Hello, Old Sport. Such an unfamiliar yet recognizable sight.
“Gatsby believed in the green light…
It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . .
And one fine morning ——
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
I’m not sad to be going back on medication. Not really. At least I think I’m not.
Maybe I’m a little disappointed that I can’t just be the kind of person who doesn’t need medication to feel like herself. Maybe I’m just excited to feel like myself again.
Maybe this is just my history repeating itself. Maybe my history will repeat itself again in the future. It probably will.
My first therapy session was this afternoon.
I suppose I should’ve just started at the beginning when she asked what had brought me there. I probably should’ve done that. I’m just not sure where the beginning is when there’s a history, you know?
Instead I meandered my way through the myriad reasons I was sitting in her office, splicing together parts of my life like a patchwork quilt of answers to the questions she asked.
I didn’t cherry pick. I just answered accordingly. I think. Maybe I didn’t. It’s hard to know for sure.
That’s the tough part about first visits. You’re both feeling each other out, a little unsure how to proceed. Like a first date. So I talked and she listened and tap tap tapped on the keyboard. Then she talked and I listened and counted the petals on the flowers on the chair.
Toward the end she asked if I ever cry. Normally, she says, people cry during their first visits. But I didn’t cry. I eyeballed the box of tissues. I felt the lump in my throat when I talked about some things and swallowed it back down. Not on purpose, really. It’s just sort of a reflex because I know the tears aren’t ready yet. They will be though, eventually, and when they are they’ll spill over at something as mundane as a cat gif or a Disney movie.
I never cry when I think I will. I had expected to cry.
Instead I laughed. I joked. I told stories. I felt better.
My past might be repeating itself right now, but the thing about doing this again is that drifting back here means I’ll get back there.
I’ll get back to me.
“if she could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, she could find out what that thing was. . . .