Dr. Steve

In Class
Bored! Shit son.
Have to Write a Paper Tonight
18:42
Tuesday, Decemeber 6, 2005

Dr. Steve

I remember when I first came to France: new faces, new places, new head, new meds. Looking for some help as I struggled to deal with it all while trying to maintain a grip on sanity, I turned to the medical profession. The lovely people at the Center pointed me in the direction of Dr. Steve, flourishing his perfectly polite letter of introduction.

I call him Dr. Steve because I can't pronouce his last name. He's too nice for me to ask, especially after our first session, and I'm too proud by far. He's a nice, gentle mannered man, dressed in button up shirts, subtle sweaters, comfortable shoes. He would sit across from me, nodding along as I ramble on about my life, clear eyes watching, seeing more then I first gave him credit for.

The first day, I had to explain "my condition" to him. He's a psychologist -- not a psychiatrist -- and told me point blank that he has no idea how to deal with me. I appreciated his honesty, and replied that I don't know how to deal with it either, but that it seems a good idea to have someone to talk to. That, that he can be.

And so, once a week I show up a few minutes late, he shakes my hand, and tells me to catch my breath before I begin. He could hear me clacking across the courtyard in my kitten heels, buzzing the door before I buzzed for him. His office is a room in an apartment, filled with books I'd love to read, and tasteful pillows probably supplied by Mrs. Steve, a comfy chair for me and for him. He keeps his appointments in a moleskin, preferes to be paid in cash, notices when I change my hair. I always ask him how he's doing. "Fine," he says, while giving me a look that says, "Not that it matters. This is about you."

And I talk to him. He doens't say much, but when he does, it floors me.

"You lost quite a lot by moving to Chicago, didn't you? You lost a lot of love: Sean, Adam. Is it worth it?"

"You like to think don't you? You enjoy the act of thinking?"

"Why do you like your teacher so much? You think she's like you?"

"Why is it that it interests you, and not the others? Are you that different? What does that mean?"

"Did he really love you then?"

"Would you parents be proud?"

"Do you think it's a matter of miscommunication between Jesse and you or are you purposely misleading? Or accidentally? Why not say no?"

"Why were you crying in the bathroom on Thanksgiving? Why not talk to someone? Why not leave?"

And he laughs. After several sessions, I learned his sense of humor, and hence forth strove to show him the ridiculousness of my life. When he laughed I felt a bit better about my life. If my doctor can laugh then so can I.

He gave me his home number, his cell phone number, his office number with the time old statement, "If you ever need to, feel free to call. Anytime." The only problem with that is, when exactly is it appropriate to call your doctor on the cell phone? Is it when the panic attack starts? When the edges of my vision go? When I lose the abilty to form complete coherent thoughts? How do you make that call? How do you interrupt someone's dinner to say, "So, umm. . I'm um. . " I'm what exactly? And if I did, what good what it do? But knowing that I could call -- that's enough.

Every time I sat down in my chair, after I took off my coat, I have a moment of life constriction -- suddenly I have to account for my last week. What do I talk about? But then I begin, and before I know it, I've run my mouth for an hour, going over the time, late for class: what I've been doing, where I'm going, my family, my friends, my hopes, dreams, future. Not my head. We never once, except for the first time, talked about my head -- he never once pointed to it as a reason for anything. For that, I am thankful.

And Dr. Steve laces his fingers together, nods gently, tells me to continue.

Today was our last session. He says next time I'm in Paris, I have to stop by. Have a good life. One last hand shake, one last troop down the dark flights of stairs, through three courtyards, two door ways, one cross walk towards the bus. Today, I walked home.

Did it help? Am I better for the time I spent with Dr. Steve? Possibly. Maybe not dramatically so, but I'm a lot more stable here. Is that because of him? Regardless, every week, I sat in his chair and evaluated my life, shared bits of myself with a virtual stranger, weeding out the good bits, looking for humor, insight. I often realized things I hadn't even thought of, new perspectives -- one that is not my own. And that's good for me.

Thank you Dr. Steve. Sorry I don't know your last name.