Giulia Ranchetti — Sessions
Posted on August 10, 2012
Giulia Ranchetti reflects on sessions in the blue room.
Once a week, on a Tuesday afternoon at 2:30 I would take the number 6 bus and get off at the 4th stop. I would cross the street and walk alongside the park to then enter the door of my therapist’s building.
Her house was grand, full of old clocks, artwork and vases. I only ever saw the entrance hall and the room where we sat facing each other. That room with the light blue walls was small, but inviting, it felt detached from the rest of the house. Every week I would sit down in my white chair that was not placed directly in front of hers, but slightly to the left. Behind her were many blue paintings, of the sea, the beach, the sky. She would look at me in silence until I said something, anything.
Silence dominated the room for the first month as I did not know what to say. She would sometimes ask me questions, but would mainly await that moment where I felt comfortable talking. When I had nothing to say I would stare at the blue paintings, awkwardly waiting for a noise, a word, a grunt, anything.
I started to hate the sessions after six months. I felt suffocated by having an appointment every week, by her questions, analytical skills and her penetrating stare.
But the intimate blues of the room were inviting. It was a room where I was the protagonist and Dottoressa Vitta was the director of a very tedious movie.
After a year and a half I was free from her judgements and her gaze, but the blue room is what is still with me. It was a welcoming area, where I slowly let go.