Mario Senzale
Holding Space
Constellation therapy worked for me. I need to say that first because it matters. I went to my first session eight months ago—forty-four years old, sixteen years of silence with my father, and a leg that bounced hard enough to shake the couch while I told Claire I was fine. She was the one who suggested the change. “It’s experiential,” she said. “Sometimes we need to feel things in the body, not just talk about them.” I liked talking, though. It made me feel heard.
The session was in a warehouse in Silver Lake. Barbara facilitated—early fifties, soft-spoken, grey hair. Eric volunteered to work on his mother’s death. Barbara chose people to represent his family. His mother. His sister. His younger self. She touched my right shoulder and whispered, “Father.”
I stood where she told me. Far away.
“Begin when you’re ready,” Barbara said.
I froze. Eric walked across the room—well, a woman named Suzanne, playing his younger self. He looked at me. I didn’t know what to do. What to say. So, I just said that.
“I don’t know what to say.”
He stepped closer. Stared at me. Then the rest came out.
“I worked so much because I didn’t know how to give you what you needed. I told myself that was love. Providing. But I know you deserved more.”
Eric started crying. The real Eric. Tears running down his face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t know when to stop. I’m sorry I died before I could talk to you.”
The real Eric walked over and hugged me. Really hugged me. And I felt it. Not like an act. This was real. When the session ended, people thanked me. Eric hugged me again. “That’s exactly what I needed to hear,” he said.
Barbara pulled me aside. “That was beautiful. You have a gift for giving.”
I drove home feeling like I’d discovered something. Like I’d been given a tool. A way to help. To be heard. I signed up for the six-session package from my car.
***
Second session. Barbara asked who wanted to work. Debbie raised her hand. Abusive father. Physically there, but absent. Barbara paused. She pointed at me with a loose flick of her wrist. “Do you want to be the father again?” I nodded, feeling prepared. I knew exactly what to do.
Center stage. “I drink because I don’t know how to show you my love,” I said. “I drink to numb its weight. But I love you, Debbie. I really do.”
Debbie didn’t cry. She stared at me with eyes like flint.
“You raped me,” she said.
I blinked. My mouth hung open, mid-empathy.
“Piece of shit,” she said. “You don’t know who my father is. He didn’t drink because he was sad. He drank because he was a fucking drunk. Because it gave him permission to be a monster.”
“I mean—”
“Pause,” Barbara said. She walked over, placing a hand on my chest. “You’re bringing your ego into this. You’re trying to heal him. Debbie doesn’t need a healed father. She needs the truth.”
I returned to my folding chair. Feeling small. I watched a guy named Ron take my place. He didn’t offer love. He just stood there looking hostile. Debbie screamed at him until she collapsed. It worked perfectly. I left that session understanding my mistake. I couldn't just repeat the hits. I had to become whatever the room required.
***
Third session. Michael working on his brother—distant, unsupportive. Barbara circled the room, paused at Tom, then settled on my right shoulder. “Brother.” I wasn't going to push this time. I was going to listen.
Michael walked past me. “You’re not going to say anything?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Why weren’t you there for me when I needed you?”
“Because I was scared,” I said. “I didn't know how to handle your pain."
It felt deep. Honest. Michael shook his head.
“No, no, no. My brother wasn’t scared. He didn’t give a shit. He was in Vegas with hookers while mom was dying. He’s not deep. He’s an asshole.”
Barbara stepped in. “Not everything has a meaning, you see?”
I see.
***
Fourth session. Suzanne was working through wedding trauma. Her family hadn’t come. Barbara scanned the room, her eyes passing over me twice, before tapping my shoulder. “Cousin.” A minor role. “You’re just a witness,” she said, leaning in. “Don’t intervene.” After the Michael and Debbie fiascos, I was relieved.
The constellation unfolded. Suzanne talked to her absent family members. I stood my ground. Kept my posture open. I locked eyes to show I was with her. I nodded to validate her pain.
Ten minutes in, Suzanne looked right at me. “Why are you nodding?”
“Oh, sorry, I’m not—I’m just—"
“Barbara, he’s judging me. I can feel it.”
Barbara turned to me. “Are you aware of this projection?”
“No, no… I don’t know… I’m just trying to be present,” I said.
Barbara looked at Suzanne. “Do you want him to stay or should we shift?”
“I’m sorry, Barbara. I can’t focus with him here. Can he... Can someone else do it?”
Barbara nodded at me. I sat down. Feeling small. I hadn't done anything wrong. Not that I noticed. A woman named Janet took my place. Stood in the exact same spot. Nodding. Suzanne’s shoulders dropped. She started crying. I watched from my folding chair and understood something new. It wasn’t about technique. My presence itself was wrong.
***
Fifth session. Barbara caught me in the corridor before we started. “Listen, tonight we’re doing Debbie again. She wants to recreate the family dinner table. That’s where the conflict lived.” She paused. “I need you to be the table.” I looked at her. “You’ll be on your hands and knees—” she said, pointing to the center of the room. “Holding space. You won’t move or speak. You’ll just… support. Can you do that?” I thought about the last three sessions. About failing as a father. As a brother. As a cousin. About how my presence as a person kept being wrong.
“I guess I can try.”
I got on my hands and knees in the center of the room. The session began. Debbie’s family stood around me. Her father. Her mother. Her sister. They leaned on me. Put their hands on my back as they argued. As they cried. As they said terrible things to each other. I stared at the carpet. Counted threads. Tried not to think about how I could feel every place where someone’s hand pressed. The session lasted two hours. When it ended, Barbara helped me stand.
“That was really good,” she said. “You’ve got a gift. Your grounded, solid presence. Some people are better in inanimate roles. There’s no shame in that. It’s just as important.”
People smiled at me. Thanked me. I did good. I drove home, took two Advil, and lay on the floor.
***
Sixth session. Dan was working on childhood abuse. Physical. His father would beat him then lock himself in the bathroom. Dan would stand outside and hear his father cry.
“We need to recreate the space,” Barbara said. “The bathroom, specifically.” She looked at me. “We need the toilet. Where his father sat. Where the shame lived.”
She walked me to the corner. “You’ll crouch here. Like this.” She demonstrated—squatting, arms wrapped around knees. “You don’t move. You don’t react. You just receive his father’s shame. Internalize it. Okay?"
I looked around the room. Twelve people setting up. Getting coffee and donuts. “Sure thing.”
Dan’s father, played by Eric, stood beside me. Then sat, slowly. He stayed there, crying. He actually cried.
Dan approached him. Stood in the doorway. “I heard you in here every time. Crying like a bitch after you beat me.”
The father kept crying.
“If you felt so bad, why did you keep doing it?”
No answer.
“You don’t get to be forgiven just because you felt bad afterwards.”
My legs went numb around minute thirty. By minute forty-five, I couldn’t feel my feet. I stared at the wall. Tried to become the wall. Tried to become nothing. The session lasted three hours. When it ended, I couldn’t stand. Two people had to help me up, one on each side. I sat in my car until the feeling returned.
I got home after midnight. Went straight to the bathroom. Sat on the tile floor. The cold felt nice against my skin. I stared at the toilet. White porcelain. Functional. Always there when needed. Never asking for anything back. I scooted closer. Put my arms around him. Pressed my cheek. “You have value,” I told him.
The session was in a warehouse in Silver Lake. Barbara facilitated—early fifties, soft-spoken, grey hair. Eric volunteered to work on his mother’s death. Barbara chose people to represent his family. His mother. His sister. His younger self. She touched my right shoulder and whispered, “Father.”
I stood where she told me. Far away.
“Begin when you’re ready,” Barbara said.
I froze. Eric walked across the room—well, a woman named Suzanne, playing his younger self. He looked at me. I didn’t know what to do. What to say. So, I just said that.
“I don’t know what to say.”
He stepped closer. Stared at me. Then the rest came out.
“I worked so much because I didn’t know how to give you what you needed. I told myself that was love. Providing. But I know you deserved more.”
Eric started crying. The real Eric. Tears running down his face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t know when to stop. I’m sorry I died before I could talk to you.”
The real Eric walked over and hugged me. Really hugged me. And I felt it. Not like an act. This was real. When the session ended, people thanked me. Eric hugged me again. “That’s exactly what I needed to hear,” he said.
Barbara pulled me aside. “That was beautiful. You have a gift for giving.”
I drove home feeling like I’d discovered something. Like I’d been given a tool. A way to help. To be heard. I signed up for the six-session package from my car.
***
Second session. Barbara asked who wanted to work. Debbie raised her hand. Abusive father. Physically there, but absent. Barbara paused. She pointed at me with a loose flick of her wrist. “Do you want to be the father again?” I nodded, feeling prepared. I knew exactly what to do.
Center stage. “I drink because I don’t know how to show you my love,” I said. “I drink to numb its weight. But I love you, Debbie. I really do.”
Debbie didn’t cry. She stared at me with eyes like flint.
“You raped me,” she said.
I blinked. My mouth hung open, mid-empathy.
“Piece of shit,” she said. “You don’t know who my father is. He didn’t drink because he was sad. He drank because he was a fucking drunk. Because it gave him permission to be a monster.”
“I mean—”
“Pause,” Barbara said. She walked over, placing a hand on my chest. “You’re bringing your ego into this. You’re trying to heal him. Debbie doesn’t need a healed father. She needs the truth.”
I returned to my folding chair. Feeling small. I watched a guy named Ron take my place. He didn’t offer love. He just stood there looking hostile. Debbie screamed at him until she collapsed. It worked perfectly. I left that session understanding my mistake. I couldn't just repeat the hits. I had to become whatever the room required.
***
Third session. Michael working on his brother—distant, unsupportive. Barbara circled the room, paused at Tom, then settled on my right shoulder. “Brother.” I wasn't going to push this time. I was going to listen.
Michael walked past me. “You’re not going to say anything?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Why weren’t you there for me when I needed you?”
“Because I was scared,” I said. “I didn't know how to handle your pain."
It felt deep. Honest. Michael shook his head.
“No, no, no. My brother wasn’t scared. He didn’t give a shit. He was in Vegas with hookers while mom was dying. He’s not deep. He’s an asshole.”
Barbara stepped in. “Not everything has a meaning, you see?”
I see.
***
Fourth session. Suzanne was working through wedding trauma. Her family hadn’t come. Barbara scanned the room, her eyes passing over me twice, before tapping my shoulder. “Cousin.” A minor role. “You’re just a witness,” she said, leaning in. “Don’t intervene.” After the Michael and Debbie fiascos, I was relieved.
The constellation unfolded. Suzanne talked to her absent family members. I stood my ground. Kept my posture open. I locked eyes to show I was with her. I nodded to validate her pain.
Ten minutes in, Suzanne looked right at me. “Why are you nodding?”
“Oh, sorry, I’m not—I’m just—"
“Barbara, he’s judging me. I can feel it.”
Barbara turned to me. “Are you aware of this projection?”
“No, no… I don’t know… I’m just trying to be present,” I said.
Barbara looked at Suzanne. “Do you want him to stay or should we shift?”
“I’m sorry, Barbara. I can’t focus with him here. Can he... Can someone else do it?”
Barbara nodded at me. I sat down. Feeling small. I hadn't done anything wrong. Not that I noticed. A woman named Janet took my place. Stood in the exact same spot. Nodding. Suzanne’s shoulders dropped. She started crying. I watched from my folding chair and understood something new. It wasn’t about technique. My presence itself was wrong.
***
Fifth session. Barbara caught me in the corridor before we started. “Listen, tonight we’re doing Debbie again. She wants to recreate the family dinner table. That’s where the conflict lived.” She paused. “I need you to be the table.” I looked at her. “You’ll be on your hands and knees—” she said, pointing to the center of the room. “Holding space. You won’t move or speak. You’ll just… support. Can you do that?” I thought about the last three sessions. About failing as a father. As a brother. As a cousin. About how my presence as a person kept being wrong.
“I guess I can try.”
I got on my hands and knees in the center of the room. The session began. Debbie’s family stood around me. Her father. Her mother. Her sister. They leaned on me. Put their hands on my back as they argued. As they cried. As they said terrible things to each other. I stared at the carpet. Counted threads. Tried not to think about how I could feel every place where someone’s hand pressed. The session lasted two hours. When it ended, Barbara helped me stand.
“That was really good,” she said. “You’ve got a gift. Your grounded, solid presence. Some people are better in inanimate roles. There’s no shame in that. It’s just as important.”
People smiled at me. Thanked me. I did good. I drove home, took two Advil, and lay on the floor.
***
Sixth session. Dan was working on childhood abuse. Physical. His father would beat him then lock himself in the bathroom. Dan would stand outside and hear his father cry.
“We need to recreate the space,” Barbara said. “The bathroom, specifically.” She looked at me. “We need the toilet. Where his father sat. Where the shame lived.”
She walked me to the corner. “You’ll crouch here. Like this.” She demonstrated—squatting, arms wrapped around knees. “You don’t move. You don’t react. You just receive his father’s shame. Internalize it. Okay?"
I looked around the room. Twelve people setting up. Getting coffee and donuts. “Sure thing.”
Dan’s father, played by Eric, stood beside me. Then sat, slowly. He stayed there, crying. He actually cried.
Dan approached him. Stood in the doorway. “I heard you in here every time. Crying like a bitch after you beat me.”
The father kept crying.
“If you felt so bad, why did you keep doing it?”
No answer.
“You don’t get to be forgiven just because you felt bad afterwards.”
My legs went numb around minute thirty. By minute forty-five, I couldn’t feel my feet. I stared at the wall. Tried to become the wall. Tried to become nothing. The session lasted three hours. When it ended, I couldn’t stand. Two people had to help me up, one on each side. I sat in my car until the feeling returned.
I got home after midnight. Went straight to the bathroom. Sat on the tile floor. The cold felt nice against my skin. I stared at the toilet. White porcelain. Functional. Always there when needed. Never asking for anything back. I scooted closer. Put my arms around him. Pressed my cheek. “You have value,” I told him.
Mario Senzale is a South American writer and mathematician currently living in Indianapolis, Indiana. His stories can be found in Expat Press, JMWW, House of Arcanum, Last Girls' Club, and Horrific Scribes, as well as in his website, mariosenzale.neocities.org
