“Sometimes.” He grins. “It’s mostly treatment goals—things I want to circle back to. Occasionally a reminder that I need milk on the way home.”
“Very professional.”
“You’d be surprised how human therapists are.”
When I don’t say anything he just keeps on.
“Some things we try here will work for you, some won’t, and that’s okay. Failure doesn’t exist in therapy.”
I settle into one of the chairs, scooting around but failing to get comfortable. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Thanks?” He barks a laugh.
“I just mean . . .” When James Corbin gave me Harvey’s name, I expected a personality that matched his headshot—gruff and no nonsense. It seemed like telling someone who looked less likely to talk my ear off would make this easier. Right now, it’s not terrible, but once we start getting into why I’m here—well, that’s what I’m worried about. “Nevermind.”
“You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”
“You look more like a guy I’d find working on a ranch than a therapist.”
“Ah. It’s the beard.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“My wife hates it.”
“You should know I hate small talk.”
His pen moves across the page. “Noted.”
Then he settles back, crosses one arm over the notebook, and leans in.
“You mentioned on the phone earlier this week you wanted to see someone as soon as possible.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s that about?”
There are about a dozen ways I could answer.
“It’s overdue,” I say, pushing a hand through my hair. “And I’m required to be here if I want to return to work.”
“Ah.”
Ah.What the hell does that mean?
“Do you want to be here?” he asks.
“Does anyone?”
He smiles faintly. “If we were given the choice, most of us would pick a life without trauma or struggle.”
I think about that—about the worst moments and the people I never would’ve met if things hadn’t gone wrong first.
“Are you about to tell me you have to go through the dark to find the light?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Bad shit happens, and sometimes we find joy on the other side. It can feel connected, but most of the time it’s just coincidence.”
I nod.
