She proceeded to ask about my father’s job and I, again, told her he was dead and that, to my knowledge, dead people don’t have jobs. That was the moment she took her first note. When I told her about my family’s educational background, she started laughing and asked me what I did in grad school; I told her I didn’t know and assured her I wasn’t joking. She took more and more notes, soon her desk would be filled with her words dramatically describing my experience of existing. At some point, she put her pencil down (I don’t know why she chose to write with a pencil, perhaps there were notes that demanded potential erasure) and leaned forward, resting her arms and upper body on the desk, merging the sea of blue-green-turquoise with the heavy wooden desk. She said, You know, I have a therapy group here I think you’d be a great fit for, it’s academics only. I said, Just academics? She said, Yes, 12 like-minded folks. I noticed my sweaty palms and inappropriately fast heart-beat but also how I felt warm regardless. I said, I don’t think a group is the right choice for me. She leaned back and took notes again. For the remaining time, we had a back and forth about the uses of group therapy. When our session ended, she got up and said, I bet you won’t come back, wearing the big-house smile. I left feeling agitated, hesitating out of the labyrinth-like house-garden-house assembly, hurrying back to a class at grad school – where I felt similar but at least I was getting paid and nobody would talk to me (since I mentioned my family doesn’t really celebrate Christmas). If you had a real job, I thought, you’d have to get back there too.
