, why is this time different? Because it’s insulting. We’re not wanted. It’s being forced upon us. And it’s not my choice.
I shouldn’t take it so personally, but an eviction is not the image I have for myself as a good mother. I’ve never been kicked out of anything unless I wanted out and did something out of spite. I don’t like Grace to see me as the target. It sucks because we finally found a place that’s decent, one where we fit in. Arjun’s singsong accent softens the blow, reminding me to force several lengthy exhales. So, I’m focusing on the tune of his voice instead of what he says. Maybe I don’t want to register the words. Grace looks from Arjun back to me. Her usual smile is gone, and she’s still pasty. She knows what the letter means, even though it takes me a few seconds. We’re losing our home. We have to move again. And mostly, she probably thinks I’m a failure as a mother.
⌘
Our complex is a diverse mix of older students and ex-student dropouts. Plus some eclectics (me and Arjun), and a couple other weirdos I won’t mention. I’m trying to be nice. Grace and I get along with everyone, almost everyone. She’s very outgoing, and she’s thriving here. There’s sixteen apartments, and we all take care of each other.
Whenever Arjun is cooking, Grace yells, “Arjun is in the Yard.” Sounds like a prison term, and that would be almost accurate because there isn’t much to the Yard. It’s a common area with a lot of concrete and patches of grass in the dirt. But in the middle of this nothing is a barbecue grill, erecting like a monolith. Arjun is from India, and his cooking is phenomenal. Everyone congregates there when Arjun is cooking.
“Wait,” he tells Grace, and she lingers, watching with wide eyes, her curls hanging in her face. He performs his own little ceremony, spreads a towel before placing his spice case on the nearby picnic table. He carefully opens the lid, and quietly stands, looking at his spices. I’m not sure if he’s taking inventory or saying a silent prayer. Maybe he thinks of his home? The case is old, like it was his grandmother’s or something.
“Okay, get the garam masala,” he tells her. The jars aren’t labeled, but she knows which one to grab, even though the colors are almost identical.
When I ask her how she tells them apart, she says, “The texture is different. Some powders are more clumpy and some are balls or look like brown rice.” I’ve asked him where to get the spices, but he says you can’t buy them here, and he’ll mix some for me. I’m still waiting. Maybe he knows I couldn’t pull off a proper Indian meal with any amount of spice, and he’s trying to save me, and Grace, from myself.
Later, we usually move indoors, taking turns on whose apartment, depending. We’re usually up pretty late, and my Grace is right there talking with us. She sometimes has a hard time getting up for school the next morning, but she’s fine. Don’t get judgmental on me. She’s the only kid in the complex, and gives us the kids’ point of view on things, one with no filters. It’s refreshing. It’s good for her to be around different types of people, different lifestyles. You know, to see that there are different ways to live. “Dare to be different” is my motto. Something Granny taught me, but it’s like society is yelling at me to conform. Be the mom they want me to be instead of the one I want. I want Grace to recognize that with everything, there is a choice. Except for us to stay in our apartment.
Anyway, that evening, after we get the eviction notice, the other tenants gather in my apartment and discuss what we’re going to do. Everyone but Beth, which is fine with me. She kind of reminds me of my ex in the way she doesn’t look you in the eyes. I know what she’s hiding. Grace is in her usual place on the arm of our old couch, listening. No one has any answers. When there’s talk of trying to fight it, I see hope in her eyes.
Darrel, the ex-law student, says, “Nope. We don’t have a case to stand on. I checked. It’s written in our contracts.” The text about what would happen if the owner sells the building or if it’s demolished is highlighted in the copy of the contract that comes with the eviction letter. They only have to give us thirty days. Seems the lawyers thought of everything. I see Grace contemplating Darrel’s words, probably picturing us standing on our suitcases among boxes of belongings, the both of us defiantly claiming our ground.
Someone else suggests we rent a house together. I don’t remember who. My book reading buddy Daria says, “I’m going to move to the other side of town, closer to my new job,” which is sad because she always brings cake. She asked me once if it was hard on Grace being the only kid in our little village of adults, which I thought was odd. Daria isn’t as sad that we’re all splitting up. She doesn’t seem to need these people as much as I do, as much as Grace does. Grace keeps looking at me for answers, but I got nothing.
I can’t cook, so I order pizza for everyone, thinking this helps the situation. Grace doesn’t eat, even though I get her favorite—pepperoni and pineapple. The crisis doesn’t affect my appetite. I devour enough for the both of us. She has a piece of Daria’s cake, though. Mark, who has a business degree but works as a bartender, brings beer, and I open a couple bottles of wine I have in the cupboard. A good mother’s supposed to make things right, and all I can do is pick up the paper plates as people finish eating. And eat cake. A few stragglers stay late into the night. Grace stays up to hear every word we say.
After they leave, she climbs in my bed, and I hold her. I’m trying to invade her thoughts with some sort of osmosis. For the first time, I don’t want to move Grace again. I don’t want to put her in another new school. Moving no longer feels good. It might be a repeat of the last place, so the timing of this therapy study couldn’t have been more perfect. And it’s great that the research lab is so close to my apartment. Anyway, I’ve got one month to figure this out, and it shouldn’t be this hard. Granny always said I have a superpower, but never mind that. Anyway, I need some help, so I hope this works. It has to.
