Session Three — Waiting

The walls are so blank and expressionless. This is supposed to be a place of healing and quiet, safe contemplation, isn’t it? So why wouldn’t they add posters of stupid, whimsical, or inspirational quotes with ducks or something to the walls? They look like those overly-painted bricks you see in school hallways. God, I hated staring at those bricks in school. At least those hallways and walls had posters to make things less bleak. I remember the glacier one that basically said that on the surface, something isn’t that impressive, but if you bother looking deeper, you’ll see that things are much more than they seem. Anxiety feels like that.

Where is she? Did she cancel on me and forget to call? I look up from my purse in my lap, staring at the only entertainment provided in the hallway: an analog clock. A basic clock’s face in a white, plastic frame. The materials of the clock are so cheap, I can hear the semi-deep ticking in the hollow object. It’s already going on four. I should have been in-session a few minutes ago. I close my eyes, rubbing them while I try to calm my anxiety. When I open my eyes, my heart drops as the loud clatter of students’ shoes on the floor parade past me, rushing to get to the door as the school bell chimes for dismissal.

What the hell? This is a waiting room. Did I wander into the wrong building? How the hell would that even be possible — I saw us pull up to the clinic, not a school. I stand up, clutching my purse close to me while students who are shoulder-height to me crowd by, pushing and chattering toward the exit. I look behind me, looking down the hallway that clearly leads to my therapist’s office — that hasn’t changed at all. What’s even going on? Am I dissociating? I keep my purse close to me, pressed to my chest as I wade through the sea of clambering children and head toward my therapist’s door. With a sigh, I rest my hand on the push-release of the door, opening my eyes as I look up. My heart falls as I see a glowing red exit sign above the door. I whip my head around, looking behind me, seeing that I’m standing alone in an empty school hallway. I’m standing on the completely opposite side of the hall, the therapist’s door even further than before. Why… how is this possible?

I feel myself yanked away from the exit by a strong, powerful hand attached to a rather masculine, hairy arm. I can’t make out the man’s face, but his voice is very familiar. As if whisking me through the very fabric of time, I’m forced into what looks like a principal’s office, forced to sit down on the other side of a large window atop a half-wall.

“Just wait here until your dad comes. We don’t want any trouble,” the man says, disappearing into the back left of the office, closing his door. What does he mean? Why am I in the principal’s office? I’m 29, I don’t go to school. I clutch my purse against myself a bit tighter. Breathe. Breathe. In for four seconds, hold for four seconds, release for four seconds, hold for four seconds, then do it again.

The room begins to flash red and blue. I look down for my purse to grab my phone, but my purse is gone. In my hand is a pair of exaggeratedly large sewing scissors — the fiskars from the secretary’s desk. How did I get these? Where did my purse go? I need to call him… where’s my phone!? The lights flicker harsher, filling all of reality in with a red flash, then a blue one… as if police lights were lighting up complete darkness. The door to the office bursts open and a police officer dangles handcuffs in my direction.

“I’m here to help you,” the cop says, “so don’t kill yourself.”

“You don’t even care about me. You’ll go home to your family at the end of the day and you’ll eat dinner like any other day. I’m a paycheck to you!” I snip back, except I didn’t say that. Who said that? My mouth didn’t even move. I didn’t say anything, but it sounded like me. What is going on? The police sirens are louder each time the police officer opens his mouth.

“I do care about you… this is my job!” he says.

“This is just your job… I don’t matter to you or anyone,” I say again, without actually speaking. I look around frantically, thinking of running, but my legs won’t move. The lights flash slower, delaying on red, switching to blue where the lights delay again. “Are you going to arrest me?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Miss Gri — ”, as he says the very last word, his speaking turns into complete static. “You’re having some trouble, but you’re not in trouble. Is there anyone we can call? Your mom? Dad?”

“Don’t call my dad… I don’t even live with him,” Why am I responding? I don’t live with my mother… my father’s dead. I live in Kentucky with my boyfriend. Why am I… The longer I look, the more I recognize my surroundings. The office slowly turns into my principal’s office. The police officer is sitting behind the principal’s desk while he speaks to me. I’m sitting in one of the two waiting-room style chairs before the desk. In my hand are the orange-handled scissors from the secretary’s desk. “Call my mother, please.” I close my fingers around the scissors as they vanish, turning into dust in my palm which also vanishes as it pours out of my hand like liquid. “I never wanted to hurt anyone… just myself… so it shouldn’t matter.”

The officer says nothing, picking up the phone. As he holds the phone to his hear, my mother appears to my left where she sits down next to me. My stepfather appears also, standing close to the doorway, his arms crossed, looking irritated that he had to come. They both say nothing, looking around and moving their mouths, but all I can hear is too-loud ocean waves and intermingled static. Please, just let me go home. I don’t feel well. This is… weird.

“So which one will it be?” the police officer asks me.

I don’t know. What am I supposed to be choosing? “I’ll go to the youth center,” I say, again, without saying anything. My mouth isn’t even moving. “Will there be a piano there?” I look down at my hands, seeing that my purse is there. I hold it close to me, panicking in a strange relief as I tip my head up rather quickly. My heart is racing a million miles per hour and my brain completely implodes, quickly adjusting to the confusion as to where the hell I am now. The walls are different — they’re a dingy hunter-green and the floor beneath my feet is a brown barber-shop-styled carpet. The waiting-room chair I’m sitting in is a plush, dark-brown, leather sofa. To either side of me, I have no company, and before me is my therapist. She smiles, her leg crossed over her knee as her shoe hangs from her index-toe. She’s nodding.

“Well, Jessica… I must say, you’re really making a lot of progress,” she says, scribbling down her notes. “That certainly would leave someone with a bit of anxiety. I really hope those coping methods I offered you are helping, though.”

“Coping methods?” I ask, relieved that my mouth is actually working correctly, “You’ve never given me any… how am I supposed to…” the alarm chimes. My time is up. “I… wait. Hold on a second, that wasn’t even a session!”

“Sorry, Miss Snow, only one hour per client,” she shrugs, pushing her glasses up onto her bridge, “but you have made excellent progress. Phenomenal, in fact! You really ought to give yourself more credit than you already do.”

“I do not feel like I am getting the help I need!” I say, staggering my words as if I could underline them in real life and make them bold and italicized. “What the hell even was all of that?! The hall, the walls, the kids… the school?”

“You’re anxious, I get it… why not take a deep breath and…” the doctor sets her clipboard down, leaning forward. Her eyes begin to look familiar. They’re the same color as mine — the same kind of gunmetal blue that look greenish when the light hits them just right. Maybe it’s the interior of her office and the lighting making them look like mine, “slowly let it go, Jessica. Together, we’ll be sure that letting go is something we can do without shame.”

“You… are impossible,” I sigh in defeat, standing up from the sofa and grabbing the latch-handle of her office, which is no longer the push-release kind. It’s the L-shaped kind. “This whole thing… this whole place. Therapy really is not helping and I think it’s better if I just…” I open the door, stepping through. Instead of walking into the hallway of the behavioral health clinic, I walk into my childhood bedroom, a small room with a small bed, a white dresser on which each drawer is a different color of the rainbow, and a bright pink wooden crate with white lettering painted on: Jessy’s Toys ♥.

“What… the fuck?”

“I said…” my therapists chuckles nervously, “I’m… ready to see you now. Are you alright, Jessica?”

I look to the clock in the bleak, droll hallway. I’m early.

“No… I’m not sure.”