by Luba Palter, MFT

Hello everybody!

My name is Luba Palter and I am the new Editor-in-Chief of Impulse. I have had this recurring dream for years. I am inside a house with many, many rooms. The house is intricate; a lot of the rooms are hidden within crevices. Some rooms have not been visited for years and are full of cobwebs and dust. Some rooms have white tarps over furniture as if the owners meant to come back. I’m thinking of this new role as the EIC of Impulse as if I’m walking into an unexplored room. I’m thinking of writing on a regular basis as if I’m walking into an abandoned chamber.

I am a Jewish, cis woman from Russia. My family emigrated to San Francisco from St. Petersburg when I was 12 years old. I provide crisis services as well as arrange inpatient hospitalization at Kaiser. Additionally, I have a private practice in Berkeley with a focus on adult individuals. One way to understand my love of psychoanalytic ideas is to acknowledge that psychoanalytic language and the language of poetry are interchangeable to me. I am sharing a poem I wrote as I was trying to put words to what was brewing inside after a challenging session with a client.

I have asked our staff writers this year to focus on the theme of what gets said and what stays inside, what stays hidden, and what takes up space. I invite you, dear readers, to ponder this theme as well. I would love to hear from you and encourage you to write to me at lpalter@ncspp.org.

Our words are not enough to describe you.
Tiny, little crickets
that chirp and jump away.
There are so many.
I ran after them but I can’t see.
It’s too dark; I have no flashlight.
Your words try to catch up with my running-
fragile, translucent pieces
like slippery fish fall to the ground, out of my hands-
gasping for breath-
bulging, scared eyes that the end is near.
There is no more water.
This air is too much.
Too suffocating.
Too harsh.
Violent.
I want to wrap your skin and bones in my arms,
and breathe fat back into you-
juicy, plump mass-
fill you up with thick, gooey body so when you fall, you won’t break into minuscule pieces of skull, legs, and arms.
I keep looking for words;
there are no words.
I have no thoughts
No feelings
I have been stuffed with wads of cotton and all I can do is open my mouth wide and smile.
I keep pulling, gagging, choking on the thick strands of cotton
It is coming and coming.
You stare at me with your eager eyes and say: more, more, more
I give you my cotton
Here,
it is all I have
You take it and put it inside your mouth.
I’m hungry, you say
so hungry
I have not eaten since I last saw you
Oh, what shall we do now, I say?
Feed me, you say
I am scared