'I wonder what my therapist actually thinks of me.'

A little too often, when I finish a session with my therapist, I step out the front door onto the main road and quietly sigh, my own little aggravated 'arggh'. Because the memes are true 'well well well, if it isn't the bridge I said I'd cross when I came to it' and/or 'leaving my therapist's office like damn, maybe that was a bigger deal than I thought'. As I turn left or right - left is the busy slope down to the roundabout, right is the quiet side passage between gardens and down onto the parked-up terrace, it's always completely random which way I go - and start the very short walk back to my place, I try not to immediately pull my phone out of my pocket and let other things float to the surface in my mind. So, in this moment, I occasionally find myself wondering, 'what does my therapist really think of me?'

I know her living space, of course. I'm there once a week, perching on the sofa opposite the fireplace, while she sits comfortably to my left on the other sofa, an end table between us boasting a box of tissues and my glass of water. I've remarked on the space before, in a previous blog post;

'Sarah’s living room is stylish but also low key, calm. All the colours are subtle; olive green and porridge beige walls, soft brown sideboards… She has step ladder shelves predictably well stocked with self help books but also some artist biographies and music theory texts. She always has a handful of fresh flowers sitting in a glass jar on her mantelpiece, their toes in water, and a sea salt-scented candle on the coffee table. She sits on the tan cracked leather sofa, while I’m on the softer white couch opposite, propped up by a collection of monochrome cushions.'

Photo by Jan Vee.

Did I just quote myself? Absolutely. It sets the scene, doesn't it? Makes perfect sense. I like that the space has evolved since I wrote that piece, though; it can actually differ week on week, and I always notice the small changes and touches of life. A different candle burning. A new loudly ticking little clock on the table under the window. Fresh blooms with those wet toes, a telling gap on the shelf between books - a new print on the wall that I can stare at while talking to her and unable to hold eye contact. I'm always surprised by how immensely calm and peaceful the space feels, despite it being on a busy road. The hazy window stickers have paid for themselves. 

So yes, when I've said goodbye and step out to do my aggressive sigh, I might wonder what happens on the other side of the door. Does the cat come in from the garden and settle on my warm, freshly vacated sofa cushion? Does my therapist's partner, who I think I've seen her at the pub with once or twice, come out of hiding upstairs (if he even is there, I have no idea) and step down into the kitchen to make a cup of tea? Do they discuss options for dinner maybe, as my sessions end in the late afternoon? I know they won't talk about me, it's not allowed. I fully trust the confidentiality, but also the ick I'm sure they'd both feel if they did. 

I wonder if she worries about me, or if she's able to switch that off once our sessions are over. Maybe she mentions me to her therapist, because I know all therapists have one of their own that they check in with regularly. (I 'know', as in, I am sure because how could they not?) 

She'll often reassure me that her opinions are only positive, and she sees me as a fully rounded person, not a problem, or a villain. I shouldn't worry about what she thinks of me, anyway. But I worry about what everyone thinks of me. That's half the reason I even go to therapy. 

I hope she doesn't mind that I can't always maintain eye contact. I hope her partner soothes and supports however he can. I hope her cat knows he can always come in and sit on my lap while I'm talking. I hope she's happy in her own life, which I know nothing about. 

Thank you for reading.
G. x

Inspired by a recent post from Jennae Cecilia; author, poet and creator of the viral sensation 'I met my younger self for coffee'.