I hear clocks ticking.  Tick. Tick. Tick. Tock.

The woman sitting in the padded chair across the room stares at me, pondering her next words …

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Well … ”

She’s my third therapist in as many years. Sometimes I laugh at how life twists in unexpected ways. Four years ago I’d have scoffed at the notion, today it’s gotten to the point where I can compare and appreciate therapy and therapists as one would do with a fine wine: Welcoming, but not especially warm; Gently assertive with a distinct notes of professional distance; Similar variety as the other two with a different blend of characteristics.

My introduction involved ringing a doorbell (just like the little handwritten sign on the door says).  I’m greeted moments later by a pert 30s-ish woman who introduces herself with a formal handshake extended from her solar plexus.  She follows with an almost apologetic command to remove my shoes. “Please do so on the rubber mat. Not the floor.” Yeah, definitely different than the last one – the grandma bear with a sad, knowing smile.

Why I am here again?  She fixes her gaze on me and jots down notes (without looking down) as I answer that very question – painting a picture in broad strokes and loving details.

No judgement.  Ticking clocks.  Comfortable surroundings.  Small talk.  Questions. Taking notes. The sounds of my own voice.

Is looking out for one’s best interests a selfish act?  This was a topic of ongoing debate between me and my last therapist(s).

“You are only responsible for yourself.  You have to take care of yourself and your needs before attending to others?”

The concept certainly had allure but felt selfish and narcissistic. Being in a relationship means commitment. It means thinking of others before yourself. Isn’t that what love is … was?

“What do you want?”

To feel whole. To feel connected again. To be happy.  What makes me truly happy these days?  That’s the funny thing about depression, it changes you (“Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae“).

There is a point where I finish … well?  She shrugs her shoulders unfazed (and I’m paraphrasing here) ” …  I’ve heard a lot worse.  Life is full of regrets and heartbreaks.  Move on as others have moved on.”  

I suppose it’s a good way to end the session.

I open up my wallet and produce a $20 bill.   “So I’ll put you down for next Tuesday at 4:00p.m.  OK?”

The next day I discover my first grey hair.

Tick. Tick. Tick.