By Indeaki Rune, Y13
My therapist is a strange man, and maybe not that good of a therapist. His kind, slow voice and gentle blue eyes make him seem very therapist-like, which, I assume, is a good thing. I can see his eyes peer at me over the glasses on the bridge of his nose; looking, but never judging.
His building is right next to my school, a lovely piece of sandstone and marble architecture. The building is next to a big road, tram lines running to and from nowhere in particular. I cross the road and enter his building. The pin is 8645 and the door opens with great effort; they had tried fixing it but it only made it harder to push. Every time I’m there, I always hope it opens so that I don’t get stuck outside, having to call him to come get me. It’s embarrassing.
He is on the fourth floor, another pin to the office he shares is 3448. Once inside the floor creaks loudly, not as bad as the racket the elevator that took us up made, however still bad enough we wince with every step.
The people below us must be mad. His waiting room has creaky chairs as well. It’s an uncomfortable situation to be in, especially when one has anxiety about noise. I sit in the chair near the window and games, a perfect vantage point from which I can see people walking by, but the only way for them to truly see me is to come inside. I wait for a little while; I have come early because he complains when I am late and even when I am on time it becomes slightly uncomfortable. Maybe because he knows there was the possibility of me being later than I was.
He opens his door at exactly 14:15. He walks over to the waiting room and stands by the door. No verbal cue needed, as I already know what to do. I have been here enough times. I walk to his room, still trying not to make too much noise while attempting to look normal and not going on my tiptoes. He is behind me and could notice, and that is a risk I cannot take. Him commenting on it makes me anxious.
I sit in one of the small leather chairs and he sits across from me in a big one. The big window is lovely and whenever it’s open during summer I take the time to breath deeply. He always closes it though. I stare at his rug – it’s worn down and doesn’t fit the rest of his office, decorated with old llama statuettes. It’s silent. Someone must say something soon enough, right?
Nothing. For a while all I do is stare and hope he will one day start talking. I finally give up once the silence is unbearable.
I ask how he is. He quickly replies and turns the question around. I do not like it. Any of it.
I am looking at his bookshelf, some markers rest on the very bottom and I wonder if he would let me use them. Or maybe he has a little kid as a patient, maybe they do art therapy together. I would like to try that.
As I keep wondering, he finally steers the conversation somewhere.
He assumes; he has been getting bolder recently. It angers me that he thinks he knows me better than I know myself. I know myself very well, and he is simply wrong. I sit in angry silence, which he does not take notice of. Maybe I should not have come back. We have a language barrier, as well as a gender barrier. He may not want to recognize we have them, but I do. I notice it, just like I take notice of everything else. I may be uncertain, but not about my ways of thinking.
He finally realizes he has to change the subject to something more of my liking because otherwise I will close off even more. I wonder if he will ever figure it out. I jump onto the new subject with a lot more vigour, but I do not forget his words.
I must get a new therapist.
