My Therapist

So, after another unsettled night's sleep, dread was consuming me, as I knew I was off to see my new therapist today. Writing was always my therapy, and never felt the need to drown another person's ear with my incessant rambling. Okay, I have issues. But then again, who doesn't. What would a true writer be without a shitload of baggage that we carry around in our subconcience day after day? There would be no turmoil. No mountainous ups and downs though life to draw from. What if she fixed me? If there was even a small chance of that.
I put make-up on, and made sure I did my hair, so to be sure that I didn't look like a true fuck up. Heart racing, I made it through the car ride without a full-blown panic attack. Then, there was the clostraphobic elevator ride all the way up to the fourth floor. My hand reaches for the handle and I check myself in. Shit, there are way too many people in the waiting room. It's going to be a long wait.
I listened to everybody's life stories as I waited and I waited. I shouldn't be here, I kept thinking to myself. My laptop works just fine. Again, I don't need a therapist. I should be home writing. I should be nestled in my favorite little spot, where I unload my soul into peice of machinery, my fingers leading the way to manical freedom.
Then, I here my name being called. It echoes back inside my head. Shit, here we go, I think to myself with that re-occuring dread. The room smells nice, and the lights are set to a medative low. Well, she knows how to work it, I think to myself with a relaxing sense of hope. A hope that her approach is as subtle and non-threatening as the room. She smiles. It was surprisingly gentle and warm. She speaks. It was kind and unobtrusive. We talk. It wasn't nearly as bad as I thought. We finish. Fear equals the amount calmness that fills me. What if she fixes me. I smiled. There's no chance in hell, I thought to myself.