Dangerous Trio

Therapy Sessions

I sat with legs crossed, with my foot twitching uncontrollably. It was no secret that I was nervous. I had spent the last six months searching for a good therapist who checked all the boxes. The first one I tried was an older woman, probably in her late 50s. She wore doubled breasted tweed jackets that looked like vintage Chanel. She was overly nice and did everything she could do to make me feel comfortable, but it all felt contrived. The second therapist was too absent-minded, often overbooking or letting the session before mine run so late that she had to rush through my time. It felt like finding the right therapist was impossible. I read the reviews, did the 15-minute consultations, and while every therapist seemed to be trying their best, none of them were the right fit for me. I usually chose a female therapist, as it felt less threatening given my past experience. 

This time, I decided to throw caution to the wind and try a male therapist. Maybe it would be different, and maybe this one would actually help. To be honest, I mostly just wanted someone to talk to about my problems and provide professional insight. That's it! It didn't seem like too much to ask from a therapist, but here I was, hoping for something different.

The waiting room was just outside the office, a bit theatrical with deep red walls and artwork sketched in rich gold frames. Most waiting rooms I had been in were dull, almost sterile and sad. This one made me feel like I was waiting to be interviewed for a position at a museum. Shifting my body weight on the leather loveseat, it resembled the type of furniture you'd find in a home in the French countryside. I would know; I visited France often when I studied abroad. I promised myself I would return to visit once life had become easier, though that seemed impossible. Depression had become my life, a constant mask of normalcy and composure. I would smile, make plans with friends on Friday nights, but deep down, something felt wrong. My past haunted me; the pain seemed to intensify with each passing year. They say time heals all wounds, but for me, it felt like reopening them annually, staring at the deep gashes and wondering where I went wrong.

The door suddenly opened quickly, startling me and making me jump.

"Gabriella Amon?" he asked politely. This must have been Dr. Lecter. I felt like a deer caught in headlights, my eyes wide with surprise.

"Yes! That's me." I stood up, smoothing out any creases in my pants. I had just finished work half an hour ago, so I was still dressed like a fancy restaurant hostess, even though I actually worked at a law firm. Most days, I wore black—lawyers preferred receptionists to adhere to a strict dress code for uniformity. Business casual attire had become a bane in my existence now.

Dr. Lecter stood there with the door open, greeting me. I was slightly taken aback. He dressed impeccably well and was incredibly handsome. If you had told me he was a lawyer, I would have believed you. There was an opulent air about him, exuding intelligence. He formally introduced himself with a small bow as he shook my hand.

After stepping in, I found his office unlike anything I had seen before. I wanted to stop and just take it all in, but I kept it professional and walked over to the two leather seats positioned facing each other.I quickly set my purse down at my feet as he closed the door and walked over. When he sat down, all I wanted to do was study the details of his face—it was so striking, almost alarming.

Beside his chair was a small, round table with a leather bound notebook and pen laying on it. He quickly brought it to his lap.

"Miss Amon, what brings you in today?" He said with a flatness to his voice. He sounded European, I just couldn't pinpoint the accent.

"Well," I started, letting let out a sigh

"My depression has come back and I've been dealing with some past trauma from a relationship I was in".

He was looking down, jotting in his notebook, So I decided to keep talking.

"I don't sleep much at night. When I do, I end up being jolted awake with cold sweats and a racing heart. My confidence is depleted."

I blurted out, looking down, I felt ashamed to say this out loud. I didn't know why—I had mentioned it to all the other therapists. Maybe I was just nervous.

"Question..." He interrupted

"Are you willing to take medication?" He asked.

"I don't want to." I replied. My experience with medication had been horrible. The side effects often made my depression worse. The last pills I took gave me nosebleeds and headaches. Needless to say, I flushed them.

"That's quite alright. There are many other options. We can do talk therapy, or there is light therapy. The plan would be for me to first assess you to see where you are now then go from there."

While I had my doubts, Dr. Lecter seemed serious, unlike the other therapists.

I nodded along, feeling like a child accepting a punishment. I recounted all my symptoms while he wrote them down. Every few sentences, he glanced up at me, studying me intently. I talked about the abuse from a past partner and expressed how I felt it was all my fault, as though I deserved it.

"What is your relationship like with your father?" Dr. Lecter asked. The question took me aback. No one had ever asked me that before.

"Uh, fine. We don't talk much anymore. My parents divorced when I was young, and shortly after he remarried." I said looking down.

Dr. Lecter nodded, and it was as if I could read his thoughts: Daddy issues. I had never seen the absence of my father as a crutch. I chose to stay throughout the abuse—it was my fault.

As the session progressed, a palpable shift settled in the air. I began to feel comforted by his presence and the way he spoke. Dr. Lecter explained how abuse can alter brain function, describing the neurological impacts with clarity and empathy. He reassured me that my symptoms were normal responses to trauma, part of the brain's adaptive processes in healing.

Listening intently, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. For the first time in a long while, someone understood the complexity of my experiences and offered insights that resonated deeply. Dr. Lecter's ability to articulate these concepts with compassion made me feel validated and hopeful for the journey ahead.

"I want to see you twice a week." He said, shutting his notebook and looking up at me.

"Twice a week?" I thought. It sounded aggressive, but maybe that's exactly what I needed. As he penciled me in for 6:00 pm on Thursday, I couldn't help but feel like he had a dozen other patients just like me. It was oddly comforting, as if he could handle whatever I brought to the sessions. Sitting back in the plush chair, I let out a sigh of relief, feeling a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, this time things could change.