What I wanted to explain to Detective Jackson, but didn’t because I was savvy enough to know saying less would benefit me more while in this “informative, unofficial, friendly” interrogation, was that within just over one year I planned a wedding, got married, bought a house, moved into the house, turned thirty, and endured Kangaroo’s death and Mr. Cat’s near-fatal illness. And throughout all that I had a thriving full-time psychology practice. I was doing my best to cope with it all, but I was tired and stressed out. Or, as I learned in my own therapy, I was stressing myself out.
I knew based on several studies that happy moments in life can be just as physically taxing as unhappy moments. For instance, a wedding is a wonderful, joyous occasion, but the buildup and the planning and the anticipation and the emotional implications and the life changes are still processed in the body as stress, which spikes adrenaline and cortisol. The same can be said for buying a house and moving and doing well at a job. All these things are positive, but can leave a fingerprint of exhaustion, especially when large life events happen all at once, which they often do.
My mother’s yoga teacher forwarded me an email about a study being done on stress and telomeres. The scientists and researchers who created the study needed one hundred type A women for one week of enforced relaxation at a resort hotel and spa in Key Largo. The whole thing sounded like some sort of time-share ploy. An all-expenses-paid week of lounging by a pool and getting pedicures? Jason encouraged me to call. I didn’t want to.
He asked, “What’s the downside?”
“The downside,” I said, “is that I get tricked into this thing and then stuck in a six-hour lecture in a dark hotel conference room about the joys and financial gains of buying a vacation property.”
Jason gave me a look. He saw through to the real reason I wasn’t calling. My alien knew me too well. So I called.
The woman who answered seemed on the up-and-up and gave me a quick preliminary interview. No, I was not on any antidepressants. No, I was not suicidal. Yes, I considered myself type A. Yes, I worked full-time. Yes, I was highly organized. Oh, you want an example? Hmmm. I only use one pen until that one pen runs out. Then I throw it away, and use another pen. And all my pens are purple. Pilot Precise V5 Extra Fine Rolling Ball. Because purple is my favorite color, and I like my notes to have a cohesive look and . . . What’s that? Ah. I’m cleared for a second interview. Great.
I hung up the phone, terrified of taking a week off to do absolutely nothing. Jason could see me gulp down the horror of forced relaxation, but reminded me I was always encouraging my patients to take care of themselves and to explore things they were afraid of because that’s when growth happens. And for me, doing this insane thing like taking a vacation was both of those.
Not to mention I would also be helping science. Telomeres, until recently thought of as useless strands connected to the tips of our mitochondria, were the new marker of life expectancy and health and aging. The longer the telomere, the better off the person. Scientists were buzzing about them. And this was an opportunity to be a part of a cutting-edge study—certainly the type A person in me would feel calmed by that notion. My idleness was actually helping further the understanding of the human body.
After an in-person interview and a blood test, I was accepted into the study. But I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to officially sign up. Alisha thought this was going to be the very best thing I had ever done for myself because it was an opportunity to stand up to my fear of stillness. She said she was very proud of me for considering it, and would be even prouder to see me take this on. Hearing these words from her made me well up. I was reminded of my report card on Roman’s parents’ fridge. Which made me well up even more. Of course Alisha noticed. “I see some tears in your eyes. Let’s explore that.” My emotions were close enough to the surface at this point in my life, because of being in therapy and being a psychologist, that I could answer with clear precision. “The tears are happy. Because you’re proud of me. But then the tears make me ashamed. Because if you’re proud of me, it also means you can be disappointed in me. And how could I live with that?”
My last attempt at not committing to the study was the parking. Yeah, they were paying for a gorgeous hotel room on the beach for a full week, plus all my meals and various fun activities and fascinating lectures, but, I told Jason, “if they don’t cover the cost of parking, then forget it! I’m not going!” So I called, ready to be irate, and the nice lady told me of course the study covered all parking fees. I wouldn’t have to spend a dime. There would be absolutely nothing there that would add stress, physically, financially, or otherwise, to my life. Damn it. I had no other excuses to give to avoid confronting my fear of relaxing. I cleared out my workweek, kissed Mr. Cat and Jason goodbye, and drove to Key Largo to rest for seven days. And to my dismay I was not given any kind of schedule prior to or after my arrival. No syllabus!
There were rules, however. We were allowed to check in with family once every evening, but general use of cell phones and laptops was prohibited. All distractions of work and family and the world were stripped away. We were left with just pampering and our own thoughts. Because they had carefully chosen women who would never allow themselves a weeklong vacation for any other reason, we were all a bundle of nerves. Twitchy even. Uncomfortably smiling at one another as we piled into the bright and breezy hotel conference room lanai.
They gave us each a full physical and again took our blood when we arrived. To get an official baseline. Then the organizer of the study gave us each a piece of paper. A cup of pens stood on each table. The paper had only one sentence: “I am a _____.” We were supposed to fill in the blank with our very first thought.
I am a murderer.
That was my first thought. And I was shocked that I thought of myself in this way. Why did that word pop into my brain instead of a thousand other words? There was no way I was going to write that down. So I wrote down my second thought.
I am a psychologist.
The first three days there were the hardest. I was going through major stimulation withdrawal. The lectures on sleep and nutrition and anxiety were interesting. And the healthful Ayurvedic meals were delicious. And I did enjoy my long day swims in the ocean and night swims in the Olympic-sized resort pool. But there was no hustle or bustle, nothing looming that I had to achieve, nothing for me to worry about. It was torture. My dreams were even more vivid and anxiety-ridden than usual. No more salt nightmares, but other things. Like trying to drive a moving car from the back seat, my leg almost reaching the brake but inches shy of it, my hands almost touching the steering wheel but my arms not quite long enough, watching as the car nearly crashed over and over again.