Remembering was hard.
Remembering meant that I had to feel what I felt in that moment again, and again, and again.
It was what kept the distant past so close that I felt it breathing down my neck. Hair burned my skin as it stood on end, causing goosebumps to decorate it like bubble wrap.
My palms were clammy and my eyes hung heavy on my face, pulsating. I felt like they would pop with each shaky breath I dared to take.
“Sofia, this is a safe space,” he slowly crossed his legs, positioning his notebook on his lap. “I won't make you talk about anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. At any point, you have the control to end the session. We will never go further than you want to.”
I centred my eyes on his knees as he spoke, focusing on my breathing. His granite trousers were tailored to his body in a nice form-fitting manner, in a way that told everyone ‘Yep, I have money’. It was a stark contrast to the room we sat in. The ochre wallpaper peeled in different areas all over the room, the light fixture hung lopsided and the light bulb buzzed lightly with a slight flicker, drawing my attention back to him. His shoes specifically. They were like two dull pieces of obsidian clashing with the burgundy carpet beneath our feet.
“Cool.”
Dr Monroe offered a half-smile, gently opening his notebook but never removing his eyes from me.
“Cool.” He drawled, firing a finger gun. “Cool beans, as the kids say nowadays.”
I felt myself grimace, diverting my eyes from him to his shelf littered with books with tattered paper and broken miniature statues.
“We don't say that,” I murmured.
“I know. We did in my days though.” he chuckled lightly, uncrossing his legs and crossing them again on the opposite side.
“A lot of words recirculate over a period of time. What was hip 20 years ago, will soon be rolling off tongues next week.”
This man didn't seem to be more than 45 years old but the way he spoke reminded me of my grandad, always rattling on about ‘the youth these days, the music we listen to’, just typical old man stuff.
“You remind me of my grandpa.”
“In what way?”
“I don't know,” I shrugged. “I guess it's because he was always complaining about the new generation. The words we said, the way we spoke. Grandpa always said the world was going to shit.”
“Going to shit?” he repeated, eyebrows furrowed.
I paused for a moment, thinking about how the confidentiality agreement thing worked.
“Am I allowed to cuss?”
“If it helps you express yourself, sure, but if there is no need for it, I would prefer for you not to.”
I ran a hand through my hair, looking out the window.
“Will you tell my mom if I do?”
“Of course not!” he laughed, before catching himself and adapting to an amused smile.
I looked away, rubbing my hands on my corduroy trousers. My palms were still wet, but at least my breath was steady.
“I was only asking because I don't know how the confidentiality thing works. I'm not used to being told straight up that all my conversations are private. Even when they said that before, they would still tell my mom stuff.”
“Huh. I apologise for that.” Dr Monroe said slowly. “I would assume they thought it would be in your best interest if you were at risk or a risk to yourself and others.”
“I didn’t realise swearing was that deadly.”
He blinked twice at me as if registering what I had said.
“It was a joke. I make them when I'm nervous.” I repositioned myself so that my hood fell against my neck in a way that halted the breeze from the ceiling fan.
He smiled, picking up his notebook and flicking through the pages as he watched me.
“Are you nervous?”
“A little,” I whispered.
“Well, one thing you don't need to worry about is me telling your mom or any other members of your family anything. If you tell me something that leads me to believe that you are in danger or a danger to yourself and others, I will discuss it with my team to find the best way to proceed.”
He watched me for a moment, before glancing at my hands fidgeting in my lap.
“Does that help?”
“So we can talk about anything?”
“Yes.” Dr Monroe picked up the pen that sat beside him on his loveseat. “Anything.”
“Do we have to talk about that night?”
“Not necessarily. We do not need to discuss anything you are not ready to talk about. As I said, you are in charge of these sessions. They will flow however is best for you. Every now and then I may interject and ask to speak about a topic you have brought up previously, but if you would rather not. I will not force you.”
“That’s new for me.”
“In what way?”
I shuffled in my chair, allowing it to cradle my back. I hadn’t realised that I was sitting up straight the entire time we had been speaking.
“With my other therapists, they always wanted to talk about my dad’s death right from the get-go. It was like not having enough room to breathe. Forget the ‘hello’ and ‘how are you?’. I hated it. Like, I know I have to talk about it at some point but I don't feel like doing it with a total stranger.”
Dr Monroe nodded, scribbling in his little red book. When he had finished, he placed the book beside him with the pen neatly atop and leaned forward slightly.
“Well,” he began. “What do you know about me?”
“You’re name is Dr Monroe.”
“And?”
My eyes scanned the room, unsure of how to answer.
“This is your office.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really.”
He uncrossed his legs, making a sound of contemplation.
“Would you like to know what I know about you?”
“Sure.” I fidgeted with the sleeve of my hoodie, looking anywhere but his eyes.