Once every week I walk to a wooden door. I usually softly knock if it isn’t open, and a blue eyed, blonde haired woman opens it and invites me in. I take a seat on some cushy blue chairs and she sits on the other side of the low table with a box of tissues, right near the lace curtained windows. Across from us both is two sets of filing cabinets, both painted with blue clouds swirling over them. All over the walls are posters with phone numbers and internet addresses on them.
She smiles as she straightens her skirt, pushes her fluffy blonde hair, with its hints of grey re-growth, off her pale skinned face, and then says, “How are you?”
Pleasantries are lost in this room. I never reply, ‘Fine thank you,’ as politeness dictates. Normally I look at the blue clouded filing cabinets and reply, ‘Sad’ or ‘Alive’ or ‘Numb’.
She gives me a soft look, with big eyes that ask me to continue, but I wait for a question.
Sometimes a smirk creeps onto my face, only because while I’m what she describes as ‘seriously depressed’, I can see there is something funny and ironic in this place, in this procedure.
Then she asks about my week.