“Come on back,” a friendly smile says with insistent hand gestures.
I follow, turning corners and hallways until we’re in a small office. It’s equally strategic with its decor including framedinspirational quotes and affirmations. More chairs with faux leather but with the added touch of peach throw pillows and a diffuser emitting a scented mist from the corner of a neat and organized desk.
“Have a seat,” the polite woman who walked me back to her office instructs with her eyes angled at the two chairs facing each other.
I take one seat and she takes the other, and the silence as we settle in makes me want to make a run for the door. This was a bad idea.
“My name is Leanne,” she tells me, her body language calm and collected. The opposite of the discomfort running through me.
“Nice to meet you,” I tell her, my posture a little on edge. My shoulders are a good six inches away from the back of the chair, and my knees have started to bounce. Again.
“Nice to meet you too.”
“I think I should tell you, I’ve never done anything like this.”
She nods kindly. “A lot of people say that during their first therapy session.”
Therapy. I really never thought I’d be here. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with going to therapy. I feel like my marriage has survived for as long as it has because of it. Or as long as itdid.
“It honestly doesn’t matter if it’s your first session or your hundredth,” she continues. “You’re here, and we’re just going to…talk.”
It’s my turn to nod, though it’s done with a little reluctance. Talk. I don’t even know if I’m ready to do that. “And what do we…talk about?”
She offers a noncommittal shrug. “Whatever you want to talk about?”
I consider discussing politics, or even if, after years and years of drinking kombucha regularly, whether or not fermented tea is good for the gut, or if it’s all part of some ongoing conspiracy theory. But that’s not why I’m here.
More silence stretches within the small office, and it reaches the far corners, pinned there like some derogatory Feng Shui to remind me why I’m here.
“Is there anything in particular you’d like to talk about?” she offers.
My answer comes with short, hesitant breaths. With shallow sighs and the reluctance to make eye contact. “My wife is in therapy,” I start, not really an answer. “She’s been in therapy for some time now. She does these weekly Zoom sessions with her therapist. Usually on the weekend. We don’t really talk about what goes on during her sessions. I don’t necessarily think she wants to talk about it, and I guess it’s really none of my business. And I want to think it’s been helping her, and I thought that maybe if I talk to someone like she does then I can…”
She doesn’t finish my sentence like I half expect her to. Instead, she sits there, patiently waiting.
“Understand her better,” I finally finish.
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Have you ever felt like you needed therapy? For yourself?”
I haven’t really considered it. I’m here for Kendall. For Sophia and for our marriage. But for me? That’s at the bottom of the totem pole. The base, merely attempting to keep everything stable and erect.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” I answer truthfully. “I don’t really think I need it, but I could be wrong. You’re the expert.” I sound a little derisive, but it doesn’t seem to offend her.
She crosses her legs, leaning forward as if to give me her full attention. “Okay, do you have any questions? Anything you’ve ever wondered about therapy in general?”
I shrug. “I mean, I guess I’ve always wondered how therapy cures depression.”
“Therapy isn’t meant to cure,” she explains, her voice void of judgment. “While everyone has different expectations when it comes to therapy, the main goal for our clients is to help them understand their emotions and why they react the way they do to certain situations.”
“Like a miscarriage?” More of that caustic tone leaches into my voice, and I realize how bitter I’ve become. I don’t mean to be, but after all this time, I can’t help it.
“Has your wife had a miscarriage?”
“Almost nine years ago.”
