The First Step

Here I am, sitting in a waiting room that reeks of sweat and tears and a room freshener that isn't quite up to par. I wonder if this is just a feeble attempt at prolonging the inevitable. Do I even want to 'save my marriage?' My husband says I'm not the girl I used to be. No shit! I'm thinking half the problem is you are still the 'boy' I married. I hope the shrink's office isn't as dismal as this waiting area. It's all new ground for me. I've always kept to myself. The old adage 'kids are to be seen, not heard' followed me into adulthood. It's hard to fight a message so soundly delivered with a father's belt.

My breathing feels shallower. I need some fresh air! Fanning myself, I try to shake off the suspicion that a panic attack might be brewing. Self-help books have turned me into a diagnostician. I focus on critiquing the decor - unmatched, scarred furniture; faded paisley-patterned sofas with noticeable imprints on the seat cushions; several half-used boxes of single-ply tissue. Travel magazines display tanned, smiling, fit people having the time of their lives. Breastfeeding pamphlets. The Holy Bible lies askew. What a cluster fuck of immaterial material. Hearing the clacking of the receptionist's fingers on her keyboard, I fancy a peek. I was afraid of her scrutiny but, now, after taking a look, I figure it was misplaced fear. She looks like one of those people that is so non-descript she need not exist at all. Yeah, so who made me judge and jury?

Her hair has no defined shape or style but simply sticks out from her scalp in frizzy disarray. Looks like she was victimized by a whoosh of static electricity while pulling on the gray wool sweater that is now stretched across her angular body. Glasses perch on her bulbous nose and she's constantly clearing her throat. It's so annoying. At this juncture, she turns and looks at me. I avert her glance with a super sleuth maneuver and stare at the sole piece of artwork gracing the walls. I cough over a nervous chuckle. The picture is nothing special, yup, nothing uplifting or profound in that pot of marigolds!

"Shouldn't be much longer," chortles the receptionist. Her voice rides the divide between laughter and creepiness. I grunt an assent to let her know I heard her. 'Weirdo,' I think. I begin concocting a scenario of her being a former patient with all sorts of foibles needing tending to - so much so that she was given a job to keep her safely under suitable supervision.

Then I wonder, 'is she critiquing me?' A woman sliding down the slippery slope towards old age? Wonder if she likes the 'I don't give a shit' wardrobe, or, maybe my body is fascinating her. Who knew the female body could morph into such an odd shape? I used to be a knockout, at least that's what my husband tells me...daily.

The door opens. I flinch in anticipation of a sobbing client rushing past. It is just the therapist. Walking towards me with solid steps, she extends her hand. I extend mine and her grip holds just the right amount of firmness. Her skin is softer than I expect. I guess her to be ten years older than her marketing picture, but she is still attractive. Half of her hair is a remarkable gray and then trails off to a washed-out blond. With a good haircut, all remnants of blond would be gone. While I am thinking we both could use a good haircut, my mouth is saying, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Fran." Shutting the door behind me, I follow her into a room of uncharted waters.

The dichotomous inner sanctum immediately holds my attention. Two tasteful winged back chairs sit in a large bay window alcove. The window is open and the soft breeze feels inviting. Memorabilia and artifacts line numerous bookcases and shelves. Several pieces catch my attention but, under the circumstances, I stifle my interest. This isn't brunch with a buddy. The round table between the chairs holds a brass clock dancing under a glass dome. Nothing like the gunmetal gray clock that sits accusingly on the receptionist's desk. No dancing of that clock, just slow, methodical numbers dropping like heads off a guillotine.

"Please have a seat, Mrs. James. Can I get you something to drink?" Her voice is warm and hypnotic. It catches me off guard. "Uh, water would be fine. Thanks." My survival instincts tell me to run. I can't see that option playing out, so I sit. The chair is comfortable and the water is cold. I look imploringly into Dr. Fran's eyes as if to say 'the ball's in your court.' This scene is way out of my comfort zone. I quickly repeat my rehearsed opening statement in my head, 'I don't know what to do anymore. Literally. Nothing brings me pleasure or feels meaningful. So where do I go from here?' I am sure it will come in handy.

The silence is uncomfortable. I try to get things moving. "Ah, Dr. Fran..."

"Please, call me Winn. My real name is Winona, but that's a bit much, don't you think?" Dr. Fran...Winn, sits down in the opposing chair. Closing her eyes, she breathes in a long breath and then exhales. I watch her anxiously. What am I supposed to do? Winn opens her eyes. "Sometimes this is just all too much, isn't it?" Well, that was unexpected. Her lips curl up and her face erupts into a contagious smile. I look in her eyes. I don't detect bullshit. My shoulders drop a bit and I let me hands unclench the arm of the chair. I reach for my glass of water and take another long sip. I think this might go ok. 'Every step's a first step,' right? Whoa! Maybe a potential 'Winn-win' situation? Enough! I quiet my interminable inner cacophony. I need to focus. Mirroring her smile, I hold her gaze and nod, "Yes, Winn, you are right about that."