Dating : Therapists

Flash Fiction

I’ve been sitting in therapists’ offices since I was a kid. It’s no surprise I’m in one now, staring at the bland furnishings around me. Why do all therapists have offices like this? This one is slightly different; there are no couches, only chairs.

The first therapist I ever had was Dr. Lau.

My mother took me to see him when I was twelve. My parents had just gone their separate ways and my mother thought for sure it was causing me to “shut everyone out.” Honestly, my behavior was less about being antisocial and more about having nothing to say. I liked Dr. Lau. He gave me tea and sometimes, when I would sit silently looking down at my lap, he would entertain us both by telling stories about his family in Hong Kong. I would giggle when he impersonated his grandmother’s little voice. Each time I left his office I would say, “Thank you, Dr. Lau,” so he knew I appreciated his efforts. After a few weeks, my mother told me I was done with Dr. Lau. She had decided I was healed of my emotional trauma.

The next therapist was Dr. Gaston.

My mother sent me to her when I stopped eating. I was convinced I was going to become a fashion model and of course I needed to look the part. It was no big deal, but apparently parents worry about those kinds of things. I sat in front of Dr. Gaston trying to look waifish. She was full of questions: “Do you enjoy school?” “What do you do when you visit your father on the weekends?” “Do you feel worthy of eating?” I answered her questions with a word or two and wondered if anything I said mattered. What kind of conclusion was she coming to, based on my monosyllabic responses?

My mother looked pensive when she picked me up from my appointments with Dr. Gaston. We would sit in the car and she would ask me about the session. “Did you cry?” she would ask. “Did you talk about me?”

I would shrug and look out the window. “No, I didn’t cry. Yes, we talked about you.”

My mother’s face was full of worry and regret as we drove home.

Dr. Gaston thinks I’m messed up because of you, I was tempted to say, but never did. The truth is, I never knew what Dr. Gaston was thinking.

There were many therapists after that.

So many, I can’t remember all their names. Throughout high school and college I dragged myself to weekly appointments to talk about what was bothering me. Every person, event, emotion and dream was discussed and analyzed. Therapy was part of my existence.

So it’s no surprise I’m sitting here now, on this beige chair, surrounded by carefully curated décor and listening to a woman in a business suit say something about the challenges of meeting men in New York City.

“Dr. Anderson?” The woman looks at me intently. “Did you hear what I said?”

I look down at my notebook. Her name is Katherine Meyer and she is my first patient of the day. “Yes, Katherine,” I say, “I’m listening.”

© 2021 J.J. Shannon