I honestly don't remember many details about my early sessions.
I just have images of walking up to the building, finding the floor, finding the waiting room, noticing the magazines, and noticing there was an exit to the room, separate from the entrance. *this must be so i can't see his prior patient. there must be crazies here. i may be one of them.*
When he finally let me in, I had no idea what to expect. I had no idea what to say. I had technically already talked to him over the phone for a consultation, but that gave me no indication of what a session was going to be like. To begin with though, he was welcoming and kind. It felt foreign. I'm sure he asked me a few questions, but I don't remember them.
I do remember being hyper aware of the room, my surroundings, his books, him, and how I must look to him. I tried everything to seem "put together", but I'm sure he saw through it. I wasn't. I was scared, frantic, and highly self conscious. I had my backpack near me, refused to "get comfortable", and was ready to leave if needed.
He was the complete opposite; calm and collected. *is that what healthy looks like? I must be unhealthy. i must be crazy. but no. i am in control. i have done so much and figured so many things out on my own. i swear i'm in control. i don't NEED this, i just have to do this to feel better.*
Despite my being frantic though, I knew I wanted to figure things out. I wanted to uncover whether my mother is truly narcissistic and I wanted to understand mental health. I didn't know how to get from where I was to where I wanted to be, but I did quickly learn to trust my therapist. If anybody could help me, it was him.
So I kept going back, and we kept talking.
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