The counselor smiles benignly.
“I’m not sure what I’m doing here,” I say.
“No?”
An antique grandfather clock ticks on the wall. A gentle rain patters at the window.
The nameplate on the desk reads F. G. Lapin, LMHC. On the wall behind the therapist is an enormous modern-style painting of a tree filled with tiny birds in different colors. The walls are a soothing spring green except for the one that’s covered in oak bookcases. The oak doesn’t match the cherry wood of the clock. It’s petty, but mismatched wood is an irrational pet peeve of mine.
Still, how am I supposed to trust a therapist who can’t be bothered to hire an interior designer? That probably makes me a snob.
Be nice, Maddie. The voice of my unflappable Southern grandmother echoes in my head.
And yet, rises in me like the steam rising from the counselor’s mug of tea. The cup says, “Inner peace loading slowly.” The mug sits on her desk, atop one of those plug-in mug warmers.
I visualize myself lashing out. Drink your Earl Grey or put it in a fucking travel mug to keep it hot, you weirdo.
Then I remember who I am. I don’t talk like that. I am not that person. I am kind, nice, and gracious at all times. I treat everyone with respect. If I can’t find something nice to say, I keep it to myself. There’s no reason to lose my shit over someone’s mug warmer. Even if I do think it’s idiotic.
“I mean to say, I was referred here by my general practitioner.”
“Dr. Taylor,” the counselor says, nodding once. She has this learned, polite way about her, but she’s urging me to get on with it.
Finally, she takes a sip of her fucking tea.
I glance over at the clock. It’s one of those super old-fashioned ones that literally nobody has in their house anymore. Why on earth would a grown woman in her 30s clutter up her office with such an enormous dinosaur?
Not to mention the figurines. Gray ceramic rabbits peer down at me from atop the bookshelves. Not cute bunnies, but realistic-looking hares in black, brown, and white, and I find their stares unsettling.
“Dr. Taylor sent me here because he said I had an anxiety attack, but I don’t have those.”
The counselor glances down at my file. “That was his diagnosis.”
“That’s his opinion.”
“But you think his opinion was wrong.”
“I’m sure you’re good at your job, Dr. Lapin, but we are wasting our time here.”
She smiles. “I’m not a doctor, but thank you all the same.”
“What’s with all the rabbits?” I ask.
“My last name means rabbit,” she says quickly, then adds, “What makes you think this is a waste of time?”
I sit up straight. “You know I had to fill out about a hundred questionnaires before I came here today. You would have read in that file that I’ve never had any kind of mental illness diagnosis before. Do you think it’s a little egotistical to collect things based on your last name?”
She’s not thrown in the least at my little jab. “People give me rabbits; I could fill a museum,” she says, still unfazed, just like my grandma. “So, why don’t you tell me what you think caused you to collapse on Valentine’s Day?”
She emphasizes “Valentine’s Day,” saying it slowly, as if it means something important to my diagnosis.
The day does mean something to me. I’ve started an entire business around helping people find love, and I arranged for one of my best friends, Ari, to get together with that grumpy snowboard salesman, Foster. That worked like gangbusters.
But that’s just business. And I’m happy for my friend.
But the day doesn’t mean anything to me, personally.
“It was exhaustion, just like the emergency room doctor said,” I explain, rapidly blinking at her. That’s the look that usually gets people to back off with their nosy questions.
