When I met Lucy, my first psychotherapy client, I expected the kind of complaint, syndrome, or pathological personality I had studied at graduate school. Instead, she offered me a metaphor.
It was a cool Saturday morning in September. I was nervous; wouldn’t it be obvious to everyone, client and colleague alike, that I felt like a fake? To honor my entry into a new profession I had chosen “a look”: I wore sleek black pants and a nifty blue free-flowing jacket, an outfit not too trendy but not untrendy either, with just the hint of an artistic flair. After much deliberation, I had decided that wearing my hair in a ponytail would differentiate my “therapist” self from my civilian, freelance writer, new mother self. Pulling my hair back bestowed on me a more prudent, not-so-wild attitude, one befitting a mental health professional. I wanted to feel tidy inside too, as though I could hold scattered nerves at bay with an elastic tie.
I rode the El train, lumbering along at a leisurely weekend pace, to the mental health agency in downtown Chicago. I had my own office for the day, complete with a shelf full of generic mental health books (the PDR, the DSM IV, etc.), a few well-tended flower pots, and a south-facing view that, as often as not, invited comment from clients as a projection of their mood: “Such a bright, sunny day!” “Oh it’s gray again. . .” I had memorized various administrative procedures: which form goes into which file; how to work the phones. I had psyched myself up, assuring myself that by sitting and listening I was unlikely to inflict any lasting psychological harm upon my unsuspecting clients. I did a few yoga stretches. I practiced looking compassionate and wise.
At 10:00 AM sharp the phone rang in my office, jarring me out of a calming mountain pose. Lucy, who I had spoken to only to set up this appointment, had arrived. I stood up, reinserted an errant bobby pin, and strode briskly and evenly down the hall to the waiting room like a runway model showcasing the utmost in sanity.
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