Every single time I take the Metro Line 9 on my own, I take it in the wrong direction. Today, I passed my ticket actually going the right way and then decided "No, this isn't right," and turned around. I couldn't find stairs to go to the opposite platform and so ended up having to exit entirely. Of course my pass didn't work then and so I had to jump the turnstile to catch what I thought was the correct train. Once on the line I realized I was, indeed again going the wrong direction and so had to get off, turn around and go the other direction. Thus I was late for my first therapy appointment.
Friday, November 21, 2008
I managed to find the place without a map (which is sort of amazing, actually) only fifteen minutes past the hour. I was greeted by a middle aged, grey haired man who would be my dump station for the day.
The first times I went to therapy, I always felt nervous and self conscious but after so many years I am no longer hindered by formality. I didn't waste time spilling the reason I was in Paris and the reason I was crying in front of a man I didn't know. I have discovered that in therapy you have to give a lot to get anything from it. Holding back wastes time. I don't have time to waste.
He reminded me of my wonderful amazing therapist back home in Austin. The one I had left merrily two weeks after I met the Frenchman. Oh man, I regret that decision. But here she was, a little bit of her recreated, sitting cross legged in front of me in a sparse office in the 16th Arrondissement.
He told me about his method and it was like the therapy I am used to. He promised to connect me with a French psychiatrist, one who could prescribe me the medication I was seeking. He told me what I needed to hear.
And so for that bit of good news I will force myself to go out tonight and celebrate (lightly, gently of course). But not before I do some of the house cleaning...