I sat in my therapist’s office as she got her pad and rested it on her knee.
“So, Sally, how have you been this week?” I signed ‘fine’, and Dr Jenkins gave me a look.
“I want you to try actually speaking, Sally. I know you’re more comfortable signing, but we’re here to address a number of problems, one of which is your nervous stutter.” I nodded and she looked at me with feigned approval.
“I’ll ask again: how have you been this week?”
“F-f-f-f… F-f-f-f… f-f-fine.” She nodded, and scribbled something in her pad.
“And how’s the reading going?”
“Ok-k-k-k-k-kay.” More scribbling.
“Good, good. And, have you made any more decisions about school? Or have you and your parents decided that you’re going to be homeschooled for the next term?” I hated this question. I always felt so uncomfortable, so inadequate.
“H-h-h-h-h… h-home sc-c-c-c-chool ing-g.”
“Right, well it’s good that you’re making choices now. And how’s the speech therapist? Are you making any progress?” This was exhausting. We normally just signed. I could do that much better than speaking.
“Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh… she s-s-s-say-ys-s-s, I’m-m-m d-doing-g-g w-w-w-w… w-w-well-ll.” Dr Jenkins nodded and wrote more in her pad.
“That’s good to hear. Now, I know you don’t usually want to talk about this, but I we need to assess your mental state. When was the last time you hurt yourself?” I blinked a few times then looked down at my feet.
“Sally?” I didn’t do anything for a long time.
“How about you sign a number of days? Is that okay?” I signed my numbers and she scribbled some more in her book. I wanted to leave. I hated therapy. It didn’t help me.
My speech therapist was a lovely, bulbous woman who worked with me at a pace I was comfortable with. She treated me like anyone else, and she was so supportive. Dr Jenkins, however, was bony, harsh and icy towards me. She pushed me too far, treated me like I was made of broken glass and never seemed to show any form of empathy.
The hour dragged on painfully slowly. She asked me questions, I generally refused to answer, she became impatient, and then moved on. I couldn’t help feeling distracted. Alex occupied my thoughts. He’d told me why he was in therapy, he understood everything I felt. And all I could do was stutter arduously in his face.
“That’s all for today then, Sally. I look forward to seeing you for your next appointment. That’s a.. when is it?” She was trying to get me to talk. She deliberately didn’t look me in the eye, but I signed Thursday nonetheless.
“Hmm? Do you know?” I rolled my eyes, and got up to leave. I signed a quick ‘thank you’ and left the room hurriedly.
