Dr. Liz

  

  

    It was his idea to see a Counselor.  I protested, confident it would not work, simply because I did not want it to work.  Our problems started six kids and twenty three years ago.  Decades of dread kept me from ending our marriage because I knew it would create a fight that I did not have courage to fight.  I let it fester, until hate replaced any love I had for him and I told him I was done.  

Dr. Liz invites us inside her office like we are dear friends. First impression: she is high-class, expertly fashionable and still wears sexy well- despite her age.  I feel safe with her instantly, but I hate that we are her “new clients.”  The room is anything but an office, and it feels peaceful.  I scan the room while I walk toward the seating area. I am not sure what I am looking for, perhaps anything to confirm this visit is a waste of time. I do not want to like her, or this room as much as I already do, but the spell is cast.  

She offers us a drink from her mini refrigerator.  I pass on the sparkling water but accept a water bottle.  Next she points to the basket of snacks nearby. I know I do not want anything but I curiously take inventory, almost expecting cheese.  I sit on a soft sectional seat with room for one, while Sam picks the identical one next to it. Our individual sections are placed at a slight inward angle, almost unnoticeable, but I notice.  I deduce if joined together, a small loveseat would result, but for now it serves as two separate seats.  The irony is not lost on me. I welcome the space between us. I have avoided sitting close to Sam for a long time, and I hope our sections will never come together here.

Despite the pleasant environment, I am sick inside. It was only a week ago that I agreed to give counseling a try.  I am looking at it as a means to an end, a countdown of sorts. I begrudgingly agreed to meet with her for 6 months before making any changes at home.

With arms folded, legs crossed, and water bottle in my lap, session one begins.

“Ember, tell me a little bit about yourself.”  She shifts all her attention toward me. 

I have been to counseling before, I know what this session is all about.  I do not want to talk about my childhood and I don't think it has anything to do with why I hate my husband right now. 

“What was it like growing up with all those brothers?" She asks and steals a look at her notes.  "You are...what is it, six out of seven?” 

I hate that she is so likable.  Instead, I give her generalities. I am gaming our interaction.

Recognizing my body language is signaling I’m “closed off,” (which I am) I untangle myself and continue to fake my openness by looking to the large window at my right. The water bottle crunches beneath my grip, betraying my efforts to appear calm.

    Her office is on the bottom floor so the view is a window well. It is nothing more than a concrete box the length of the room, but she has brilliantly transformed that space into a charming peaceful Zen Garden. This window well becomes my safety zone over the next six months.  I turn to it when it is his turn to talk and I dream of a better life.