Revision to the whole Analyzing Story
I redid the ending because the first one was just lame. Terrible! But we’ll fix that…I think you may want a picture, though, so you don’t get bored. A picture for you:
I have a therapist. We’ll call her Dr. Schmuley. I found her through my insurance company. Actually, I found Dr. Abrams through my insurance company, called her office, which was a weird kind of switchboard for psychologists, and they asked me which insurance I have. When I told them, they said that Dr. Abrams didn’t take my insurance anymore and then made an appointment for me with Dr. Schmuley.
I went down 33rd Street to a large apartment-building–looking building, passed the doorman, got in the elevator, and sailed up to the 14th floor. I went down the hall and looked at the address I’d written down on the back of my receipt: “#14i.” I went down the grey hallway and knocked on 14i. No answer. Ten minutes later, a man walked down the hallway, looked at me, and then opened 14i and went in. I followed him into a sitting area surrounded by offices. The man went into an office and I wandered around, hoping Dr. Schmuley’s name would be taped onto one of the doors. No luck. I sat down at one of the chairs beside a corner, where there was a table stacked with an assortment of gossip magazines, to the right of a kitchen with half-size, wooden swinging doors, like a saloon would have.
A woman opened the door to her office and took a look around the waiting area, even though I was clearly the only person sitting in there. I smiled at her hopefully, like a kid hoping to be picked for the kickball team. No luck. She retreated, leaving me sullen and rejected, wondering if I were even in the right place. There was a giant sign that had a picture of the first mobile phone ever invented with a giant X over it. Not that I would’ve called anyway, since the call would’ve connected me with the switchboard. I got up again and double-checked the doors. The same therapist woman opened her door again and looked out at me. Again, I smiled, hope returning that I would be chosen for the kickball team. But she did not want me, and she went back in her room. I stopped smiling and pretended I had never smiled at all.
A younger, more vibrant woman walked in. Her pretty hair twisted up on her head like taffy. She sat two chairs away from me. I studied the yellow brochures next to the magazines, seeing that there were three addresses listed. No names were listed on the brochures, though. But maybe I was at the wrong address.
The therapist opened her door again. Her face lit up when she saw the taffy girl, and then she chose her, holding the door open wide until the taffy girl was completely within.
Dr. Schmuley was ten minutes late, if I were even in the right office. I stood up. Maybe I was in the wrong lettered apartment? I opened the front door and stuck my head out to look at the number on it: 14i. I looked across at 14j. 14j had a mezuzah on the doorjamb. I looked at it longingly. I want to go in there, with my people, I thought.
Then I heard the elevator ding and I ducked back inside and sat down. A tall brunette with shiny shoes walked into the office and unlocked and opened the door to my right.
“Are you Tasha?” she asked, in a thick Russian accent.
I smiled at her. “Yes, I am!”
“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
I went inside to a large room with a Persian rug, a desk, a couch, a table, and two original paintings of flowers and naked women.
She told me to have a seat, so I sat on the couch, giving her the commander’s chair. She told me to tell her about myself and why I thought I needed therapy. So I gave her a list of key points. She didn’t say much, so I kept going, growing more nervous. As I spoke, she reacted with facial expressions: She would roll her eyes, wrinkle her forehead and nose and curve her sharp Serbian eyebrows into a V, or widen her eyes like someone was explaining to her quietly that Rasputin were still alive. She did all of these things seemingly randomly, and she said next to nothing. When she did talk, she’d say, “You should see the amount of anger on your face” or “It is apparent that you have a lot of fear toward your mother.”
“I like my mother,” I told her truthfully, afraid to disagree with her.
When the session was over, she told me it was time to stop, and I was grateful. Then she set up another appointment with me in two-weeks’ time.
I walked out, climbed into the elevator, dropped fourteen flights, greeted the daylight, and wondered what had just happened. For two weeks, I contemplated canceling my appointment, but I was afraid. I was afraid to call her because I hated phones and I thought she’d judge me for canceling, thinking that I just didn’t want help, that some people just didn’t want help. So I never canceled.
Because it had been two weeks, though, I forgot the address. I looked it up on the Internet and found the building. I walked in and spoke to the doorman, explaining that I was seeing Dr. Schmuley.
“Do you know which floor?” He asked me.
So I got into the elevator, sailed up to the 31st floor, walked down the hallway, saw a mezuzah on the doorjamb to the left, blinked twice, double checked the numbers, and entered 31i.
It was as though I was living in one of those movies where the protagonist ends up in an alternate reality, is totally disoriented, and thinks she’s gone insane but will eventually have to prove to other people that she’s not. I was in a waiting room now, but the layout of the rooms was different. The table with the same magazines was stationed in the middle of the wall, instead of the corner, but the chairs were the same. I sat down next to the table then got back up and started wandering around to look at the names on doors, some of which were unlabeled. The kitchen was in front of where I was sitting now, instead of to the left. I sat back down for a moment, then stood up again and looked at the yellow brochures, which were the same as I’d seen two weeks ago. I sat back down and waited ten more minutes, my mind hurting, then got up and stuck my head out the door to look at the number and letter on it, then ducked back in. I took out my phone and glanced up to see the same anti-cell phone sign.
Someone was twenty minutes late in this alternate reality of mine. Or maybe there had never been an appointment at all. I thought of that prospect, and it made me happy.
Finally, I went into the hallway and dialed the number of the switchboard, which connected me with Dr. Schmuley, who humorlessly told me she was in 14i.
I got in the elevator, dropped sixteen floors, walked down the familiar hallway, went into the door on the right side, labeled “14i.” Everything was as I remembered it, and a feeling of serenity flooded me—the feeling that you get when you leave dystopia and return to your bed. Dr. Schmuley was in her office, waiting for me.
“I was going to call you,” she said.
“It was so funny,” I said. “It was like I was in the Twilight Zone.” I explained my experience and how funny it was while Dr. Schmuley’s forehead squeezed into a disgruntlement and alternately opened her eyes as wide as possible. I laughed. She did not laugh. She wrote something down.
When I finished my story, Dr. Schmuley told me that that was all the time we had for the day, and then handed me some forms to fill out while she processed my credit card.
“So we’ve discussed recurring appointments, yes?”
“We hadn’t really decided on anything,” I said.
“I think it would be good for you.”
“Yes. I was thinking about it, and I think there are plenty of things I could work on.”
“More than working on them, I think you could just talk.”
I nodded and said I was available after five o’clock on weekdays. She was not available after five at any point the following week, so we scheduled a time the following week.
Outside, I questioned the potential effectiveness of such therapy. Why pursue this? Because, I admitted, I want her to like me. Great. I was neurotic, paying to get help for my neuroses from a therapist who was making me even more neurotic. What an unfortunate state of affairs.
I continued to see her for two more weeks before coming up with a plan of action: The following week, I asked Dr. Schmuley if she was available for an appointment at 5:30. Dr. Schmuley told me that she unfortunately had an appointment at that time. The wheels in my head were turning, and I scheduled an appointment at a time I couldn’t possibly keep, so I’d be sure I’d go through with the plan. I would call her at 5:30 the following week, when she said she was busy, and thus reach her message service.
I waited on that fateful day and, with clammy hands, dialed her number. To my surprise, the switchboard operators picked up, cheerful and ready to take a message—so much better than hearing Dr. Schmuley’s austere, dual-layered tone explain to me on the surface that I could leave a message but underneath it all, imply that she’d judge me, no matter what.
“I would like to cancel my appointment with Dr. Schmuley!” I told the lady operator, whom I imagined having glowing clear skin, a long auburn braid down her back, a full-lipped mouth, and a preference for shirts that were button-down and collared.
“Okay dokey!” she said. “When did you have the appointment?”
“Next Wednesday at 10a.m. My name is Tasha Shayne.”
“Any particular reason you’d like to cancel?”
“Are you going to tell her?” A part of me lurched for compassion, and I thought this woman might say something along the lines of, ‘Oh no! I’m so sorry she was so awful! You deserve someone so much better!’
But she said, “I’m sorry…excuse me?” I’m guessing her script didn’t have “Are you going to tell her?” in it.
“Oh, I just didn’t know if it went on record or anything. Not to worry.” I went with my original excuse: “I don’t think she takes my insurance anymore.”
“Which insurance is that? I could check for you?”
I hadn’t planned for this response, as I’d anticipated just dropping the excuse and hanging up.
“Winged insurance,” I lied.
“Oh, no, she doesn’t take that.”
“It’s small. Out of Indianapolis,” I told her, impressed that such a long city name popped into my head first.
“I see. No worries. Thank you for calling!”
We hung up, and I felt like dancing.
Therapists. They’re just not worth the stress.
