The One Where the Therapist Never Shows Up

It was actually my idea that I should see a therapist, but my psychiatrist kept urging me to be a little more patient. I needed to be stable first.

Four and a half years passed, and finally, he said that I could see one.

It was quite a pain in the foot trying to get an appointment with a therapist here (at least in my hospital anyway). Their schedule is usually on weekdays, but I'm only free on weekends. You know, work and all life stuff.

I could come in after work, to be fair, but my psychiatrist recommended not to. Therapy sessions can be mentally and physically taxing, emotionally, too.

SESSION 1: WHERE IS SHE?

I showed up thirty minutes early.
I was already four and a half years late, in a way. I don't want to be any more late than that.

I was contemplating wearing glasses to the appointment so that they could act like a tiny emotional windshield—something to shield my eyes from directly making full eye contact. A little boundary and space between me and the stranger I was supposed to open up to.

It didn’t quite make sense, but… you get it, right?

"Are you sure it's today?", the nurse at the reception looked at the screen for a little too long before eventually asking me if I misremembered the date.

I laughed nervously, "Yes, I had a confirmation email and all that", then I showed it to her, just in case she thought I was making things up (Not a far-fetched idea, considering it’s coming from someone with Bipolar).

The nurse walked me to the therapy room and told me to wait for a little bit and that the therapist would come in shortly.

So I sat there. Waiting. Staring at my smartwatches checking both the time and my heart rate as now it's exceeding 132 BPM. I was very nervous.

Fifteen minutes gone. Thirty. Forty. I started thinking maybe I could be in the wrong room, or even the wrong building, or that the appointment wasn't today. Or maybe there was no therapist at all, and this was just one of those elaborate psychological experiments to test my patience and see if I'd snap. Or the first session was about observing my behavior and reactions. Could be anything and my mind began to wander around and started looking around to see if there were cameras hidden somewhere.

I managed to wait for a full hour I booked for. No one came in. Just me, the table where my therapist was supposed to sit in an ergonomic chair, and myself. This feels like one of those dates where you get stood up.

So I stood up (no pun intended) and slipped a thank you quietly to the empty chair passive-aggressively.

Ah. There it was. My first-ever therapy session.

*****

My psychiatrist asked how it went.
Out of embarrassment, I lied and said it was eye-opening and that I never felt this understood before. It was almost as if she could read me.

"We're going somewhere, Matt", he said with a proud smile—the kind someone gives a child after they ride a bike for the first time without falling.

Delusional.
And maybe as stubborn as I am.
If I believed it hard enough, it would eventually become real, right?

SESSION 2: IF YOU WERE HERE, I'D TELL YOU

The receptionist smiled at me like nothing had happened (again, no pun intended) as I entered the clinic. I smiled back like everything was fine. Like I hadn't spent an hour last time staring at an empty chair and wondering if this was some sort of experiment.

It was a rather odd cloudy afternoon in summer. It looked as if it was about to rain. I was here at the same time as two weeks ago. I agreed to see my therapist every other week.

Do you want to hear something funny?
She didn't show up.
Again.

So I did something weird: I talked anyway.

"If you were here", I said to the empty lifeless chair, "I'd tell you I'm angry. But I'd do it in a joke, then laugh. And I'd instantly regret that I said all that". I kept rubbing the bridge of my nose and then I went on, "I'd tell you I don't actually know why I'm here. It just felt like this is the next responsible thing I should do—fixing myself because there was definitely something wrong with me".

Pause. Deep breath. Big sigh.

"I'd tell you that sometimes, or actually always, I feel like a fraud, and that I'm faking all this seeking an attention. Like my feelings are just the made-up content for my blogging website and not a real pain".

I talked for what seemed like forever and then an hour passed.

A chair, as lifeless as when I first came in.
But for the first time, it felt like someone was listening.

SESSION 3: TELL ME I'M NOT WASTING MY TIME

I came in fifteen minutes late on purpose this time.
To see if she'd already been there when I entered the room.
Or maybe I got all fed up with talking to a piece of furniture.

The receptionist didn't say anything about the last two no-shows up. She just gave me the same smile—so polite it was like it was a trained gaslighted smile—and gestured toward the room.

I was wondering how she hadn't said anything about not receiving a note report from the therapist after a session. But maybe that's how it's done between the nurse and this particular therapist, although my psychiatrist always made sure to hand in his report.

I said hi to the chair.
Same one. Same corner. Still ergonomic.
I didn't wear glasses time because what's the point?

This may sound absurd, but I started to ask myself some generic therapist questions I looked up on the internet:

• "When was the last time you cried and do you remember what happened and why?"
• "And why is it that you think you don't deserve happiness?"
• "How does that make you feel?"
• "Would you like to talk about it?'

And then, I started remembering things and was able to recall scenes I hadn't thought about in years.

The time I cried for no apparent reason because all the kids in my class were crying and I wanted to fit in.
The way too many "I'm fine" when things were falling apart.
The wake-ups in the middle of the night crying for a reason I don't remember.

I kept glancing at the chair like it might give me the answer as if I was begging it to say something.

"Oh, what do you know, you're just a chair".

The chair was still there, not arguing. No talking back. Just there. Lifeless.

At the end of the session, I closed my eyes and imagined her voice,
"Why do you think you keep showing up?"
Which I responded, "Because I need to".

Before I made it to the payment cashier, I noticed it had started to rain.
Which felt like the most predictable thing in the world.
And of course, I didn't bring an umbrella.

SESSION 4: TODAY, THE CHAIR LOOKED LIKE ME

I didn't expect much when I walked in.
In fact, I didn't bother getting well-dressed for the appointment anymore. My hair looked like I just woke up. I didn't shave. I didn't wear any perfume today, just only a cologne.

At this point, the chair and I were basically in a situationship.
No commitment. No expectations. No strings attached.
But somehow, I kept showing up.

Something was different today and I couldn't put my finger on it.
Oh, it's about the chair. To my surprise, didn't look as lifeless as last time.
And...
...it looked like me.

Well, not literally. Figuratively.

"Nice outfit you got there", I stared at it for a long time before breaking the silence with a joke.
No response.
But I figure it's normal. I have never been great at taking compliments either.

I started talking again.
Why? I had no idea, don't ask me.
If I believed it hard enough, it would eventually become real. Remember?

I told the chair things I hadn't told anyone.
The sun watches as I do, but the moon knows all my secret kind of things.
Panic attack.
Emotional breakdown.
Self-isolation.
And that sometimes I write sad things online hoping that someone will read between the line and ask if I'm okay.
But no one ever does.

"Maybe I've been here this whole time just waiting for me to actually listen", I said it out loud, but struggling to understand what it meant.

When the session ended, I stood up, and for the first time, the chair didn't feel empty. It felt full. Familiar. And it looked like it was about to get up and hug me.

Or maybe the fact that she didn't show up was intentional. Maybe this was a new profound method of allowing a client to finally open up and learning to finally hear himself.

FINAL SESSION: I DIDN'T NEED YOU TO SHOW UP, I JUST NEED TO START TALKING

I arrived right on time today. Not early. Not late. Right on the clock as I watched the digital clock went to 2 p.m.
There was no smile at the reception. Or maybe there was. I don't know. I wasn't looking. I knew where I was going.

I walked into the room. Nodded at the chair. Sat down. Immediately began to talk. Talked so fast that it looked like I had to be somewhere after the session.

I went on and went on, before stopping mid-sentence.
That was when it hit me:
She was never going to show up, wasn't she?

You probably figured it out by now. She never showed up. Not one. And this was never really about her anymore.

The truth is, this chair, this room, these sessions?
This wasn't a therapy.
It was all in my head.

This is the truth that you deserve. I'm sorry I haven't been honest with you all. It's just the way I am.

Turns out, I didn't need the therapist to show up.
I just needed to start talking.
I guess this was my therapy. Writing. Writing. And writing.

Maybe this is the last session.
Or maybe there will be many more to go.
Either way, I guess all I ever needed was someone to listen.
Even if that someone was me.

.....

If this resonates with you, if you see a part of yourself in these therapy sessions, and would like to support me on my writing journey.
You can buy me a cup of coffee here.
https://buymeacoffee.com/mattpiwawattanapanith

:)