I had a jam jar of whiskey in the side pouch of my backpack and I grimaced down two gulps as I walked up to the front door of the house on Buckland Crescent. Deep breath, relax, you are fine, this is fine. In her email, Rachel had instructed to “Ring the doorbell at 7:00 pm.” which I thought was oddly specific and a little mafioso. She didn’t say, “Just to confirm, your appointment is at 7:00 pm.” Or “In case you have trouble finding it, the bell is on the left.” Instead, she wrote a sentence that could have been followed by “Come alone, no wires.”
When I rang, I half expected her to peek out with shifty eyes from behind a chain-latched crack in the door and ask for a password. So when she didn’t shake my hand, I was hardly phased. She wore black knee-length shorts over black rose lace tights that tucked into black leather ankle boots adorned with muted tambourines of non-functional silver buckles.
Her voice was mostly breath and the corners of her eyes winced in that Rene Zellweger smile-on-the-brink-of-tears sort of way. “Katie?” she verified with a British staccato “t”.
The first time you meet your therapist, are you supposed to be Dear Old Friend or Prospective Job Candidate? I went for Shy Schoolgirl and averted my eyes once the handshake was apparently off the table.
“This way,” she motioned to me from a safe and non-confrontational distance towards the staircase. The room (her “office”?) had a Freudian chaise lounge, a headboard-less bed, a love seat, and two armchairs. I attempted small talk about the weather as I off-loaded my backpack and scarf to the floor but it came out in the contrived tone of a girl complimenting the decor of a man’s apartment when he has invited her up at the end of a date. “Love what you’ve done with the place… Cool refrigerator magnet…” Word bubbles floating around the elephant in the room.
When I sat down, Rachel uncrossed her legs, unclasped her fingers, and swooped her hands open like a modest chef presenting a row of horderves. “So Katie,” in a throaty whisper, “why are you here?”
How this question caught me off guard I have no idea. What else could she have possibly asked?
Me - Nervous laughter, darting glances, incoherent hand gestures.
Her - Forward lean, concerned and furrowed brow, active listening.
Me - Suddenly very warm, taking off my jacket. “Well I moved here a few months ago — not that that has anything to do with anything — but I’ve had some things on my mind — haha, obviously — but I guess I wasn’t sure if, well I suppose it’s all very subjective so…”
Her - Slow nods, empathetic pianissimo sighs.
Me - “I think I derive a lot of my self-worth from solving problems.”
Her - “And how does that make you feel?” Not a drop of irony.
Me - “How does what make me feel?”
Her - “Deriving your self-worth from solving problems.”
To be honest, she was the cheapest option I’d seen. And I don’t know what I expected. Not even a £70/hour shrink possess a magic wand to organize the Picasso’s reinterpretation of a melted Dali clock that is the gear wheels of my brain. Rachel was doing all anyone could do — that is, nod and wince. Therapists don’t claim to be fixers, they are sounding boards. They are treadmills that can, if one requires the assistance, guide mental steps in a forward motion. But you still have to run.
Of course I knew that. But apparently I did not because every time Rachel repeated my sentences back to me in question form, I felt another ounce of despair plop down on my shoulders. The dawning of the reality that you are the sole pilot of your psyche feels like a tide pushing your life-raft-for-one off to sea. “You can only save yourself, Anakin.” (Or something like that.)
“Time seems to be a recurring theme of concern for you.”
“Yeah… I guess sometimes I can get sort of obsessed with saving time or trying to be super efficient…”
“Ahh. Hmm. And,” her eyebrows arched as though she were connecting a web of profound discoveries, “here we are at the end of our time.” Sad smile.
Well played Rachel, well played. She suggested that next week we do some more “unpacking” — her hands wound around each other like an open-palmed version of basketball referee calling Travel. But she didn’t realize I was already adrift and her desert island shores were shrinking ever smaller on the horizon. I’ll have to paddle my own raft from here Rachel! Ahoy…!
I paid in cash and saw myself down the two flights of stairs and out the front door, feeling a strong urge to do something uncharacteristic. I wanted to commit a petty crime or buy something useless and overpriced, as if that would prove to myself that I am the master of my own destiny. Four off-license shops and one stolen datefruit later, I ended up in a cottage pub that was completely empty except for a pair of hoodied Asians sitting next to an elderly woman playing smooth jazz from her personal speaker. The woman was gradually increasing the volume until the bartender asked her to turn it off, to which she declared, rising dramatically from her seat to a rearing 4’11 stance, “Bloody hell! They kiss in heaven too but they don’t talk about it!!”
So I suppose I could be crazier.
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| And I quote: “What level of wretched soul is so tortured as to not appreciate the great classics!! I shall speak to the governor in the morning!” |
