Waiting Rooms and Window Blinds
Every time I open the door to the waiting room of my therapist's office, I hold my breath for a moment.
I pulled into the parking lot about 15-minutes before my appointment, and for a few minutes I stared at the tree in front of my parking space. It wasn’t that I was feeling anxious, I was only wondering how plants could survive the summer heat in Texas. Maybe I was feeling somewhat anxious, despite the fact that this would be my tenth therapy session.
When I walked into the office building, I felt the nervous energy begin to dissipate. Perhaps, it was the air conditioning, or the sounds of the water fountain in the lobby. Maybe it was because the building always seems to be remarkably quiet. During the past few months, I have rarely see anyone walking through the hallways or had any company on the elevator.
Every time I open the door to the waiting room of my therapist’s office, I hold my breath for a moment. But, I’m always greeted by an empty room. The flatscreen television on the wall and the endless playlist of a random assortment of pop music, the collection of bottles of water and snacks on the table, and the empty couch and chairs. There’s a small table with a collection of magazines, but I have no idea what publications are included in that stack of glossy paper. There’s a calendar on the wall, but there’s never anything written on any of the days.
When I sit down on the couch, the nervous energy returns. I have no idea how to spend the next five or ten minutes. I’m not even sure how to sit like a normal person on the couch. Where should I rest my hands? I usually find myself scrolling through the music on my phone, looking for something that can serve as a distraction. Are my feet too far out in front of the couch? After those five or ten minutes have stretched into what feels like an hour, my therapist appears at the door and invites me into her office.
I always sit down on the couch against the wall in the space she has set up for therapy sessions. During every session, I sit in the same corner of the couch, next to the lamp and the table populated with various figures and plush toys. Next to the couch, there’s bookshelf with dozens of books neatly arranged on every self, but I have never actually looked at the titles or authors. It’s strange, because I often find myself noticing those kinds of details, the titles or authors of books on someone’s bookshelf, or the type of coffee they have above their coffee maker, or the types of photographs they have arranged on a corner table.
Every week for the past two months, my therapist has guided me through the beginning stages of a process that I have avoided for more than twenty years. In some ways, I think I purposely avoided therapy, and in other ways, I think that I might not have been ready for therapy. I was not ready the emotional and physical exhaustion. After every session, it feels as though I have spent an hour swimming in a pool filled with memories, and it has taken all my strength not to drown.
There is a large window that looks out over the street. During my therapy sessions, occasionally, I will notice the cars driving past the building or the sound of the rain falling against the window. Much of the time, I find myself staring and the window blinds, which are usually open just enough to let some of the afternoon sun into the office.
Those blinds are where my eyes gravitate when I start to talking about something heavy, or when my therapist has asked a question or made a statement that unexpectedly flips that switch in my brain — the switch that has allowed to hide my thoughts and emotions for everyone. I stare at those blinds, and wonder if there’s something on the other side that can fix the tangled mess I’ve made in my brain.