I nod at the screen. This feels weird. Like I’m watching TV and the whimsical characters are suddenly staring straight into the camera and talking to me, breaking the fourth wall. There’s a drawing next to my keyboard. A rainbow. Or at least, an attempt at one. Some mix of maroon and brown in there, making it look more earth-toned than something meant for the sky. Sophia drew it last night after dinner, her crayon held in her fist while she pounded it against the paper like a hammer. I think her first day of school jitters were getting to her, and she found a way to work through them with some crafting time.
James went to work, his attempts to ease some of the tension sitting between us thwarted when I once again declined his offer to cook me something before he left. It’s quiet now, and it’s leaving a lot of room for those thoughts to have center stage.
“So do I just talk about how depressed I am?” I guess I’m getting straight to the point.
She smiles, something placating yet kind. “Why don’t we start with you telling me a little bit about what you’re expecting from this?”
“You mean from therapy?” I say the word like it’s difficult to get rid of. Once you say it in that scared and trembling voice, it’s stuck. It becomes this sticky, viscous film you can’t wash off no matter how hard you try, and you become this person who goes to therapy.
Another gentle smile. “Yes.”
“Um,” I thoughtfully hum. “I think I was hoping…you would fix me?” It sounds silly even to my own ears.
She chuckles, a balm over my embarrassment.
“Not how therapy works, I assume?” I ask with a reluctant smile.
“Not exactly.” Her face glitches, a small disruption to remind me there’s this disconnect. I just met this person, and I’msupposed to somehow tell her about all the deepest, darkest parts of me. Through a screen of all things. Maybe getting straight to the point isn’t going to work with this whole therapy thing. Maybe I need to ease into it. Take it day by day, session by session.
“Didn’t think so,” I say with a sheepish smile. After a pause, I add, “I considered therapy a few years ago.”
“And you didn’t go through with it?”
I shake my head. “I guess it wasn’t…dire at the time.”
“You think it is now? Dire?”
“Maybe,” I answer. It’s ambiguous, these non-answer answers, but they’re honest. I’m not holding something back. I just don’t know what I’m trying to give. Everything inside my head is a tangled mess, and it’s coming out in matted knots. I’m trying to unravel them, bit by bit, but it’s taking some time. A learning curve I never knew I needed to work through.
“Is there anything you’ve done in the past to help you with your depression? Anything other than therapy? Maybe other home remedy type techniques?”
“Home remedies?”
“It’s a word I like to use for clients who haven’t made the jump to professional help. Specifically for depression and anxiety,” she explains. “It could be a wide variety of options like meditation or journaling. Hiking, going to long walks?—”
“Journaling?”
She nods, but I don’t say anything else. Writing sounds…okay, doable. Possibly helpful. “Is that something you want to try?”
“I think so,” I respond, falling into silence once again.
“How about you tell me about the last week for you,” she says after I’ve remained quiet for a moment too long.
“What do you mean?”
“What did you do?” she clarifies. “Who did you see, what did you eat? Any extracurricular activities you participated in. Or just your norm. What your day-to-day looks like.” She says it like it’s a suggestion. Like I could choosenotto glaze over the last few days and sit here in silence instead. And she would be perfectly okay with that.
“I took my daughter to get milkshakes on Saturday after dinner.”
“You have a daughter.” Not necessarily a question considering I noted my post-partum depression on my online intake forms.
“She’s almost four.”
“That’s a fun age.”
“Yeah,” I answer through an aberrant laugh. She’s right. Three is a fun age. Sophia’s starting to grow out of the heavy tantrum stage since she’s able to use her word to get the things that she wants. But she alsoknowshow to use her words, wielding manipulation schemes like guilt and triangulation tactics.
“What’s she like?”
