The
room has one window; it looks out to the side of another building. The room has
one light; it flickers on and off periodically. The room is painted a dull
beige, and as I swing the rickety door open, the smell of mold floods into my
nostrils, practically overwhelming every sense. The room has one couch, small
with deflated cushions that eats me as I sink into it. The room is cold; my
breath forms clouds around my mind. I sit, and I wait. The room was never a
place I wanted to be, a place to talk about depression that was just as dark
and icy as my thoughts. The room had a clock; a clock that hang on the wall
next to a crack, its second hand seeming like it moved at the rate of a sloth
crossing the road. I sat and watch the hand tick, and tick, and tick, and I
waited for the darkness to fade. As the session went on, the light flickered
four times a minute. I sat and watched it counting the seconds between. I
watched her speak, she spoke slow, she spoke gentle, she spoke as if I was
dumb. Every couple of minutes, a beam of light would reflect off the adjacent
building and shine into the room, but the light always went away within a few
seconds. The bitterness of the room.
But
finally it was the last few minutes. At this point however my arms has goose bumps
running up them. But it was now time, time to leave. I opened the door nob, the
knob freezing cold to touch. I walked out of the room, and finally I could
breath.
