Psychiatrist number XI

Having failed therapy with Psychiatrist Number X, clutching my new referral letter, I squint through hate-rimmed eyes at the building of Psychiatrist Number XI. 

Procrastinate.  Lean against wall.  Tap foot.

Should I go in?  Should I not?

Tap foot again.  I note that Suspicion and Fear have appeared, materialising heavily on my shoulders in their slightly aggressive Macaw type way.  Fear nips at an earlobe, experimentally.  Suspicion leans in.

Swatting beaks away, I dialogue with the parrots (Suspicion on my left shoulder, Fear on the right).  I am quite heated.  I wave my arms about a bit to emphasis my point, suddenly aware that people are giving me lots of room on the pavement.  When I think about it, people are actually staring at me as they step off the pavement and walk around me.  I realise that my mouth is moving.  I try to stop my mouth moving. 

And slink away as unobtrusively as one can slink when one has two large rarely-friendly parrots on one’s shoulder (and a wolf who has suddenly appeared at one’s heels). 

I slink into the building.

Feet dragging.  Broodingly.

Doorway.  Foyer.  Elevator.  Hall. 

Hall.  Hall. 

Door jamb.

Standing tall, with borrowed dignity, Fear, Suspicion, Wolf, and I successfully navigate the portal to hell (normal people would call this his office doorway)

The office of Psychiatrist Number XI is very messy.  I wonder if by the time Psychiatrist Number XI gives me a referral letter the inside of my head will look like his office.  I decide not to wonder aloud. 

Complimentary tea is offered.  Complimentary coffee is offered.  Ten different types of complimentary herbal tea are offered.  Tap water is offered.  The range of beverages excels that offered by Psychiatrist Number X. It feels almost like bribery.

There is no foot-ball-field sized desk in this office. There are no antiques.  There is no model car collection.  The pictures on the wall are crooked.  I resist the urge to straighten the pictures.  I feel sorry for Psychiatrist Number XI.  I feel sad that he failed Psychiatrist Office Décor 101.  I decide to be nice to him.  The parrots say that I am not allowed to speak to him.  It is not safe.  It is hard to be nice to Psychiatrist Number XI when I am not allowed to speak.  I smile nicely at Psychiatrist Number XI.  Psychiatrist Number XI grimaces back at me. 

We sit for a long time.  It is very quiet.  The clocks tick and tock.  Tick and tock.  There are four clocks.  Each clock shows an opposing time.  I wonder which time is the right time.  I wonder if entering this office is like entering an episode of the Twilight Zone.  I wonder if I will have aged by the time I leave this office.  Like a sort of pink-haired Rip Van Winkle.  I sip at my complimentary coffee.  I wonder if there is a catch. 

Suspicion flaps his wings.  A feather flutters to the floor.  Then another. Psychiatrist Number XI does not smile at the feathers.  Nor does he frown. Psychiatrist Number XI appears to ignore the feathers now piled on his office floor.

————

I sit (and scowl).  Sipping free coffee.  Wasting time.  Sit.  Stare.  Sip.  Scowl.  Psychiatrist Number XI saying

Blah Blah Blah.

Head boils. 

Blah Blah Blah BLAH. 

Shift forward slightly.  Try to catch reflection in window glass.  Decide I look not unlike manic-depressive Cheshire cat. 

Blah Blah Blah. 

Wolf paces around and around and finally settles curled up around my heart.  Wolf falls asleep.  Wolf snores softly.  Wolf is very heavy.  I try to move her.  I take a deep breath and hold it.  Then blow it out as hard as I can.  I do it again.  And again. 

Time speeds up. 

Psychiatrist Number XI stops talking.  Psychiatrist Number XI looks alarmed. 

Wolf wakes up and steps out of my chest.  Wolf starts slinking around and around the room.  In rapidly closing circles. 

Wolf stops in front of Psychiatrist Number XI and sniffs his leg. 

I put my hands over my eyes. 

I can’t watch. 

There is a lot of silence. 

There is a flipping sound. 

I peer through my fingers. 

Psychiatrist Number XI has closed my notes.  Psychiatrist Number XI looks up. 

Psychiatrist Number XI does not look eaten. 

Yet. 

Psychiatrist Number XI does not even look slightly chewed. 

Yet. 

I glance around.  Wolf has disappeared. 

But not Wolf’s growl. 

I tense. 

Psychiatrist Number XI winks.  “I don’t have a magic wand,” he says. 

I look at Psychiatrist Number XI.  Psychiatrist Number XI looks at me.  I wonder if he has penis envy.  Psychiatrists talk about magic wands a lot.  I bet Freud would have liked to have met Psychiatrist Number XI.

“Well, see you next week then,” Psychiatrist Number XI grimaces brightly. 

Suspicion screeches. 

Fear’s eyes narrow.

Wolf drools.

Originally written 2006, revised 2021