Dark Day in a Cream-Colored Chair

It’s cold and cloudy outside, which seems like the perfect way to sum up how I’m feeling inside as I sit in the waiting room contemplating just what I’m going to say. It’s been five years since I was here last and I do not have fond memories. I hear my name called and a wave of dread washes over me. It’s time to go talk to a shrink, something I promised I would never do again.

The room hasn’t changed much since last time I was here, a few plants in the corners, a big couch centered against the wall, one solitary lamp standing in the corner and a big window with a great view from the sixth floor. The one thing that makes me happy about the room is that the big oversized cream-colored chair is still here and I sink in deeply when I take my seat.

I see, lets call him Frank, sitting in a chair at his desk and we exchange pleasantries. Frank says it’s been awhile since he has seen me last, and I tell him that’s because I was doing better; he must have helped me last time. Those are the words that come out of my mouth, but the words in my head are screaming that I quit coming here because you’re a know-it-all who wrote off everything I said the last time.

To be fair to Frank, I did choose him this time for a reason: because of him I made myself get better so I would never have to visit him again. I figured if my dislike for this man could fix me once, maybe it would work again.

“What’s going on with you? How have you been?” asks Frank.

I am about to answer in a typical autopilot way of saying “I’m alright, nothing new,” but I pause and ask myself, “Why don’t I tell him truth?” This is supposed to be a safe place after all, and I can’t get help if I don’t give Frank something to work with.

“I feel like I’m drowning, and every day I think I’m sinking a little deeper to the bottom,” is how I decide to answer his question. As soon as the words leave my mouth the fidgeting begins. I can’t control my hands when I talk anymore. I keep re-adjusting in my giant chair, and then I remember that the chair swivels, and my legs keep rotating me to the left and right and for whatever reason this comforts me.

Frank keeps on and on with his questions, and I swear I feel like I’ve been trapped in the room with him for at least a day if not longer. With every question he asks I feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into the chair, which has become my escape from this barrage of questions.

I hate talking about myself and even more than that I hate admitting and sharing my problems with anyone. I am an open book, though, with Frank and I hold nothing back. With every answer I give, I can feel myself losing focus on the room and instead seeing my life play back in sync with the questions I answer.

I think I have finally become one with the chair. I no longer exist outside of it. Frank finally says that our time is up and reality snaps back into place. Unfortunately I am me again and not the chair anymore, and I’m back in the dimly lit room staring out the big window where there seems to be at least a slight crack of sunlight through the clouds, and maybe there is a break in the clouds inside myself.