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The Psychotherapist

I'm sitting in the waiting room, I got there early so I have to wait for half an hour before my appointment. My hands are clammy and my mouth is dry. I fill one of those plastics cups with water and sip it slowly. My mouth seems to be getting dryer. Two cheery men come in and join me in the waiting room. The elder of the two asks me if the water cooler produces cold water. I reply that the blue plastic tap does but the white one does not, after apologising for my bag being in the way and moving it. He fills his cup and makes a comment about how the white one should be the cold one because white is the colour of snow. He sits down opposite me which makes me very uncomfortable because he's right in my line of sight and I know that if I make eye contact with him he will try to talk to me. I hate talking to strangers. I wait out the next five minutes looking around the room and fiddling with the now empty plastic cup that is still in my hands. Then a large woman joins us in the seemingly shrinking room. She sits two seats down from me which now means that I can't glance around incase I accidentally catch her eye. I stare at the clock above our heads for a while and then realise that time will pass more slowly if I watch it. Two more women enter and sit next to the elderly gentleman and start talking about hospital appointments. Then I spotted something on the floor. A small piece of what I assume is plastic is glinting at me from the red carpet. My gaze is fixed. I start organising my thoughts, trying to decide what to say to my doctor. There is something green next to the plastic. A small piece of leaf or a blade of grass. I judged the distance between them to be 5 and a half to 6 inches. I begin to run through my exact words, repeating what I will say so as to remember it. I've always found that if I have a mental script that I can talk better to people I don't know too well. If I don't do this I tend to mumble and stutter and every other word is "um." Sometimes I don't even form words, I just make noises. There's my doctor now, a nice Indian fellow that I can never remember the name of. It looks like he's just come back from a break. I found his accent to be too strong when I first met him but I've gotten used to it now. I don't have to ask him to repeat himself anymore. A different, charming looking doctor with blond hair and blue eyes calls in the woman sitting two seats down. She puts down a magazine that I don't remember her picking up, and follows him into his room. A fly catches my eye and I follow it around the room for a bit before it flies around a corner. I focus back at the floor. What is that? A leaf or grass. Here he is again, he's ready for me now. "It's Victoria right? I didn't recognise you with that hairband."

Everything went pretty well. I told him everything I was supposed to and he agreed to everything I asked. He dictated three letters there and then. One to my GP giving him an update, one to the ESA people explaining that I have an anxious deposition and nervous disorder and that work is far too stressful for me for the time being and a final one to the Gateway Team, requesting that they consider taking me on for regular counseling sessions. They refused me before because of my tendency to self-harm but I have only had one incident in three months so he thinks it's worth asking.

I left and breathed deeply. Those rooms are so small and stuffy I can barely breathe. I went and sat at the bus stop outside and rummaged through my bag for my tobacco. Then I remember I ran out of Rizla's earlier. I sit and call Stu to tell him how well I did and how things are looking up. I woke him and he was irritable but that's okay, it was my fault he stayed up all night so he has every right. I want a cigarette but with no Rizla's there's nothing I can do so I put my earphones in, turn my mp3 player on and begin the walk home. It's not too far, 2 miles or so but it's been a while since I've walked that distance and I'm exhausted so naturally my entire body weighs three times as much as it normally does. It takes me about 50 minutes because I like to stroll and my feet are killing when I get home. I grab the new pack of Rizla's from my bedroom table and roll myself a fag. I go outside to smoke, come back in, have an egg custard tart (I actually made them for Dad on the monday after Fathers day (I got my days mixed up) but he said he couldn't eat them all himself), get myself a glass of coke and sit down to write this.

So all in all a successful visit to my psychotherapist. Now I just have to get my appeal sorted and hope that it gets there in time.

That's all for now.
Blessed Be
XxxX

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