“This ties into what you and the rest of the world believe is madness? That if you medicate, you are mad?”
“Something like that.”
“I see.”
“I also don’t like the idea of being dependent on anything.”
“Anything?”
“People, places, things.”
“And Joseph—Dr. Applebaum, your previous therapist?”
She stares at me, defiant. “I became dependent. He retired.”
I take a moment, and stare down again at her forms.
“You’re a photographer?” I inquire.
“Kind of,” she says. “I recently graduated. Like I said on the phone, I’m looking for work.”
“In photography?”
She nods.
“What kind of photography?”
“Photojournalism.”
“Interesting,” I say. “Why are you drawn to that particular area?”
“I like taking photographs.” She smiles. “Always have. On my thirteenth birthday my father gave me a disposable camera and I just got into it. It’s been a way for me to absorb truth and beauty. It soothes me.”
“How so?”
“I guess it helps me to reorient myself. I get caught up in the moment and embody what I’m looking at. There’s a kind of magnification of life. A groundedness. It’s like everything in my head—the noise, the disorientation, the confusion—it all fades into oblivion.” She pauses. “Sorry. That sounds so pretentious.”
“I don’t think it does,” I encourage. “Sounds like it’s been important for you. Like a life raft.”
She smiles.
“When I take a photograph, I know what I see is real, and considering how forgetful I am, it feels comforting. I trust it.”
“How forgetful?” I ask.
“Very.”
I note the in-turn of her left foot. Her slight body twisting in the chair.
Silence.
“Last week,” she continues, “I was walking on Hampstead Heath. A man ran toward an elderly woman and sheltered her with his umbrella. I caught her smile on camera. It made me happy. I might have forgotten that moment if I didn’t have my camera with me. Recording these small acts of kindness helps me feel better about the world. More at peace.”
“Like a balm?” I suggest.
“Exactly.”
“Observing the man’s kindness, what did that feel like?”
“Tender. Like the world wasn’t such a sad, lonely place.”
Slouching now, she lets her legs relax and fall open slightly. I watch her red dress ride up her thighs. Unaware of exposing her flesh, she remains still, not caring to pull it down. I divert my eyes.
“The way I work,” I say, “is much like an alliance. I ask that you show up, work hard, respect and engage with the process, and also inform reception if you can’t make your session.”
She nods.
“How does that sound?” I ask.
“Good. I’d like the form again, please.”
Alexa digs noisily in her denim rucksack and retrieves a pen. She writes something down, then hands the form back. I notice she has completed the section regarding medication, this time in a different hand. No longer cursive and childlike as before, but rather more adult, joined and fluid—this time signaling confidence and creativity.
“Thank you,” I say.
I wonder what the antipsychotics are managing: Disordered thoughts? Voices? Hallucinations? Suicide, maybe? I could ask but instead allow the process to gently unfold. First sessions are as much about building safety as they are about forensics.
Reaching over to my side table I pour myself a glass of water, noticing Alexa’s mouth open and close, like a fish’s. I wonder if she would like a drink but again stop myself from asking. Let her ask, I think. Don’t do all the work. It strips her of agency. Let her come to you.
She swallows.
I take another sip, waiting to see if she green-lights her desire.
She smiles.
“I bet you’re a glass-half-full kinda guy, right?” she says, eyes locked on the glass.
I nod. “You?”
“Same,” she says, notably pleased. Her eyes diverted and glancing again at the oil painting.
“Do you think you can help me?” she asks.
“It’s difficult to confirm with certainty,” I say, “but as the glass might suggest: I’m hopeful.”
“Uncertainty bothers me.”
“I’m sure.”
“Joseph used to say ‘One day at a time.’”
“Wise man, your Joseph.”
She smiles.
“He was never mine,” she says, “but he was wise. And he cared. I’m positive of that.”
Aware she hasn’t afforded to ask for a glass of water, I observe her detour to the safety of Joseph, her previous attachment. The security of what is already known quenching any uncertainty with me. She must think I’d refuse her, I think, noting that small risks will be important for our work.
She gazes down at the rug between us. One of her shoes dangles on the tips of her toes. I note the smoothness of her olive legs, her nails painted blood red. For a moment I wonder about the tiny bruise on her knee, how she got it. How long it’s been there. But catching my eyes on her skin, she crosses her legs and pulls down her dress. Looks me straight in the eye.
“So how long will this take?” she asks. “You know, considering I’ve been in therapy previously.”
Silence.
“Six months? A year?”
“It depends,” I say.
“On?”
“How willing you are to seek and be frank. I think twice weekly will be helpful.”
She nods.
“What do you hope to gain this time around?” I ask.
She twists her mouth and stares at the ceiling.
“Confidence,” she says. “I get anxious, particularly with men. I’d also like to talk about family.”
“Oh?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“I’m not sure what ‘family’ means exactly. I’d like help figuring out what I want rather than constantly pleasing others all the time. I’m such a useless fuckup at times.”
The phrase strikes me with a startling left hook, but I do not react. If it’s her intention to shock me I won’t take the bait.
“So codependency is an issue?” I ask, meaning it to sound like a statement.
“Yes.”
“You fear abandonment?”
“I guess. I don’t like to disappoint people. I fear they’ll reject me.”
“You wish to be a good girl?” I say.
A pause.
Narrowing her eyes, she leans forward. Her dress now barely covering her thighs.
“Occasionally, Daniel,” she purrs, “it pays to be a good girl.”
I note the switch in tone, her voice deeper now. Seductive.
“You’ve found this to work in the past? Being good?” I say.
She runs her hand through her hair.
“Certainly.”
Leaning back, her torso straightens, her arms relax like two hanging pendants. Deliberately, she crosses her legs.
“At what cost, though?” I ask.