7. Chapter 7
The clinic doesn’t look like a place where people like me come to fall apart.
That’s the first thing that strikes me as I step within the warmth of the building and am greeted by the almost opulence of it. It’s all clean lines and soft lighting. Neutral colors that feel intentional instead of sterile.
The sign mounted neatly behind the reception desk even reads: Dormsworth and Associates Behavioral Health
A bunch of shit scribbled beneath it in fine lettering: Psychiatry, Psychology, Trauma and Cognitive Services.
A list of practitioners is printed below all of it in smaller lettering. Multiple names with a plethora of specialties tacked onto the end of their titles.
I hadn’t realized this place was that big, but if Imogen trusted it, then it was good enough for me. Especially considering I had been fortunate enough to score one of the free spots with one of the psychiatrists within.
I hover just inside the door for a second, tugging my jacket tighter around myself to steel my nerves and approach the desk. The woman behind it looks up and offers a smile that is warmed with practice, the kind of expression that doesn’t pry though.
“Hi there,” she greets. “How can I help you?”
I nearly make an entirely inappropriate comment about her not having the skills or time of day to do it, but bite my lip and reply like a sane person.
“I have an appointment at seven o’clock with…” I fish the paper I had scribbled down on after I received my appointment notification via email a week ago. “Doctor Dormsworth?”
I had also done an unhealthy amount of research on him online before I had come. Early-thirties, clean-cut, a man who seemed like he had his shit together. The exact opposite of all that I am.
She moves to her keyboard, fingers already clacking away. “Sadie Morgan,” I add just in case.
She clicks away some more before she smiles, looking up to me. “Yes, I see you. You’re right on time.”
Something settles uneasily in my stomach at the confirmation.
God, I’m really doing this. Going to go in there and trauma spew all my life bullshit onto a perfect stranger.
I still as she stands and gestures to the hallway beside her that disappears toward the back of the building.
“You can head to the waiting room just past the second door on the left. He’ll be with you shortly. ”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
I pivot on my heel, suddenly very conscious of my worn boots against the polished wood flooring as I head down the hallway she’s directed.
Very aware that I’m fighting the instinct to second guess myself, to turn and make a break for the door and figure something else out to settle what spirals in this head of mine.
I let go of a breath to steady myself and the clinic grows quieter the deeper I go. Offices line the hallway, most of them dark now, doors shut and nameplates catching faint reflections from the overhead lights. Whatever daytime rhythm this place has is long gone.
Clearly we’re in after-hours.
Although it makes sense that this pro bono program isn’t folded into the normal schedule. It’s tucked into the margins and late evenings. Completely out of the way and quiet enough not to disturb the clients who actually keep the lights on.
Not that I’m complaining.
I’ve somehow made the cut and that is a miracle in itself.
I plop down into the chair of another waiting area, my knee bouncing as I try to get comfortable to no avail.
There’s another couch along the far wall, a few chairs arranged neatly, and a low table stacked with magazines that look more decorative than useful.
The lighting is softer in here too, almost intentionally dim.
I chew on my lip and peek about at the empty space.
This is where I’m supposed to talk about my life.
About my past. About things I usually keep folded up and locked away because it’s easier that way.
I tell myself again that it’s just one person, and it’s not like I haven’t told Imogen.
Only this time the person talking back might have solutions to whatever little problem my mind cooks up on its own.
I glance down to the bracelet at my wrist again, the silver catching the light and the small plague mask charm resting against my pulse. Almost mocking me as its empty black eyes glare back at me as if it somehow knows I’m about to make a mess of things by dragging up the past.
I roll its tiny head between my fingers once, my knee still bouncing as the time stretches almost irritatingly so. Long enough for my thoughts to circle in ways I don’t like.
What does a first session even look like? Small talk? Big questions? Silence?
Hi, I don’t think I’m broken but I’m worried I might be heading there?
That sounds about right.
Footsteps approach from further down the hall and I rocket up straighter in my seat, my hand catching my knee to keep it from bouncing straight into my forehead.
A young woman appears at the space ahead of me, a clipboard tucked under her arm and a smile plastered to her face that’s meant to disarm.
“Sadie Morgan?” She asks.
“That’s me.”
“You can go ahead in,” she gestures toward a closed door behind her and my stomach flips hard this time.
I stand, smoothing my jacket like it might give me some semblance of strength I don’t feel. I mumble my thanks and step past her, my hand hesitating over the handle.
This isn’t Pitch.
There are no masks here. No mirrors and no rules beyond honesty.
I draw in a breath and step forward, crossing the threshold.
The door closes behind me and there’s no going back—the session has begun.