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I’m a nervous wreck.
Anxiety to the moon and back, but I’m here. I’ve never made it this far before. Last week, I walked to the door but couldn’t actually open it and come inside. All my previous therapies have been virtual.
Actually, walking into the building does something to me. It makes me feel sick to my stomach in a million different ways. But today, I came inside, and now I am seconds from standing up and walking out of the room, then the building. I don’t think I can go any farther.
Reaching across from me, I grab hold of the coffee table magazine and stare at the cover. It’s old, by at least ten years. If I were somewhere that didn’t make me feel like I wanted to scratch my skin off from the inside out, I might laugh at the fashion and beauty tips, all of which are so outdated it is actually hilarious.
My knee bounces, I’m unable to concentrate on the pages, and I jump to my feet.
Nope.
I can’t do this. Spinning around, I take a single step and realize I’m fleeing in the wrong direction just in time to run into a brick wall. Tilting my head back, I look up at the man who stares down at me.
I try to take a step back, but my legs slam into the little coffee table that’s covered with old magazines, and I fall backward, my ass landing on the top. I slide a little on the glossy magazines.
The man doesn’t reach for me to help me to my feet. Instead, he watches me, a smirk playing on his lips as if he finds my falling on my ass amusing, which I guess it is, but I don’t think it’s very kind to actually laugh about it.
I scrunch my nose, and my eyes find his. “I know it’s hilarious that I fell,” I mutter as I stand. “Such a gentleman.”
He snorts, then, without another word, walks past me and out of the room. Smoothing my hands down the front of my clothes, I hear the little bell over the door chime just as a soft voice calls out my name.
I blink, then my gaze focuses on the woman who is standing in the office doorway. She has a kind smile on her face. She’s probably in her early fifties. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a simple big bun on the top of her head, and she’s even wearing pearls. She looks distinguished.
She’s wearing a beautiful navy pantsuit and what I can assume is a white silk blouse underneath. On her feet are nude pumps that I can tell just by looking at them are designer. In fact, everything she’s wearing is designer and doesn’t have a single wrinkle.
“Parker Nichols?” she asks.
I brush my hands down the front of my jeans again, trying to wipe off the sweat from my palms. “That’s me,” I quip brightly in an attempt to appear cheerful and hide the absolute terror I’m feeling in this moment.
Her smile doesn’t waver, but I can tell she doesn’t believe my faux bright and cheery disposition. “I’m Doctor Brenda Hamilton. Please come in and sit down.”
What I want to do is turn around and run far, far away. I don’t do that, though. It’s almost as if she has a hold on me. I watch as she takes a step backward, a silent invitation into her office. Inhaling a deep breath, I hold it for a moment, then force my feet to move.
They don’t move quickly. Instead, they shuffle forward, and after what feels like a lifetime, I finally make my way into the office. There is a nice buttery deep-brown sofa on one side, a desk with a dark-teal rolling chair pushed in, and then two deep-gold chairs that face the sofa.
I love the style. It’s classically eclectic.
“You can sit wherever you like. There is no assigned seating,” she says, her tone soothing, and I wonder if this is how she gets people to open up to her because I’m instantly relaxed.
I sink down to my ass on the sofa, and although it’s more luxurious than anything else I’ve ever sat on in my life, it doesn’t keep my anxiety at bay. Now that I’m sitting in this room, facing this woman as she sinks down in one of the gold chairs, I want to do nothing more than run.
This is so different from virtual counseling. She can see my little tics and habits. She will definitely be able to read me better this way. She’ll know if I’m holding back. I don’t like it. I feel far too vulnerable.
“You don’t have to tell me anything deep and dark today. This is our first meeting. I’m good with whatever you feel like talking about.”
“I want to leave,” I whisper.
She doesn’t say anything in response. I’m not sure if she’s trying to read me, think about what to say, or if she’s attempting to get me to talk. None of it works. Staring at her, I tilt my head to the side and wonder if I should just get up and walk away or actually respond.
Instead of leaving, feeling like that would be rude, I shove my hands beneath my thighs, sucking in a deep breath, and I speak. I’m not sure what I’m going to say. I have nothing planned, so I just go for it.
“I dream a lot,” I blurt out.
“You do?” she asks, her voice almost a soothing song.
I nod, my teeth sinking into my lip, then I chew, my teeth scraping across to find a piece of dead skin and tug on it until it comes off. Then I do it all over again. I can feel a piece tear and begin to bleed, and only then do I speak.
“I do,” I whisper. “It’s always the same dream,” I confess. “I’m about six years old and asleep in bed. I feel something or someone watching me, so I open my eyes, and he’s there.”
