We all have demons that at some point in our lives we must face.
"There's no couch!" I say, jokingly, to Dr. Allery, a rotund woman in her late fifties.
"No. No couch," she smiles. "I don't want my patients falling asleep on me."
She motions me to a leather swivel chair. It feels soft and smells new and I see the reason for the absence of a couch. The cold air and the comfortable chair make me want to fall asleep.
She pulls a thin dossier from her side drawer and opens it. She adjusts her reading glasses so that they sit atop her nose. "Hmmm." She smiles. "This is very interesting," she says as she taps her well-manicured fingernail on the paper in front of her. I had sent her a long e-mail, three pages of single spaced text with small font, explaining the circumstances around which I would like to see her for a consultation.
"Tell me about your father," she says after a while, taking off her glasses and putting them on top of the dossier and leaned back on her high-backed leather chair.
I squint my eyes, not understanding why she would want to know about my father when I needed to understand why I had buried Richard's memories and get upset over them after thirty-some years.
"I don't have a problem with my father." I am telling her the truth in the context of my present problem.
Dr. Allery nods and smiles, but says, "What was he like and what was your relationship with him like?"
Thursday January 18th, 2018
19 hours ago