Today is Tuesday, which just so happens to be my least favorite day of the week. They serve no purpose, and things with no purpose bother me. Sure, Mondays suck, but at least they were made to suck, so there's that. Wednesday marks the middle of the week, Thursday is the Friday Eve, Friday is the day before the weekend, and Saturday and Sunday are made for sleeping in late, eating syrup-drenched pancakes, and idly lounging on the couch with a big cup of coffee while you Keep Up With the Kardashians. What are Tuesdays for? Nothing. And I hate that. Because I know I am also depraved of a purpose. And I hate that.
That's why I scheduled my appointments with Kelly on Tuesdays: so that I could finally give them a purpose. But having to go talk to someone I don't want to see about feelings I don't want to talk about ends up making my day worse. And so, I hate Tuesdays--and myself for being so stupid to think this would have been a good idea--even more.
Kelly is wearing one of the five outfits she cycles through every time I see her. Today, she has on a plain navy blouse and dress pants that are just slightly too long so that the bottoms are dirt-stamped and frayed from the black, Payless flats that have stepped on them from her commute from the bus stop to the office. This outfit bothers me because it does nothing but remind me that I am getting exactly what I am paying for. I wish I could close my eyes. Technically, this shouldn't be a problem as all I need to do is listen and talk. But my actions would most definitely warrant an explanation, and I would be forced to reveal how I think her cheap taste in clothes reflects her talents as a therapist. Then perhaps we would switch roles so that it would be me consoling her.
But to be honest, I don't think Kelly would be offended if I told her this, at least not outwardly. Whenever she starts to feel uncomfortable, doesn't know what to say, or wants to avoid answering one of my questions to her (which she has repeatedly asked me to refrain from doing as she is not the one here for therapy), she switches the topic to something else like how things are going at work, if I've spoken to my mom recently, or, my personal favorite, how my love life is. To these I usually answer the same: "fine," "no," and "I don't know."
Kelly usually accepts these answers, taking the time to even write down my responses on a sheet of paper she keeps tucked inside my manilla folder as if she intends to review them later for further analysis. She waits a few moments and maintains eye contact with me in the hopes that I provide more detail, but I never do, and after a few awkward minutes of her expectantly gazing into my indifferent eyes, she leans back in her chair and asks me if there is anything on my mind.
Duh, Kelly. Of course there are things on my mind. There are never not things on my mind. I have so much on my mind that I can literally feel each and every anxiety-inducing thought claw its way from my bowels into my throat, trying to get out and take over every aspect of my life. I want to scream in Kelly's stupid CVS-makeup face and unload every wretched emotion I'm feeling, every imaginary demon I'm afraid of, and every childhood trauma I've tried to run away from.
But I don't. I can't. She wouldn't be able to help me. At least not in the way that I know I need it. She would only give me some bullshit coping strategy to try like deep breathing, walking in nature, or journaling. And if she's feeling bold, she might even try to offer some actual insight. But either way, I don't want to hear it. Because nothing she says is going to make me feel better. In fact, it's probably only going to make me feel worse and I'll leave the office like I do almost every session we have: feeling numb and hollow for having revisited the most scarring events of my life, and feeling more alone than ever for receiving advice that makes me feel like there is no one who will ever understand me, who will ever get me, who will ever be able to look at me and see a person who needs to feel human affection, empathy, and a genuine connection--not a patient to spit impersonal textbook psycho-therapy questions and coping strategies at.
I don't share any of this with Kelly. I don't share a lot of things with Kelly. So why do I even continue to see Kelly? I guess it's like how some people turn to God when there is no one else to turn to. But I'm agnostic, so that doesn't really apply to me. So I turn to Kelly: a three-star Yelp rated therapist with loopy handwriting who wears cheap clothes and doesn't say much. Close enough.