Submerge

P U Z Z L E

M A S O N

Dr. Henderson's office always felt like a relic from a bygone era. The faded floral wallpaper, the creaky leather armchair, and the shelves lined with dusty books all contributed to its timeless, almost archaic, ambiance. As I settled into the worn-out seat, a sense of resignation washed over me.

Dr. Henderson himself was a testament to a different time. His white hair, thin-framed glasses, and a warm but weathered smile gave him an air of wisdom, but it was a wisdom that seemed detached from the world I lived in. He was a relic in his own right.

"Good afternoon, Mason," he greeted me with a kind smile, his voice soft and soothing. "How have you been since our last session?"

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, my gaze fixed on the fading pattern of the rug beneath my feet. "I've... I've been okay, I guess."

Dr. Henderson nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he observed me. "That's good to hear. And have you been using the techniques we discussed to manage your anxiety?"

I hesitated, not sure how to answer. The truth was, the techniques he had given me felt antiquated and ineffective. The world had changed since Dr. Henderson's prime, and so had my struggles.

"Um, yeah," I mumbled, not meeting his gaze. "I've tried."

He leaned forward, his expression one of genuine concern. "Mason, it's important that you're honest with me. If something isn't working, we can explore other options. Remember, therapy is a partnership, and your well-being is my priority."

I sighed, realizing that I couldn't keep pretending that everything was fine. "Dr. Henderson, it's not that the techniques aren't working... it's just that I feel like you don't really understand what I'm going through."

He raised an eyebrow, his expression unchanged. "Oh? Can you help me understand better, Mason?"

I took a deep breath, attempting to find the words to convey what I was feeling. "It's just... the things I struggle with, the issues I face, they're so different from what you must have dealt with in your time. It's like we're speaking different languages."

Dr. Henderson nodded slowly, his smile never faltering. "I see. You feel that my methods are outdated."

I nodded, relief flooding through me that he seemed to grasp the issue.

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. "Mason, it's not uncommon for young people like yourself to feel that way. The world is changing rapidly, and what may have worked in the past might not be as effective now."

I nodded again, encouraged by his understanding. "So, what do we do?"

He clasped his hands together, his smile returning. "We adapt, Mason. Therapy is not a one-size-fits-all solution. I will do my best to update my approach and learn from you. It's important that you feel heard and understood."

I appreciated his willingness to change, but I couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps it was time for me to move on. I had reached a point where I needed someone who could relate to my generation, someone who understood the complexities of my world.

As the session continued, Dr. Henderson tried his best to connect with me, offering new strategies and attempting to bridge the generation gap. But I couldn't help but feel that our time together had run its course.

As I left his office that day, I made a silent decision. It was time to find a therapist who could truly understand me, who spoke my language. Dr. Henderson had been a kind and well-meaning guide, but it was time for me to seek help that resonated with the person I had become.