I checked my phone for the address for the seventh time and it was still the same. I looked up and saw the number on the building, glanced at phone then back at number. Yes idiot, this is it. It says it right there.

Stood outside until it was 10 minutes before my appointment time, just in case there was some paperwork not in order or there was a delay. Always factoring in those things, “just in case” was very much my motto. I acted casual, leaning against an empty store window beside the entry where I knew people were not going to be walking constantly behind or beside me. I always find a space like that, just to feel like I still have privacy in this crazy city. I looked across and noticed the Empire State Building waving from on high, as people took selfies from down low. They will all look terrible… STOP being cynical, I tell myself. OK ten minutes til my appointment. A rare New Yorker holds the door for me as I enter the quite posh lobby. The person sitting behind the concierge looks expectantly at me, but I turn and see the elevators and press the UP arrow. I want to look like this is not my first time, even if to the stranger behind the desk who has a few bagel crumbs decorating his shoulder.

The elevator had no mirror. But why did I notice or care about this? I can just tousle my hair and know it sort of fell in the right way. Why am I tousling my hair? I feel that reading that word “tousle” doesn’t even sound how I want to describe what I am doing. But its a fact and we do like first impressions. Though my appearance wont show whats going on in my head. The doors ding-ed open and the email said to turn left then go to #2 suite. This suite had a buzzer, pushing it made it tell me an IP address out loud, by an automated voice. I was super confused, looking around. Was this a test? I pressed it again and this time, the door unlocked and I walked into a space for four chairs and a sign that said “please be seated, your therapist will be with you soon”. I was looking for reception, doesn’t this place have reception? I walked around corner in this empty space and was just closed doors and noise machines on the ground. Humming was everywhere. Turning another corner meant more sound machines and more doors. I felt like I was in a suspense/thriller film for no apparent reason. But no humans anywhere and no reception. So decided, like Alison in Wonderland, to do what the sign said. I sat down and waited.

Will this work? Will it help my mind and processes? Can I trust this? I am paying someone to listen to me, does this feel genuine?

A door opened, and a smiling face said hello and I followed him into the room. Therapy had begun.

NYC is my home. Born in Sydney and raised by the sea, I love the world and any opportunity to be myself. I like saying the word puddle.

4 Comment on “A Real New Yorker – Therapy.

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