CRITICA

The low buzzer goes off in my office several minutes past the agreed upon hour.  It’s the first meeting.  The patient made the appointment herself, identifying as schizophrenic or maybe just psychotic, I believe those were the words, her words. I walk slowly down the hall. The door to my office, closed, door to the hallway closed. For those few moments, shielded from the midafternoon sun and alone with my curiosity, who is on the other side of that door, harboring what variation of communal reality there?  Opening the door into the too bright sunlight, even as a standing lamp in the far corner to my left, and a table lamp next to the little sofa are lit and try to soften the space. The configuration of objects, furniture in the room, a previous iteration of how it was when I left the office. Or more aptly when the office left us.  First as a function of the pandemic, and later when a tree hit the building.  In this version, the loveseat is against the wall that faces the front door, two easy chairs across, smallish, now seem, like somewhat uneasy chairs. A straight back chair with a slightly cushioned seat is against the wall flush with the door to the waiting room from the hall where now I stood. Before me, a woman about my age with dark hair. Looking to the right, on the couch, a younger woman, in a ball wadded up, her bare legs and head of auburn hair dyed shades of green and aqua blue, held together by a cotton dress. The standing woman says “Dr.  Anderson?”  and I see she is holding a copy of my Psychology Today page, replete with photo. The wad on the couch hisses and peers out at me. Slowly I step over the threshold from the hallway, move to the chair opposite the body, and sit, say hello. The ball of girl sputters. I breathe in deeply, slowly keeping my gaze neutral, gentle. A spastik kick, movement, panting, then words “not” “first session.” I continue to breathe, regulating the air around us, and nod.  Grunts and even less coherent sounds. Somehow, it’s conveyed to me, the girl, the room, her mother: This is all she can tolerate. “Can I leave?” is bleated as legs shoot out, body materializes, the girl herself present for a fleeting second, then out the door. I stand, looking over my shoulder too late to catch sight of her. But hear the front door clap against the frame. The older woman, her mother, stays upright, unfazed like a pillar. She speaks, starts to say something about the hospital, imagining I know that she’s asking should she take her to the hospital. I intercede and say “yes, you can take her to the hospital.” After finishing my interruption she chuckles, “she just got out of the hospital,” I’m informed. No, her question to me is, can she come back?  Breathing in now, more of a sigh, yes of course.

Several weeks pass, and I meet a more coherent woman.  In her late twenties, she could easily pass for a teenager.  We make no mention of our first encounter, until many months, maybe even years later. This time she follows me down the hall, leaving behind the liminal space of the waiting room.  Even though I lead, I note her looking from side to side at the photographs of Greece, Ikaros, a painting of crows that line the walls.  Once inside the office, she chooses to sit across from me, like before, on the far end of our little sofa.  From there her history unfolds.  Early on, perhaps even in that very meeting, she asks, by way of instruction, if I will do something that might be considered out of bounds,  if I will do something that might be considered out of bounds. Stating that when, not if, she begins to rage, to take her hands, her fists, and hit herself, will I come and hold her down? Pull her hands away and hold them down? She says this while not experiencing a fit, yet haltingly, as if she may have conjured up this chaos by mentioning it.  My face, no words, is curious. Rising, I move over to the couch, sit next to the girl, who is growing slightly agitated although clearly not yet in that state, and place my hand on her hand.  Both hand and arm are rigid, tense, head turns, eyes lock. You will, she asks, nodding, I will.