Therapy begins

I stood, marveling at the four-story brownstone. I was mulling over whether I should enter. At the receptionist's desk, a young Asian man paid his co-payment. Then the receptionist asked, “Can I help you?” “Yes, I have an appointment with Rita.” “Is this your first time visiting with us?” he asked. “Yes.” “I need you to fill out these forms, and she will be with you shortly.” I sat in a waiting area that would have been a living room if the space was still being used as originally intended. Landscape paintings hung on the walls. The room was welcoming and still. It reminded me of peace. Rita entered. We introduced ourselves to each other. I followed her up four flights of stairs into a small room the size of a full bathroom. It had a window, desk, computer, and lamp. “What brings you to therapy?” she asked. “Tell me about you,” she said. As I began to tell her about myself, I could feel different, shifting emotions fill the room. “Tell me about your full-time job.” And the room filled with indifference. “Tell me about your nonprofit.” And she, too, noticed the ardor. “Tell me about your life. How you grew up.” And the passion quickly passed to numbness. “How old is your daughter? Tell me about her.” And uncertainty filled the room. She asked about my role as youth pastor. And an intermingling of love and loathing loitered. “How did you meet your husband?” And insecurity situated itself. Then suddenly my 50 minutes were up. As I walked to my car, I felt like a mass of heaviness was lifted off me. I was relieved. It was the best 50 minutes I’ve had in a long time.