The Day I First Opened the Door of a Psychiatry Clinic

I took a half day off. In the reason box I wrote "personal matters." It was my first time going to a psychiatry clinic, and my appointment was at two in the afternoon.

I walked past the building three times. The sign was smaller than I'd expected, and in front of the elevator I fiddled with my phone for no reason, afraid someone might see me. Once I was actually inside, the waiting room was as quiet as a library. There was an office worker in a jacket, a student, an older person. They all had the look of people who had come from an ordinary afternoon. Strangely, that ordinariness comforted me.

In truth, it had taken me a long time even to make the appointment. For months I'd been typing the name of a clinic into the search bar and deleting it. I knew in my head that it wasn't something to be ashamed of, but getting a confirmation text with my own name on it was another matter. Still, one night I felt I'd be letting myself down if I put it off any longer, and I pressed the booking button.

In front of the questionnaire

The questionnaire I was handed at check-in went on with questions about how I'd been sleeping, how my appetite was, whether anything enjoyable had happened lately. My hand stopped as I checked the boxes. Things I'd been pretending not to know were written out line by line. Each time I circled a number, it felt as if my recent days were being laid out in front of me.

In the consulting room I couldn't say even half of what I'd prepared. But I said the first sentence out loud. "I've been very worn out lately." It was the first time I'd said those words where someone was listening. The doctor didn't interrupt, and listened to the end. When the visit was over, I wrote the date of the next appointment in my planner. What I did that day was open the door and speak, and that was all.

On the way back I could see the sky. Only then did I realize that on the way there I had been walking looking only at the ground.

The next morning, I read today's verse in still().

They are new every morning. Great is your faithfulness.

Lamentations 3:23 (WEB)

It read to me as saying that starting again isn't some grand resolution, but something given anew each time morning comes. Opening the door yesterday is something I can simply carry on again today. Today, I just got up and went to work.

Today's breath — Try just one thing today. Getting as far as the door counts as one thing.