PSYCH by Bob Brader

When I walked into the psychiatrist office I was surprised at how small it was. This is a Fifth Avenue psychiatrist office? They look bigger in the movies. I was sitting in the small waiting room looking down the hall to my right and I noticed the five doors; two on the left, two on the right and one in the middle at the end of the hall. I immediately thought that if she comes out of door number one or two on the right side that it was bad luck and I would leave at once, if she came out of the middle door I would only stay for this session and never come back, but if she came out of door four or five on the left side then she just may be able to help me with my depression. I started mumbling to myself, “Come on door number four or five, four or five it the winner. Hey Monty Hall, I’ll take door number four or five please.”

A People magazine setting on the tiny coffee table caught my eye and I started thumbing through it thinking about the only other psychiatrist I ever saw, or was she a psychologist? Maybe she wasn’t either, but she was as close as I was going to get in the fifth grade. Mrs. Ressacar my fifth grade Guidance Counselor. Now, she had an office, it was huge, and so was Mrs. Ressacar. Everything about her was large--her glasses, her permed hair, her desk--everything seemed larger than normal. The office was long and multicolored. It felt safe, even though she was large; she had a way of making you feel secure.

I went in to talk with her about my father. I told her only a few small things: the backhand I got when we were in a store and he didn’t like the way I asked for something and the way he thought I should stop performing because it embarrassed him because I was not really good enough. She asked a lot of questions and I answered. It felt good just to talk about these things and she made me feel like I could tell her anything and it would be okay.

When I got home from school that day, my mom was already home. “What are you doing telling people what goes on in this house? Don’t you realize that they could take you away from me for this stuff?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I had to have a long talk on the phone with your Guidance Counselor. Bobby, this is very bad.” When my father came home, my mom told him what happened.

“Tomorrow you go in there and you tell her it was all a lie, that you made up the whole thing just to get attention. If I find out that you didn’t do this, I’m going to knock your fucking teeth down your throat. Then you will have something to cry to other people about, do you understand me?”

The next day I walked into her office and it felt cold. It was not warm or inviting anymore. “Thank you for calling my family, that was very nice of you.”

“I have to check into these things,” she said, putting those huge glasses back on her face. “Well, I lied, and that is all I have to say.”

She tried to get me to talk with her a few more times, and she asked a lot more questions, but I never spoke to her again.

The only other time we spoke is when we had to take these tests in the eighth grade. They were supposed to tell you what career you would be best suited for. When we talked she told me that I might want to consider enlisting in the Marine Corp after graduation. Needless to say, I never wanted to see another psychiatrist after that.

But here I am. At precisely one o’clock door number four opens; it is a little old lady with white hair, a tight leather mini skirt, and a black blouse. It’s my doctor. I walk into the tiny room that only has two chairs and a desk. This lady looks like I can tell her anything and she won’t be fazed at all. I started talking about my depression and then about my last relationship and then about my father.

Towards the end of the session she said, “Wow, I feel like your father was a sociopath.” “What?” I said. How dare she say that about my father? Only I can say that about my father. And as soon as I had that reaction, my next thought was maybe this lady could really help me.