The first thing I notice about my new therapy appointment is that I’ve worn the wrong shoes. I’ve done everything else correctly: washed my hair, used deodorant, selected an age-appropriate shirt, practised my calm and knowledgeable voice. But thongs? To a medical centre?
They slap as I follow my new therapist along the hallway – slap slap slap – disturbing the sick people. “Sorry,” I say, calmly and knowledgeably. “Thongs are so loud!” I laugh so she knows it’s a joke. The thongs are an aberration. We both know I’m totally fine and just seeing a new therapist for no reason.
I need her to know that I am good at therapy. I know the names of all the disorders and their symptoms. I have clinical terms for describing my feelings. One time I went to hospital because my head
