A Letter To My First Therapist
Do you remember me? I remember you. I remember your coke-white hair, bangs sprayed into place so when you moved from your door to your desk they didn’t budge. I remember the crow’s feet that crawled out the sides of your soft brown eyes. I remember the gold bracelets you stacked on your wrists and the way they jingled when you shifted in your seat. I remember sitting on the right side of your couch the first time we met, staring at the half-inch slits between the blinds pulled down over the window. I remember wondering how a 60-year-old woman would be able to understand me. I remember piling used tissues on your end-table, littered with literature on How to Cure Depression. I remember leaving your office and seeing other patients waiting in brown, 30-year-old chairs that looked like the ones in my school cafeteria. I remember thinking that you were going to see them, and talk to them, and stare at them with your soft brown eyes after I left. I remember realizing that you get paid to do this. I remember when you told me you were leaving your practice for a better position. I remember realizing that to you I was paperwork and an insurance card and a name scribbled on a schedule. Do you remember me?