Therapist Owns Being Late

My new therapist has been late to almost every appointment I’ve had with her. Not just session late. Arriving at the office late. We have had thirteen sessions. Thirteen times late. This week I said something about it.

Opening the session I said to T, I need to tell you something. I feel really anxious when you’re late. What’s that like for you, she asks. I worry that I’ve got the wrong time, the wrong day, that I’ve screwed up. I worry that I’ll miss my session and wonder if there will be a chance to make it up. I’m afraid I’ll lose session time with you. And you’re probably angry too. I didn’t confirm it, but yes, a little angry. Do you recognize that you first blamed yourself, T asks. It was my fault. I was late. I’ve been late to almost every – if not every – session. T tells me she has been late her whole life. We'll keep talking about it. We'll work it out.

Cold Car Problems

Remember the big red triangle with the exclamation point inside? (MPs Feb 2) It meant something.

I got a call last night, just before dark, and so far, the coldest day of the year. Her car wouldn’t start. Call security, call the insurance company, talk to the tow company. Wait, wait. Cold, cold. Two guys with briefcase jumpers are unsuccessful. Tow it? Where? $75. 

Ask the tow truck operator to try a real jump and charge the battery a bit before hooking up the tow, I suggest. Uggh. I hear cold hands and fingers in her voice. I hear her missing yoga, her sanity. Missing protein and carbs after a long day of dieting and no dinner. Just ask him, I urge. What can it hurt? Maybe he’ll get it started and you can drive it to the dealer and we’ll leave the car and I’ll pick you up and I’ll wait on the car in the morning and you can drive my mine to work. Uggh.

Tell Your Truth

I am looking at an amazing array of taupes, browns, blues, and white. Half is brightly illuminated by the rising sun, the remaining still in shadow. At about 100 yards there is a teepee shaped tangle of bramble, vines and fallen trees. This is where the cardinals gather. I’m thinking it’s their synagogue. Or

maybe a rec center. Whatever it is, there’s often eight or nine of the red birds pausing there. My woods. My eye-candy. I know this view will change. Soon, almost undetectably, green will emerge. Soon, the white winter cover will be only a memory.

Today the winterscape is lovely. A year ago I was on the Siberian tundra, enduring the long, dark days. So too, in therapy. T
My therapist keeps saying things can be different. They are different. I am wondering if this new work with this new T is to be my shift. The imperceptible, undeniable, glacial movement of change. I am wondering if the dynamics between us will slide into the anti-functional. If our discourse will become toxic repartee. If my past will again become my present.

Inner Child's Fear

My therapist is back from Hawaii, jet-lagged and weather-shocked, but present nonetheless. I had a session yesterday.

So, says she, how are you?

I told her that my chest felt like it was full of iron, tight, burning, pressing. What does it mean, T asks. I’m afraid. I think when we feel fear, T explains, we’re experiencing something that happened to us before. When we were little. I was afraid you wouldn’t come back, I say, tears silently starting to slide. That’s something that happened to you before, T asks rhetorically. And it happened with oldT, she adds. I bob my head, a little girl’s nod, and bite my lip.