Ink

The first time I went into the room, I had no idea that I would visit it so frequently and against my will. I didn’t know how it would steal my peace and make me tremble. I didn’t know I would struggle within its walls for months, and while trapped there, I didn’t imagine I would every be free again. I didn’t know how much my subconscious would leak into into my waking world. I still don’t know what more is dripping behind the doors of my mind, but I am less scared to turn the knob and enter.

…………………….

I was late for the appointment, and I DETEST being late. Tardiness makes me feel unprepared and unsettled. The knob didn’t turn as it felt locked, but it was just sticky. The metal was wet with ink -black- and all over my hand. I instinctively wiped it on my jeans just to be free of the wetness and was instantly annoyed that I had thoughtlessly stained the top of my leg. Black ink never washes out. I wanted to clean my hands properly, but I was already late. I was already scattered. I was already stained. I reached for the knob again and adjusted it open with just two finger tips and my thumb. I added those three inked fingerprints to the existing mess on my pants.

The room was glaring and white, without windows but the lightbulbs must have been the kind that mimic daylight brightness. A man was sitting in a white chair at a white table with another white chair for me opposite. I was relieved to see a sink at the corner of the room. As soon as I was settled there for the appointment, I would wash my hands.

I love these sorts of tests – personality tests – strengths assessments – intelligence probing – puzzle solving. Rorschach ink blot tests are fascinating peaks into the mind and what perceptions live within. The man didn’t worry me, although he had no face. Men often didn’t have faces in places like these. His stack of papers – those did give me pause. The size of the tower of ink blots was formidable. It occurred to me that I didn’t ask about the length of the appointment.

He began droning about the test, what it means, and how we would proceed. I was distracted by the stain on my pants and the reality that my hand was still dirty. His voice was easy to ignore as I kept wiping my hand against the side seam of my jeans. I surveyed the room wondering how long it would be before I could politely ask to wash my hands. A drop of liquid hit the table. Faceless drone continued without pause. One black splatter marked the white table in front of me.

“What do you see?” he presented me with one bold, graphic image after another.

“Face of surprise,” I said barely looking. The leak was growing a large black spot on the white ceiling, more droplets forming.

“What do you see?”

“Tree with a split from lighting.” There were several splatter marks on the table at this point, and I couldn’t fathom how the man hadn’t noticed.

“What do you see?”

“Weird bug with lobster pinchers and more legs than seems right.” Splatters were starting to bleed together and gloss over the table with black. I shifted my chair back to give myself space from the table. The bottom of the stack of papers was starting to soak up ink. Surface tension was no longer holding ink onto the table top and it began dripping onto the floor.

“What do you see?”

I didn’t answer, and he didn’t notice.

“What do you see?” he continued with the next paper in the stack.

The ceiling was oozing in the corners of the room. Ink crept down the walls and pooled on the floor. I stood up. I needed to wash my hands, and I no longer cared about politeness. My shoes tracked ink from puddles across white floor not yet soaked. I was careful not to slip.

“What do you see?” His voice began to grind with impatience, but still he didn’t notice I wasn’t answering.

I was watching him and the parade of papers to be evaluated while I fumbled with the faucet. My eyes began to leak. Faucet sputtered and spewed ink into the small basin and splashed up on my shirt. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. With no idea how to manage my black dripping hands, I scrambled to gets some soap from the dispenser on the wall. Black foam spurted out and agitated my rising tide of panic.

“What do you see?” Faceless drone grew angry. I was wasting his time. His papers were dripping, and I could no longer see images that could be evaluated.

“What do you see?”

“What do you SEE?”

I was terrified and dripping with ink. Every part of the room was covered and there was no way to clean it and no way to leave it. The papers were soaked. The floor was flooded. The man’s features were now detailed with ink while he yelled, spitting ink everywhere.

“WHAT DO YOU SEE?”

I couldn’t say it, but all I saw was nothingness.

…………….

Early on in the Covid-19 pandemic, someone told me to view the virus as black ink, sprayed from those infected onto surfaces. Ink would stay wet for a time and be tracked around. It would eventually dry and be permanent, eventually fading with environmental wear. This image stuck deep into my subconscious. Above was my nightmare with pervasive frequency for much of 2020. I would wake in tears and take hours to settle. I saw my husband come back from the grocery store, and I would feel like everything he touched was spreading ink in our home. I saw my daughter go for walks in the park with our dog, and I would fear the tracking of ink back to our floors. I saw my son return to marching band in the Fall of 2020, and I pictured ink being sprayed from every horn on a field.

We behaved like much of the world. Everything that entered the house was to be sanitized, washed, and scrubbed. Still, I wondered, were our measures good enough or would the ink still ooze in and contaminate.

It is a challenge to look at the world and lose all places and people who felt safe. I am not alone in this nothingness.