The building was square-shaped, with a courtyard in the center, and serene palm plants blowing gently with the ocean breeze. This framed the initial view into one of welcome and safe haven as I stepped over the threshold of the 754 Broadway Building.
OK, not too intimidating, considering I was here to start therapy with a shrink who listed herself as someone who specialized in post traumatic stress recovery. That sounded appropriate for me.
She was waiting for me when I opened the door to the small waiting area of her second floor office. "Amy?" At my nervous nod, she came forward and took my hands, the smile on her face putting me at immediate ease. "I'm Maggie Moran. Come on in, let's get right to it."
I inhaled deeply to loosen my tightening chest and followed her into her private office. I registered soft florals and leafy green plants in colors that I liked. I registered that my therapist was probably three decades my senior. I also registered that she was tall, like I am.
"Tea?" Maggie asked. At my blank stare, she offered, "Chamomile, hon. It's soothing and it will give you something to fiddle with while we talk." The knowing wink again reassured me briefly.
"Um, yes. Thank you," I said. I sat on the sofa and let her serve me.
"There you are," she said in a calm, gentle voice as she handed me a large yellow mug and coaster. "Set it there, if you like." She pointed to the table beside me.
"All right," Maggie Moran, MFT began as she seated herself in the comfy overstuffed chair across from me. "Post traumatic stress, eh? Do tell!"
I blinked. I wasn't sure I was ready to dish about my experiences. Should I be offended here? "Uh..." I began to quake with the surge of emotion that I'd brought with me, just for this moment.
"Let's break it down into the general elements first. Just the facts, so to speak." Maggie suggested. "For example, define in literal terms what exactly constitutes your PTS? Violent crime? Victimization? Give me a brief factual overview of what you've just been through."
Deep breath, Amy. "Like you said, violent crime, victimization, deception, murder... and I guess heartbreak and emotional torment and guilt, if those apply."
"Ah," she said, nodding. Her eyes were on mine and I felt that she could read my struggle for emotional control. "We'll work through all of it, Amy. Not to worry."
I gulped and waited for her to ask the next leading question, but she didn't. She took a sip of her tea, so I sipped mine.
Finally she smiled at me and leaned forward, cup clasped between her long fingers. "So, what is his name?"
"I'm afraid that mine is not a romantic tale until well near the end," I tried to explain. She raised her eyebrows but didn't comment. "There was a child, a boy... And there was a public suicide... And there was the peeper."
"The peeper?" she repeated. "Start there, that sounds like a good place to begin."
(All content on this site is copyright protected. It is meant to inspire my readers to both read my work and to indulge in their own. Amy Stuart is a character from Images of Silence, available here.)