1st Appointment

I sat in front of her for the first time, nervous, embarrassed, with a small flicker of hope still left in my sullen eyes. Each time I landed in this spot was different. I had a different motivation, or excuse, a possible dismissal sitting in my arsenal for anyone who wondered why.

“I’m Dr. Patterson,” she said, “What can I help you with today?”

I don’t know what I thought she would ask. Maybe I was so tired of attempting to take the lead and having it wrenched back from me that I expected to sit there and let her speak. They usually started with a monologue about their history, qualifications, and therapeutic approach. I was the best listener I knew. I didn’t like having the tables turned on me.

“Where do I begin?” I replied with a wry chuckle.

She didn’t say anything. My smile fell.

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you start with the reason you’re here?”

My gaze landed on the coffee table between us. There were knots in the wood underneath the varnish. The imperfections supposedly added interest to the furniture; the complexity gave me something on which to fixate. I heard the faint ticking of the clock behind me, signifying each dollar I was wasting in the silence.

“I have depression.” Did you even read one of the thousand forms I filled out before I was permitted entrance to this cozy office? Did you bother to attend to the paperwork I’ve routinely provided while you sit on your cushy chair?

“Anything else?” she inquired.

“Nope.”

Her look was earnest though too intense for my liking. I was the one who scheduled this appointment; I had scoured the web for a suitable match; I had called the office to ensure availability; I was the one who decided enough was enough. I was tired of depression and wanted to rid myself of its constant, suffocating presence. Why did cynicism flood my brain and choke my thoughts before they had time to form into words?

“Can you help me?” I asked, challenging my adversary because I was adept at getting a rise.

She didn’t bite. “I don’t know yet, but I’m going to try. What are you thinking about right now?”

I looked in her eyes then, wondering if this time would be like all the others. The lies disguised as “reassurances” played like echoes on my eardrums as I remembered different chairs, harsher lighting, other intent gazes and qualifications framed and displayed behind tired receptionists.

You can trust me.

Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?

Let’s reframe your thinking this way.

Have you ever considered medication?

I wish I had an answer for you.

It’s not productive to think about the past.

Try this. Try again. Did you really try?

You’re not the only one.

Wow, that must be really difficult.

“I’m trying to remember why I decided to make this appointment in the first place,” I said, honesty pouring out of me against my will.

She turned it back on me as they so often do. “Why do you think you made this appointment in the first place?”

“Because I have depression.”

“I know that already.”

I wondered if she was being purposefully difficult, trying to show me, through mirroring, just how aggravating I was being. I knew I was acting childish. I had run the gamut of mannerisms in my initial encounters with each therapist, from proper, to friendly, to quiet, and now this, utter hostility.

“Okay, well. Can you tell me why?” I nearly spat.

“There may be a myriad reasons why.”

“Care to venture one?”

“Not until I know a little more about you.”

Still trying to claim the upper hand, I turned in my chair to look at the annoying clock. We were already fifteen minutes into the session.

“Is there somewhere you need to be after this appointment?”

“No.”

“Is there someone waiting for you in the other room?”

“No.”

“Did you drive yourself here?”

“No, I flew my helicopter. It’s parked on the roof and I’m worried about the structural integrity of the building.”

“Okay.” Her tone was even, betraying zero frustration. I hoped she was feeling it. Maybe then she would have a modicum of insight into my everyday world.

Dr. Patterson had a stereotypical notepad balanced on her knee. She let silence fall again as she scribbled some crude notes about my stand-offish nature, or my sarcasm, or some other diagnosis she wanted to slap on me. I knew what I had. I knew all about me. I seemed to be the only one who knew anything at all. But her approach was different than the ones who came before. She wasn’t going to force me to talk. She wasn’t going to try and lure me with false sweetness, then gossip to her colleagues about the “difficult one” the minute the door closed behind me. I suppose I would have done the same if I were a therapist and had a patient like me. She was still getting paid whether or not I spoke. I watched her write until my eyes glazed over.

At some point her pen stopped moving. I blinked a few times, “Could you repeat that?”

“I said, I’m just doodling illustrations for my next book.” She smirked.

I couldn’t help but smile.

“Okay.” She put her notepad on the coffee table and leaned forward, “What do you want to do now?”

“What are you talking about?” I was flabbergasted.

“Well, you made this appointment. You paid for this appointment. You showed up to this appointment, on time. No one drove you here. I suspect no one even knows you’re here. You don’t want to talk to me and yet, you haven’t made the decision to leave. So, what do you want to do now?”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, then sifted through the lobes in my brain like fine sand.

“Do you have any board games?” I asked, sincerely.

“Just Scrabble,” she replied. “I like word games.”

“Me too.”

“Okay.” She reached underneath the lip of the coffee table to a hidden shelf and unearthed the familiar red box. Then she said, in a matter-of-fact tone, “I just want to let you know, I’m unbeatable.”

I smiled again, despite myself. I knew she was trying to break down my walls; form that therapeutic trust or connection or bedside manner, whatever you call it. She calmly laid out the board and pieces to begin the game. No ulterior motive? Was she really just going to play Scrabble with me and not try to get me to talk? No reward like one you would give to a traumatized child for sharing a drawing of their fears?

“You start,” she said.

I stared at my scrambled letters, a mirror-image of the unsolvable anagram in my head. Who was winning? I had started playing this game the minute I walked through the door and I still didn’t know. All of the tiles in front of me were blank. I couldn’t focus well enough to discern any letters. As I reached for the tiles, unsure how I would fake my move, my mouth betrayed me, “I just don’t know how to talk about this anymore.”

“How to talk about what?”

“Wow, we didn’t even start playing and you’ve already trapped me.” I sighed. “I just can’t read the tiles right now. So I guess it’s game over.”

Dr. Patterson leaned back in her chair. She picked up her notepad again.

“I’ve just been to so many doctors and therapists and none of them have made any difference. I’ve dealt with a lot on my own. I just figured it would actually get better when I asked for help. Everybody always says opening up was the best thing they ever did. That’s just not true for me.” I looked at her accusatorially, “What makes you any different?”

She paused, thought, and chose her next words carefully, “I can’t say for sure that I’m going to be any different if I don’t know what the other doctors and therapists said. Why don’t we start there?”

No one had approached any session like this before. She was already different. “Yeah. Okay.” I turned and looked at the clock. Thirty minutes remaining. “I don’t think I’ll have enough time to talk about everything…”

****

Part 2 is right here: