Citrus [completed]

Chapter 9

I have the feeling that I might vomit. Not because I'm sick, but because I'm so anxious. The pit of my stomach rolled again as the clock turned after another passing minute. I look away from the clock to calm my stomach, but my foot jiggles as I stare at the blank wall.

Maybe if the walls had something on them, I would feel better. One of those stupid posters that told you to hang in there. Maybe a graphic that showed a boy smiling saying everything was going to be ok.

Instead, the walls were manila white. The seat I was in was uncomfortably flat and the receptionist hadn't looked in my direction since I had checked in. There was a TV mounted on the wall, but it was muted. The only sound that pervaded the room was the ancient tick of the clock.

I had been sitting here, twiddling my thumbs, for twenty minutes. Maybe the doctor would have to cancel on me for some asinine reason. Just as soon as I rooted the idea in my head, the receptionist finally turned towards me and crushed it. "Miss. Sinclair," She called into the room as if I wasn't the only person there. She had a phone cradled in between her head and her shoulder. "Dr. Phillis is ready for you now,"

Without presentation, she motions me towards the brown door off to the side. I unglue my legs from the chair. With the calmest walk, I start for the door and cross into the back part of this office. Just another sterile hallway. I try to reason with my increasing heartbeat, telling my brain that I've already done this once. Of course, Blair was there for the first time, but I couldn't keep relying on her like that.

I reached one of the brown doors in the hallway with the nameplate, "Dr. Phillis," screwed in silver. My hand knocks, albeit weakly, and I pray she doesn't hear it so I can have a reason to escape this building. However, as I lower my hand, the door swings on its hinges.

Dr. Phillis stood there as she smiled warmly at me. She always looks like a family friend instead of the therapist my mother was forcing me to go to. Every time I see her, she never dressed uncomfortably professionally. Today she wore a dark blue blouse and a pair of black jeans. Her face had a pleasant arrangement of natural makeup that complimented her dark skin. Normally, she had long dreadlocks that rested up in a tight bun on her head, but today they ran to the middle of her back. Dr. Phillis was a beautiful woman. She was tall and leggy. Considering I was 5'9, she had to be close to 6'0. She wore heels most of the time, which I found commendable.

"Welcome back Jamie," She smiles at me before ushering me in. It takes a lot to force my feet over the threshold, and I count the minutes down from there. Just an hour to go. Her office is more inviting than the entire building. There are plaques with her teachings hanging, pictures of her children, and even a large window that shows the skyline of the neighboring businesses. It's warm, but there is one thing I hate about it.

The couch. I hate this stupid fucking couch. It makes the sessions feel like they're a T.V bit. I refuse to even consider laying out and projecting my problems to someone who'll tell me, "How does that make you feel?" Overall, I hate therapy.

I think therapy is a wonderful outsource for other people than myself. I have a visceral reaction to being observed and picked apart. Sharing my emotions with a stranger was not something I cared for. That was the problem with therapy. You needed to be transparent to see the results, and I was unwilling to spill my guts every week for an hour.

Dr. Phillis sat gently in the chair across from me, instead of behind her desk. "How are you today, Jamie?" She asks as she reaches for her bottle of water, a perfect picture of calm. I tap my foot and I silently stare at her. I can't help but try to dissect the question. What should I say? I was overly paranoid about it all.