I am a totally normal person, with a totally normal life. Nondescript-looking in a way that makes me think I could be a spy. Even that makes me sound more interesting than I really am. Beige, how an ex-boyfriend once described me, if I had been a colour. I did get a tattoo a few years ago. Cursive script with one word. Life. I was still waiting to start mine. The reminder on my inner left forearm would glare accusingly at me as it peeked out from under the sleeve of my frayed sweater. It has faded over the years, accepting its fate.
I work in an office, the kind of job that requires an education, but not too much of one. I dressed my cubicle up the way I longed to do for myself. Colourful neon post-its on the divider wall in the shape of a heart, with self-affirmation quotes in flowery script written on them, “I love all of me,” “I matter.” Bullshit. Postcards of exotic places I had never been stuck around my computer screen, as if by looking at them every day I could manifest myself on a beach, an insipid fruity cocktail in my hand with one of those little paper umbrellas sticking out of it. My other arm draped across the love of my life, who at this moment looked like John, two cubicles to my right.
Years passed.
I was snapped out of my reverie by my boss asking where the latest meeting minutes were. I looked down at my full thighs draped in a heavy cotton plaid and thought about my typist of the month plaque that was hanging in the coffee room. Seventy words per minute. Easy.
To celebrate the end of another work week, over a half litre box of wine and Ritz crackers, the fancy ones with the salt on the outside, my friend revealed she was seeing a therapist. I listened intently as she described her experience, absentmindedly licking the orange dust from the crackers off my sticky fingers. By the time we were halfway through what was trying to pass for cabernet sauvignon she had convinced me to make an appointment.
The next Monday during my lunch break, I ran outside, an unlit cigarette in one shaky hand, my phone in the other, ready for my free fifteen-minute consultation call. After a brief pause I answered with a breathy hello, like I had run up ten flights of stairs. Her voice sounded exotic and warm. Or maybe it was the car exhaust I was standing behind. Before the first five minutes were up I was snivelling down the phone and wiping snot away with the back of my hand, the same arm with the tattoo, yet another insult. I hung up the phone feeling buoyant, an in-person appointment booked for the following Friday. She was located at an uptown address on the thirteenth floor of a building where I was pretty certain I would need a blow-out from the salon to enter.
I sat in the waiting room on a plush green couch, nicer than the one I had in my own apartment. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, a piece of scrambled egg from breakfast lodged comfortably between my front teeth. I hurriedly picked at it, removing the largest most offending piece and at the same time smoothing down the wisps of fine baby hair around my face that refused to settle even with the new pomade I had purchased specifically for this encounter. The blow-out being out of my budget. The large wooden door with a brass plaque with her name inscribed on it, opened. She welcomed me in. I gave her a half smile in return which looked like a grimace as only one side of my mouth began to curl upwards. I looked down at my brown loafers, rethinking my entire outfit. She motioned me to sit across from her. I felt small and rigid, my hands in fists. A compact shape perched at the edge of the couch. Still, I stayed. Kept in place by possibility. She watched me without moving. I looked away. She picked up her pencil between her right forefinger and thumb and said, “Shall we begin?” At the end of our time together, I darted out the door, all her promises stuffed in my cheap handbag.
It turned into a weekly date. I would rifle through my small closet the night before trying to find an outfit appropriate for her. Thursday night became my self-care night: face mask, hair wash, gua sha. I would cancel plans if it interfered with me getting ready for our time.
Soon I ran out of things to talk about. She was warm and supportive, I didn't want to let her down. She wanted to know about my dreams. In a panic I wracked my brain to come up with something, anything. In the end I came up with a story that I had read in the recommended book of the week from our office book club. I told her I had a recurring nightmare about being chased by a dark, shadow monster. Empathy and compassion oozed out of her pores. I could practically taste it. I floated home. Wanting to lock myself in my apartment and just remember how she looked at me, how that made me feel. I decided to be better prepared for next time.
I upped the ante. The dark shadow monster turned into a real person. An ex-boyfriend who hit me twice. The more I confessed the more her care and concern grew. I wasn’t just another bozo on the bus. We increased our time together to twice a week. Every now and then I would backtrack but she didn’t believe me. And so the story grew. For seven years. She nourished me like I was a newborn. My screaming inner child, soothed. I don’t wear grey anymore. Or plaid for that matter. I added some highlights. Blonde streaks.
Then she retired. My lifeline to my new life, severed. She praised my growth and who I was becoming. She was so proud. I was lost. Then she told me about the new guy taking over her office. She wasn’t sure if we would be a good fit but it might be worth an in person visit to be sure.
Three weeks later:
I sat at the edge of the couch, rigid, hands in fists. He had a kindness in his eyes. A softness towards me. He listened with a compassionate ear.
“Should I start from the beginning?” I asked him.