The First Therapy Appointment

1 min
Image of 2018
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My foot gently tapped the ground as I waited in the plastic office chair. The surveys, the paperwork, my fears all given to the receptionist behind the glass window. My finger lightly pressed down on the volume button on the side of my phone. The instrumental beginning brought some ease to my mind as I impatiently waited for judgement.
I will be the first to admit bits of my childhood made me out to be quirky as my parents say. It started innocently enough; eating items in a certain way and order, checking switches, door locks and possessions still in their place. Then I joined an alliance with hand sanitizer getting up for what seemed like nothing to rub it between my fingers. That was the start of it all. Young and a little odd was nothing to worry about.
As I grew my mind became more regretful. Single thoughts would drench my arms in an invisible contamination. I couldn’t let it spread, couldn’t let it hurt someone. So I learned then that washing my hands free was going to be my best friend. By winter small cuts painted by dry blood were my reminder that something was somehow wrong. Fights with my parents frequented as they grew frustrated with the relief efforts at the sink, so much that it become rushed in effort to keep it more as a quiet activity. Porcelain chains kept me attached to the sink in my bathroom till demons became my guards telling my every regret more and more. I was a loyal customer for many years. That is, until my world changed.
Moving out of your parents’ house was supposed to be liberating. Instead my peaceful co-existence with my mental demons came crashing down and they revolted. They became relentless turning me into an emotional mess, tightening my chains and extending the sentence to an isolation chamber. The echoes of their taunts, their reminders of my human mistakes took me for wild rides of thought into a hold I couldn’t escape.

When she approached me, I turned off the music. I finally let in the environment of soft voices and keyboard clicks. Nearby one of the noise makers that made the sound of the ocean mixed with the smell of hazelnut coffee from the receptionist’s desk.
She directed me to follow. For a bit the demons became whispers as the calming atmosphere wrapped a protective arm around my being. Maybe there was a chance to get better. After all, getting help needs courage just like facing the disorder itself.

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