I had only broken up with someone once when I was 10 years old. After six hours of being Billy Stern’s “girlfriend,” I decided that I didn’t like sharing my pencils with him or passing “I love you” notes back and forth during class. So after school I asked my best friend Sandra to tell Billy that we were done. From the jungle gym where I hung upside down on the monkey bars, I could see her approach. After a few seconds Billy’s smile turned to a frown, and he slowly lowered his head and starred at his dirty orange Reeboks. The awkwardness of ending a relationship, even through a third party, was not something that I wanted to experience again.
But now, 15 years after Billy, I was facing another breakup and this time there was no Sandra. There wasn’t even the option of ending it over the phone or email because my shrink wasn’t the typical New York City psychiatrist. Dr. James wasn’t even a real doctor. He was relatively inexpensive and unable to prescribe medication, a recent psychology graduate working at a non-profit clinic downtown. The clinic’s sliding scale prices and proximity to my Noho apartment had drawn me to its obscure but vast, windowless fourthfloor headquarters.
Dr. James suddenly swung open the large white door that led to his impersonal, dimly lit office. It was in that whitewashed room that I sat on an uncomfortable metal chair trying to understand my unwavering anxiety. From the moment I woke up until I closed my eyes at night, I found ways to feed my appetite for anxiety.When I got on the subway each day to go to work I feared a terrorist attack. At work I worried about being fired for saying something stupid. While waiting for my husband at night, I convinced myself that something had happened to him.
My anxiety was non-stop and after discussing and dissecting it with Dr. James, it wasn’t subsiding. While I voiced my fears, Dr. James nodded and listened and occasionally told me it was my parents’ fault. The problem was I didn’t care who was at fault; I just wanted to make it stop.
Dr. James and his nods hadn’t been helpful for the past year but the thought of telling him I didn’t want to see him anymore produced even greater anxiety. So I put up with him and his nods for 12 long months until finally, I had had enough.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked.
I felt like saying, Take a wild guess. Anxious! But instead all I could say was, “good.”
As he probed further, all I could hear was my heart beating furiously. My palms were wet with sweat, and my mouth was dry.
“What do you want to talk about today?” Dr. James asked.
This was it. I had to do it. I couldn’t take one more day of looking into his big unblinking brown eyes and at his graying mop of hair that hadn’t seen a brush for what seemed like years.
“Well,” I said with a smile that appears only when I get nervous. “I don’t think I want to come here anymore.” I looked down at the cream-colored carpet. “I want to stop our sessions.”
There. I said it. But it wasn’t over. He looked disappointed, even hurt.
“But why?” he asked in his typical stoic voice before asking, “Are you sure? Do you really think you’re ready to leave? Maybe you should think it over. Maybe instead of coming in twice a week we will just make it once a week.”
Don’t back down.
“No!” it was one of the hardest words I ever had to say. “I want to stop. I’m tired of talking about myself. It’s not you. It’s me. I’m just ready… to stop.”
I lost control.The words just kept flying out of my mouth. I couldn’t keep from talking. If I did, I risked his questioning.
“Maybe after a few months I will come back,” I lied. “It’s not like I never want to see you again. I just need a break.”
Finally I paused and looked up. His big, brown, emotionless eyes stared back at me.
Was he going to keep on talking? Would he keep insisting that I come in, or was he going to let me go? My anxiety level had reached a new all-time high.
“OK,” he paused. “If that’s what you want,” was all he said.
I picked up my purse, smiled and said “Thank you Dr. James for all of your help. It’s been great.”
“You’ll call right?” he asked with a tinge of desperation.
“Of course,” I said as I opened the door. “Bye Dr. James.”
A sense of calm came over me as I closed the door and made my way to the elevator. For the first time in a long time I didn’t feel anxious.
DO YOU HAVE A NEW YORK STORY? EMAIL nystories@nypress.com
