The lights were turned off in the room, and the only illumination came from the sun rays that crept through the blinds on the window across on the far wall. I sat on a simple chair, padded but uncomfortable, and she sat in the same kind of chair to my left. I wondered where the couch was. I could've sat across from her, but sometimes I don't like to look people in the eyes when I talk. It makes me nervous.
I knew I didn't like her the first time I saw her. That's a peculiarity for me because I don't often judge people like that, but I rely heavily on my first instincts. And in this case, they shouted 'Enemy!'. Her smile that she wore when I first met her looked forced, and she didn't appear trustworthy. Her eyes were as dark of a brown as her bob-cut hair, and they looked that they held some sort of terrible secret. She reminded me of my mother, and I hated to speak to my mother about anything other than superficial small-talk. And it was expected of me to open up the the therapist.
There was a box of tissues on a small night-stand looking table directly to my right, but it was lost in the shadows of the room. The only reason I noticed it was because I looked around the room suspiciously. Was there a camera somewhere? Was I being set up? There was a book case on the wall across the way, and on the shelves were what looked like hundreds of sets of psychology books or psychology encyclopedias or psychology whatever. At the foot of the book shelf was a large wooden doll house. I wondered how many children were forced to play with them, forced to depict what went on in their own house for a stranger. On the wall that she was sitting against, there was her desk. It was bigger than it needed to be, and there were papers in an organized mess covering the surface of the desk top.
I didn't want to do this, but I was the one who agreed to come here. My parents thought it was a good idea, but I wasn't so sure. I couldn't even stand talking to them...they always discouraged us to show our feelings. Well, those that weren't synonyms of happiness. I thought, if I couldn't trust my own parents, how was I supposed to trust a stranger? I didn't care if she swore that all that I said would never leave the room, but I couldn't force myself to believe that. So what if she didn't tell anyone else? She still had her thoughts...in which she could silently laugh at me. Much like she probably did for others before me. I think too many psychologists are in it for the money, and they feel stuck because otherwise it would've been a huge waste of time and money for the years of college they had to go through.
I knew I could never tell her what really went on in my head. I would never mention what I did to myself, what I wanted to do to myself, what I fantasized about doing to others. She would think I'm a disturbed person...like another one of those stereotyped teenager girls who hate themselves so much and are so obsessed with being loved that they'll do anything...and I suppose I was disturbed at that time, but not for those reasons. However, I knew that if she came to think I'm a danger to myself, they have to tell the patient's parents. That's not something I wanted to happen. They already knew too much.
I can't even remember what we discussed in our first session, probably because I don't think it was much of anything. And my mother was there in the room, and there was no way I was opening up in front of someone I had to live with.
Atleast we got somewhere in our second session. She asked me if I loved God. I don't remember what my exact response was, but of course I do. Why else would I be going to a Christian psychiatry office? Somehow, in my weakness and naivity at the time, I let her in too deep too early. It wasn't anything really terrible to talk about (me wanting to be a vegetarian, but my mother not allowing me to due to reasons I don't think she even understood), but it brought me to tears. Well, it was the trigger, and I was a fully loaded gun at the time. My emotions were barely below the surface; I was hanging on by mere self-control. But I lost it, and it broke me. I never went to another session with that woman.
Years later, I went to a rehabilitation center to help me with my migraines that had become unbearable. The people there, for the most part, were absolutely wonderful. My assigned (by the program) psychologist was the one I disliked the most.
She was thin, wore the ugliest dresses and necklaces that I have ever seen, and her hair drove me nuts. It was all in little ringlets, unbrushed, and it looked terrible for a (what I could guess) woman in her late 40s. It was as if there was a matted rat's nest on her head.
The room was bigger, brighter, and neater than my previous psychologist's. I sat in a big green recliner, diagonally across from her, sitting in her desk chair.
She would always cross her legs and scribble down notes with a fancy $30 pen in that damn yellow note pad of hers. I should've asked to see what she was writing, but I never thought of it at the time. Her eyes were a shallow blue color, and they scared me to death whenever she looked up. Atleast she made eye contact... She also wore a sly smile that anyone could tell was fake.
I talked to her about my family, mostly, telling her about how much I couldn't stand living at my house. I don't think I ever got into anything as deep as I had before because I never cried. She would pound me with questions that, for the most part, I didn't want to answer. She said I was a very passionate person: I thought it was a compliment until I realized that it was meant in the worst light possible.
During my visits, I had given a letter to my bio-feedback therapist; a nice, pretty, young woman whom I appreciated for her sincerity. In the letter, I told her that I suspected I might be a schizophrenic. The next visit, she was worried. She asked me why I thought that was, and I gave her a vague answer about having hallucinations and such. I could've made it up (I knew enought about schizophrenia from my fascination from my mother's high school psychology text book), but it was all true.