Baby Steps
Still numb from from four hours ago, I was barely functioning and amazingly I
found myself standing in the lobby of some damn cold looking medical plaza
thing. I stared down at the yellow business card and looked up at the big board
by the set of elevators trying to match up a name with a floor and a room
number.
Finally I saw it jump out at me in black and white: Dr. Blake Worley, MD, PPHD,
FDAMA, level four, suite 425.
I punched the arrow pointing up and suspiciously, the elevator doors opened
immediately.
After the elevator’s computerized voice announced that I was on the fourth floor,
I got off and followed the arrows pointing to suites 420 to 430. I took a deep
breath as I stood outside of the navy blue steel door debating whether or not I
really wanted to go through with this.
My parents insisted, hell, Kevin insisted. I guess I had to do this. I hated to, but I
had to.
As I slowly entered the brightly lit waiting room, I was relieved to see that I was
the only one there. A short, perky, red haired girl with green eyes who looked up
at me from her desk, smiled broadly.
“You must be Nick,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll let Dr. Worley know you’re here.
I nodded slightly and took a seat over in a corner. I glanced at all the worn
magazines that were strewn on the table next to me. Although there were a few
Field and Stream copies, most of them were mainly People and National
Geographic. Tissue boxes were strategically set at each and every table in the
lobby and over in the far corner was a small plastic table and chair set, obviously
for the children of his patients.
A door clicked open that led to another area of the office. A tall, dark tanned man
with jet black hair and signs of greying in it, held the door open.
“Hi Nick? Dr. Blake, please, come in,” Dr. Worley smiled at me.
I reluctantly stood up and tugged nervously at my shirt, pulling it further down.
Gesturing towards a chair opposite of a big mahogony desk, Dr. Worley told me
to have a seat. I quickly slumped into the offered chair, my eyes focusing on the
pattern of the rug between my feet and the desk.
“I’ve had the chance to look over your chart yesterday,” Dr. Worley began.
Looking up at him, I saw a thin blue file folder in his hands. I found it sort of odd
that he would already have accumulated information on me when I hadn’t even
seen him yet. I decided a shrug of the shoulders was the best answer I could
provide to his comments.
Dr. Worley set the file aside. “I would rather hear your words Nick, your story. I
want to help you in anyway that I can, I want to do whatever it takes, okay? You
have nothing to fear from me. All that is said in this office, behind this door, stays
here so please don’t be afraid to talk to me.”
I knew damn well I was nervous and that it showed. I pasted a phony smile on
my face and shook my head. Hell, who was I kidding? He’s a damn shrink, they
know when you’re being untruthful.
“Um, ah, don’t I have to be laying on a couch or something?” I asked as I looked
around the room.
Dr. Worley chuckled a little bit. “No Nick those are all preconceived notions, you
can lay down if it would be more comfortable for you, sitting up face to face is
better for us both unless you’re nervous.”
I stuck my left hand into my pants pocket, pulling out a fresh pack of cigarettes.
“Can I smoke?”
Dr. Worley shook his head no. “Nick, this is our first session, I would prefer that
you be focused on me and not on any distractions. I hate to see anyone smoke
for that matter, but if this session starts off well, I will allow you one cigarette per
sesson, alright?”
I shoved the pack back into my pocket.
Leaning back into the thick leather chair, Dr. Worley appeared to be deep in
thought. “Nick, how long have you smoked?”
“Only a few months,” I replied casually.
“A few months? Something must have really stressed you out to start a habit like
that with your voice being your trade,” Dr. Worley commented.
I stared at him for a few moments. I kept wondering how dumb can this guy be?
He knew what the hell I was here for so he would know why the hell I started that
damn habit to begin with.
“Um, yeah I guess so,” I mumbled, staring at the floor.
“So you said the stress began a few months ago?” Dr. Worley questioned as he
was obviously fumbling with something on the edge of his desk.
“Yeah, well more likely several months ago, I just found that smoking helped me
deal with it, I mean, it was either this or alcohol,” I replied. “Are you sure I can’t
have at least one cigarette now?”
“Will it help calm you down to talk?”
“Yeah it will,” I replied quickly.
“You can have one,” the doctor replied as he pulled open a desk drawer and set
a glass ashtray on the desk. “But you promise you’ll talk, alright?”
“I promise,” I stated as I stood up and slid the ashtray closer towards me. Pulling
out a cigarette, I lit it and took a deep drag, feeling the smoke enter my lungs.
They stopped protesting this assault awhile ago, now I seemed to crave it more
than any other thing. I was hooked.
“Okay, I’m ready to listen to you when you’re ready to go,” Dr. Worley stated in a
calm, soothing voice.
I nodded, indicating I heard him. This was going to be tough, I had no clue how
to begin.
