I didn’t like her. The moment the glass doors pressed quietly shut behind me with a faint pneumatic hiss, the mood changed. I was now the patient, and I was being lead down the hall to room 401.
Offered a seat, (or was I instructed?) I sat looking down into the pits of the university. I pondered a moment, as I often did, of the lives of others; all those thoughts inside the seemly tiny heads that traversed the ground like rain on a window.
"So, Monique, tell me why you want to see a psychologist - we just need some details so we can better match you with someone." Tania sat opposite me, pen poised over a yellow sheet of paper, ready to take notes about my 'situation'.
I felt like a multiple choice quiz as she prompted responses from me.
"I'm here because my friends think I have an eating disorder."
"Well, you need to be here for you, and I think that you wouldn't have come it if was just for your friends. Why do they say you have an eating disorder?"
I went on to describe some of behaviours I'd developed, suddenly succumbing to frustrated tears. The tears were not mine - they were involuntary and I tried to explain it to Tania, but she just pushed the tissue box towards me and said with a smile,
"It' OK, it's good to get things out."
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