On days of therapy, this is what goes through my mind:
My step Dad drops me off at the parking lot. I walk down the ramp to the main entrance. The whole time, I am aware of my surroundings. I clutch my purse to me as tight as possible.
I open the door and check in. Then the hardest moment comes up. Entering the waiting room.
I don’t want people to look at me, which I know everybody is.
I jiggle my leg and take deep breaths, where is my therapist. She is one minute late and I get paranoid. What could have happened!? Was she in a car wreck? Did she fall down the stairs? Is she locked in an office room with a rapist?
She finally arrives at the doorway.
I follow her quickly to our meeting room. I give MA my notebook where I keep my notes for what I wanted to talk about.
The session begins. Its hard to concentrate. All I really care about is the time. What time is it, how long have I been there, how much longer is our session?
I change seats 4 or 5 times that session. I feel I need to.
Finally its over. I open the door to leave looking right then left to make sure there are no killers. I race out of the building and jump into the car where my step Dad is waiting.
Therapy is over, check. I made it through!