Page 3 of Kissing Chaos
I thank him and practically race to it. As the door to the staircase closes behind me, I can’t help but think that I wouldn’t mind running into Noah again.
***
“I am sorry, Miss Taylor. You missed your session by over half an hour, and our next opening isn’t until tomorrow.”
Of course, the power was restored while I was racing up the stairwell, so the computers were up and running in my therapist’s office by the time I made it to their floor.
“I’ve been here, though,” I plead, my hands clenching and unclenching as I try, and fail, to keep it all together. “I was stuck in the elevator and had to wait for help.”
“I understand that, ma’am. However, we only had a thirty-minute appointment set for you today, and the patient following you was on time for hers.”
My eyes close in defeat, the weight of all the recent drama in my life once again crushing me. My voice is nearly a whine as I ask, “Is anyone else available to meet with me today? I’ll wait all day if I have to.”
The receptionist looks at me with a mix of pity and annoyance but sighs before scrolling through the appointment app on her computer. The second sigh that leaves her lips tells me everything I need to know. “I am sorry, but it looks like everyone is booked up.”
My shoulders slump as my chin trembles, this morning’s insanity finally clashing with my own.
I’m making my way toward the door when the receptionist takes pity on me and says, “There is a psychiatrist who offers emergency sessions in the afternoons, if you want her contact information.”
Can I set the month of January on fire, please?
Anxiety rages war on my stomach and pulse as I try to accept my reality that I am now one of those patients needing an emergency mental health session. Nibbling on my bottom lip, I nod. Pinky promises are serious business.
I can do this.
“Where is she located?”
“Havenwood.”
I jolt back a little. “Havenwood?”
The receptionist nods, oblivious to my shock. “Yes, ma’am. If you make your way to I-20 and—”
“My brother lives in Havenwood. You mean to tell me that I’ve had a closer option within this practice for the last two years?”
“Miss Taylor, Dr. Kristen Flynn just recently transitioned to a small personal office. She is technically no longer a partner in this practice, but I can assure you she is wonderful at her job. And she keeps afternoons open for those individuals who find themselves in unexpected situations.” Her smile is reassuring, though my heart and head are anything but.
Reassured, that is.
The thought of someone new seeing inside my head is daunting. I’ve seen the same therapist for the last two years, having only recently admitted to some of my more intimate struggles. The ones my family doesn’t know about.
What is there to see? Depression and a solid thunk when I hit rock bottom?
Eyes clenched shut, bottom lip firmly between my teeth, I nod again. “I’ll take the number.” No point in putting off the inevitable.
***
The trembling in my fingers almost has my phone falling to the ground as I dial Dr. Kristen Wilson-Flynn’s office. I haven’t made it to the stairwell yet—no way am I getting back on the elevators after the massive failure earlier. Though I wouldn’t mind running into that mechanic from earlier again. I have a feeling he’ll be embedded in my memories for a while.
As the phone line rings, I steel myself for someone to answer. If I wait until I am in my car, I’ll chicken out. Calling strangers, scheduling appointments—I prefer to do all of that online. No need to have human interactions when it isn’t necessary.
Maybe that sounds a little too hermit-y.
If the shoe fits…right?
People make me nervous. I never know how to interact with strangers, and I always zone out into a daydream when I should be following along with whatever story or tidbit is being shared.
I’ve never been good at friendships or relationships—not being mentally present, creating stories when I should be focusing on any given task, and not hearing what anyone says until their words process a few seconds later doesn’t lead to deep connections. It wasn’t until I was twenty-three and struggling with a college assignment during my final semester that I finally talked to someone about my lack of focus—or rather, hyper focus on the wrong thing—and completed an ADHD assessment. Tada. Two decades of struggles explained in an hour.
