Many, many years ago I started seeing this therapist. I cannot remember her name. I do remember she had blond, curly short hair and always seemed to be wearing the exact same outfit, which was a jumper with an extremely bold sunflower pattern over a white shirt. (It was the 90's. It's okay)
Things were hard for me then. Not as hard as they've been since then, but still. Hard. My mom had cancer. I had a boyfriend who was, at best, mentally and verbally abusive. I was feeling very unsure about almost everything in my life. This was heavier stuff than the majority of my teenage friends could handle. My parents were overwhelmed and overburdened. I needed help and it needed to be a professional.
I would sit in her office, which I remember overlooked a parking lot. I would sit on the couch and I would talk. She would sit in her chair and look out the window while I talked.
She never looked at me, seriously.
After a while I realized she wasn't listening to anything I said. Because I'm sort of a dick and also was very young and really didn't have any life skills which would enable me to say, "Hey, what the hell lady? You're getting paid to help me and you are sitting there looking out the window?" (I honestly can't imagine myself being that bold now, except maybe on my blog) I instead starting making up random things to say to her, just to get a reaction. For example:
Me: I killed four people yesterday. Today, I might kill another. I haven't decided yet.
Me: I'm not even sorry.
Me: I think I might crash my car into the hospital later. Just for fun.
Her: Hmm. Is that related to your weight?
I forgot to mention that when she did comment on anything? It was my weight. Much like my mother had determined that any ailment I had throughout my life, even a broken ankle, was "probably because I'm constipated", this lady felt the same about my fat ass. It couldn't possibly be that it was normal and healthy and sane to be sad about your mom having cancer and to be sad about having a boyfriend who was mean to you and to feel scared and unsure about your future when you were a Senior in high school. Nope, it had to something to do with the size 18 tag on my jeans. Of course.
I never got any other reaction from her. I forget how I got out of going to see her anymore. Probably the insurance ran out and I was okay anyway, or okay enough.
I know this sounds like a first-world problem, and I guess it is. "Wah! My therapist was mean to me!" To be fair, my parents had to pay this lady to sit there and look out the window and that does blow. Also, I'm pretty sure this experience kept me from seeking help when I was in my twenties because I didn't ever want to feel like this again.
The other day I was sitting in my office, staring out the window and I realized something.
So much of my life is just like sitting in that therapists office. Waiting for someone to hear me.
It's too hard to write anything else about this, except that it would feel really, really nice to be heard. It really would.