ONE
PRESENT
Iwanted nothing more than to prove them wrong. I wanted to believe I wasn’t the problem, but after my last failed relationship—if you could even call it that—I wasn’t so sure. They’d all said something similar:You andyour mental health issues are too much to handle. My eye twitched at the thought of hearing those words again. I had depression and anxiety, but doesn’t every millennial? So, there I was, sitting in the therapist’s waiting room because I couldn’t even put myself out there again without replaying those words in my mind. Given everything I’ve been through, I should have sought therapy sooner, but I didn’t have the strength until now.
The waiting room was small with one loveseat and a matching accent chair. Both were soft pink, but the chair was covered in small white polka dots. I chose the accent chair because it faced a tall waterfall structure with a textured wall at the front, creating a calming effect.
I knew I’d be sitting there for a while since I arrived almost half an hour early. My knees bounced, and my palms were sweaty from the nerves of talking to a stranger about all my problems. What would I even say when she, Darla—according to the name on the door—asked what brought me in today? Should I start with the abandonment issues and trauma from my mom and her abusive boyfriend during my childhood? Or should I mention my terrible luck in relationships, where they were all as fleeting as a shooting star? Or how I was the common denominator, making me believe I was the problem all along?
I looked down at the new notebook I bought for therapy that had a giant “S” on the front, and back up at the serene waterfall. My name, Serenity, literally meant calm and peaceful, and I was anything but. I chewed my nails down to the quick just thinking about going to a new grocery store, I’ve had my fair share of depressive episodes spent in bed, and others have told me I’m dramatic.
I opened my notebook to the first page and wrote, ‘What do I want to discuss with my therapist?’ on the first line. I put the first bullet point on the second line, but instead of writing down topics of discussion, I began to doodle. I wasn’t an artist by any means, but something about mindlessly putting pen to paper distracted me enough to ease my anxiety.
Suddenly, a door opened at the end of the hallway, snapping me out of my daydream. I heard a woman say, “See you at the same time next week, Grant,” and a man’s voice answered as the door drifted closed, “Thank you, Darla. You know I’ll be here.”
I sat closest to the exit, as the man’s footsteps grew nearer, anxiety spiked. I was the only one in the waiting room. I didn’t trust most people, especially men.
He finally came into view, approaching the waiting room. The man,Grant,looked like a literal Viking. He had a thick, muscular build, and the sleeves of his plain black T-shirtstretched across his biceps as if they were itching to be set free. His curly reddish-brown hair was pulled back into a low, messy bun. Man buns usually would’ve been a deal breaker for me, but the way he wore it—messy yet intentional—somehow fit. His full auburn beard reflected the same color as his hair, with a deeper tint of red on the sides. It made his sparkling blue-grey eyes pop. The lighting in the hallway emphasized the grey, but as he entered the waiting room, the sun filtering through the blinds made them look like the ocean on a cloudless summer day. Luminescent—as if a whole world was hiding just beneath the surface.
He washot, but I didn’t feel the twist in my gut I’d usually feel when alone with a man. His kind eyes made me feel grounded in the foreign environment. I couldn’t explain why, but he felt safe.
He caught me staring, and the left side of his mouth drew up in a smirk, which only accentuated his high cheekbones and sculpted jawline. He was tall, too. This man must have been created in a lab.
I was lost in thought with how his presence made me feel when he cleared his throat.
I blinked several times, snapping myself back to reality. “Sorry, did you say something?” I asked softly.
He grinned with a laugh. “I said you’re up next.”
“Right, thank you,” I said, gathering my things, trying to focus after being so close to the most gorgeous man I’d ever had the privilege to lay eyes on. I know I said I could be dramatic, but he really was a work of art. Someone took their time constructing this specimen of a man.
“First time?” he asked tentatively.
I paused for a beat. Do I tell this stranger that this was, in fact, my first time in therapy at the ripe age of thirty?
“Yes,” I said in almost a whisper. “How can you tell?” I repeatedly clicked the pen I still held in my hand.
“Because I’ve been seeing Darla for a long time, and I’ve never come across you before. You have a face I don’t think I would easily forget.”
Was he flirting with me?Do people flirt in their therapist’s office?
Before I could answer, the therapist opened her door and walked toward us.
“Serenity, are you ready?” she asked, her soft and kind tone reminded me of my great aunt.
“That’s my cue,” I say to Grant, standing up and offering a small wave.
He simply smiled and walked out the door. I watched him leave for a moment before turning to Darla. “I’m ready.”
The room Darla guided me into was fairly small. The right side contained a beige loveseat with a variety of colored pillows, all with floral patterns. In the center, a coffee table displayed books, fidgets, and an essential oil diffuser, surrounding the room with a calming lavender scent; lavender always made me feel relaxed.
The far-left side of the room had another accent chair, a maroon high-back lined with a gold pattern. Next to it was a small table, holding a lamp that looked almost vintage—a wooden base, a silk shade, and a brass knob. Its amber hue cast a soothing glow over the room. The cozy, intimate room filled me with a sense of readiness to begin my journey toward healing.
“Go ahead, take a seat anywhere on the couch, and feel free to adjust the pillows however you need to feel comfortable,” Darla said.
I walked over to the couch and picked up a bright yellow pillow covered in white daisies and bumblebees. My mouth curved up in a smile because yellow was one of my favoritecolors, and bumblebees always got a bad rep; I adored them. Darla sat across from me in the tall-back chair, looking almost regal. I finally took her in: a striking older woman in a red dress that clung to her curves, the deep V-neckline revealing a hint of her cleavage and a matching gold necklace and earring set, blonde hair pulled back in a flawless bun, and radiant white teeth glowing back at me. Although she was put together, her dress made her seem more laid back than the therapists I’ve seen on TV. I had avoided them until now because I feared their judgement at the mistakes I’ve made. Although we just met, Darla felt safe enough to confide in.
“So, Serenity,” she began, “firstly, thank you for filling out the intake questionnaire. From the paperwork you filled out, it looks like you’re here to discuss your past relationships and perhaps open dialogue to discuss your childhood trauma. Is that correct?”
