Find My Way

Something New

The entire room was far too warm for her liking. It was also too gray. Did everyone think gray was a neutral color so they overused it to appear more unbiased?

"Eliza?"

She pulled her attention to the therapist. She was a middle-aged woman with dark brown hair speckled with two gray streaks in the front to frame her face. It appeared as though the gray was intentional as she embraced her aging. It seemed thoughtful, yet effortless. She had clear skin that was smooth and free of any sunspots. She looked well cared for. Even her clothes were free of wrinkles or stains. She had long black trousers with wide pant legs, a white shirt tucked into the beltline of the trousers, a black leather belt to help cinch her waist, and a navy blue blazer. She was a fine woman, down to the red bottom heels.

"Sorry, what was the question?" She asked.

Dr. Robertson showed a kind, compassionate smile. "I was wondering what kind of goals you want to set for yourself."

Ah, that's right. Therapists don't ask questions. It's all centered on the person. Don't be too direct. Don't ask too many questions. Don't smile too much or nod your head too much. Don't laugh at their jokes but definitely don't be too cold. Be kind and encouraging but not demanding.

Damn... being a therapist was hard.

"Goals..." she sighed and looked down at her hands on the couch. It was some sort of microfiber. Every direction she rubbed turned the gray material a different shade. She began to focus on the various shades she created with her fingertips. "Long-term goals? Or short-term?"

"You decide."

Ah, she's letting me remain in control of the session.

She blew hot air out through her lips. "Short-term goals..."

"It can be anything," Dr. Robertson encouraged her.

She pulled her lips between her teeth to wet them, then let them go. "Not be so tired," she gave one, then realized it might have fit better under long-term.

"Tired... explain to me what it would look like to not be so tired."

She let her head fall back onto the top of the couch. "I guess..." her eyes floated up to the doctorate degrees lining the wall over her desk. "I would have the energy to work out again. I haven't done that since everything and I got hurt. I would sleep through the night without waking up every few hours because of nightmares. I would actually have the energy to eat- or even feel hungry."

"You don't think you feel hungry, or you don't actually feel hungry?"

Ah, that's a question, Dr. Robertson.

She shrugged as she found herself without an answer. "I forget that I need to eat. Most of the time I don't realize until Happy tells me dinner is on the table or Peter pushes my food in front of me."

Dr. Robertson frowned and made a note on her notepad. Her pen flicked quickly and precisely.

"Happy thinks I'm depressed," she told her before Dr. Robertson wasted time trying to diagnose her.

"I'm not very concerned with what Happy thinks, Eliza. I'm here to talk about you and listen to your thoughts." She placed her hand and pen over her pad to cover what she had written. "You were talking about what tired looks like to you."

Eliza realized she would keep going back to it. It was a tactic to keep her on track with her goals. She's good. "I just don't feel like doing anything... ever. Sometimes I lay in bed after school and after a few hours of that I'm still just... tired."