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Because she can afford the ridiculous copay, Sydney decided that now would be a good time to start seeing a therapist again. A good one. Not some bullshit therapist who’ll repeat self-care quotes she read off of Tumblr back in 2014.
She finds one with impressive reviews, who specializes in damn near every kind of problem Sydney has. There’s a section on the therapist’s website that said she prefers meeting her clients in person because she wants to “feel their vibe.”
“The fuck does that mean?” Sydney mumbled under her breath. The therapist’s office would be a brisk 10-minute walk from her new apartment. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, with the cooled weather and the new, safer-ish neighborhood she lived in. Still, she frowns. If this was the hi tech-deficient 1970s, she’d be more understanding. But being forced to come in when there were other, more easily accessible ways to communicate, as if her vibe couldn’t “be felt” via webcam, annoyed her. And nothing annoyed Sydney more than being restricted.
That alone nearly made her click off the page, but she scrolls down to the bottom and sees a LinkedIn-perfect photo of the therapist. Oh, she’s black? Hmm... a ten-minute walk won’t kill me. And with that, she presses on a conveniently placed “Start Here” button.
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The therapist’s office is a welcome portal away from her chaotic reality. The smells of pumpkin loaf, the plush seats, and the therapist’s understanding but dissecting expression bewitches Sydney into ranting for more than an hour and a half straight. The two-hour sessions cost an extra $90, so she was gonna get her money’s worth.
Her voice tight and slightly hoarse from the changing volume levels she just put it through, Sydney ends her rant with a defeated huff. “And yeah, well, that’s me, I guess. Or at least just the tip of the messy iceberg that is my life,” she jokes awkwardly. The therapist just offers a half smile and smizes. That joke was not funny, is what that meant.
The therapist quickly scribbles a note, and despite herself, Sydney tries to catch what was written down. What observation did she make just now? Did she notice something broken about me? Something I could be better at? If she would just move her hand to the side then maybe I could-
“So… Sydney,” The therapist begins, her Togolese accent makes her voice click from her mouth like rock sugar. Her tone prompts Sydney to look up from the notepad into her eyes. She holds her breath, awaiting the final verdict on how fucked up she truly is.
“I can confidently say that the vibe I’m getting from you is of this enthusiastic, little ball of energy, with enough passion and determination to run a country.” Sydney’s shoulders deflate at this, and she breathes a bit easier. She forgot about this part, this lady’s gimmick. Sydney will allow her to play it out, but she has 10 minutes left in the session to get to her point.
“You’ve got the spirit of an excellent chef, with the brains and talent to back it up, and the ambition to steer you towards your dreams. But… energy isn’t created, nor destroyed, only transferred.” Sydney tenses up at this. And down comes the hammer.
“From what you’ve told me today, it sounds like…” The therapist spends 5 seconds finding the right words to say, and now they’re down to 8 minutes. “You’re not just tired, but angry, frustrated, infuriated. Is it fair to say that your rage fuels this energy you have? And that you feel that you need to keep accessing the stimulus of the anger to keep up in this field, knowing that it’s wearing you down in the process? In order to stay… You?
Wow, okay, I’ll give her that one. Sydney bobs her head up and down, her hands intertwined and squeezing each other in an attempt to find comfort. “That… would be a fair thing to say about me, yeah.”
The therapist cocks her head to the side. “Where do you want this train, fueled by rage, to take you?” There’s a glint in her eyes when she asks this. She’s on the verge of a breakthrough.
Sydney shrugs and looks down, hoping she is hiding her shame well. “I don’t know,” she lies. She knows damn well what the real answer is. “I just think that… all of the things I go through, including the events that make me angry, can push me to be the best chef I can be. I believe there’s always room for improvement, so what’s wrong with seeking after it? Even if it makes me angry along the way.”
With a startling quickness, the therapist pulls off her glasses and leans in towards Sydney. “Sydney, listen to me, and listen to me clear.” Her words come out clipped and at dizzying speeds. “I am not here to teach you how to better wield the weapons formed against you, because you have no control over the outcome. I will not help you heal to better handle your trauma, because you are used to the trauma. I will not teach you how to hate yourself into the version you wish to be.”
The therapist’s hand twitches like she’s going to reach out and touch her client, to ensure the transfer of this message. But she keeps her hands to herself. “Hate is insatiable,” she continues, her voice softer. “It needs to be fed constantly, it demands more and more until it’s burned up everything around it. And in the end, it won’t be enough. Because it will still want more.”
It's dead silent, save for the mini waterfall fountain bubbling in the room somewhere. Instead of rolling her eyes, Sydney chooses to stay still, under the hungry eyes of the therapist. She has this expectant look on her face. Sydney’s seen it many times before on pastors when they’re fishing for whoops and hollers from the crowd.
Sydney gives her the reaction she’s looking for – she hums understandingly with a slow nod of her head. Meanwhile, she’s mentally forming the break-up email she’ll send this woman in a few hours.