“and my therapist says, [redacted],” she says.
“Your therapist?” I ask. Winter, bare trees, overcast.
“My therapist,” she says.
“[redacted] mentioned seeing a therapist,” I say.
“So do [redacted] and [redacted]. And [redacted],” she adds, “and [redacted] and [redacted] have the same therapist.”
“Am I the only one in the group not seeing a therapist?” I ask.
“We get six weeks of it included with tuition,” she says. “Maybe you should give it a try,” she says.
A lounge of browns and grays, institutional cushioning, recycled computers, secondhand magazines. I ask for the restroom. The receptionist smiles. I take a candy. The skies are oppressive. They’ll call to schedule.
My footfalls grind salt into the steps. Thick gray air. The receptionist directs me to the lounge. I take a candy. She smiles.
Intake is a room of desk lamps. He reviews my answers to the questionnaire. History of depression? “No,” I reply. Medications? “None.” Feelings of hopelessness? “I’m in grad school.”
Support system? “My parents. And a couple friends up north. My best friends. They’re great, I love them.”
“You … ‘love’ them?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply.
Scribbling on his legal pad. He looks up at me looking at him. There’s a question on my face. He leaves it there. He has more questions.