Something is very wrong with me. I am depressed without knowing the reason. I am not sure about the things happening inside me so that I decided to go to a shrink to figure out what is wrong with me. I told no other soul about this matter. Not my parents, not even my girlfriend knows about it.

The place is an hour trip from my home. I took a day off from my work, excused myself by telling them a lie that I am having a fever today. Not totally a lie since mental illness is a sickness too. Still, I feel a bit guilty that I didn’t tell the truth, especially to my girlfriend that thinks I am working today. I have to tell her later.

I don’t get in right away when I’m arrived. I take a cigarette and light it outside the gate to calm myself. I am fifteen minutes earlier anyway. The place or I should say the house where my psychiatrist works is a normal house that you could find anywhere. Nothing fancy. Nothing special about it. No sign or something alike to distinguished it from the rest. No one would think that inside, it treats sick people like me. Full of secrecy like what people been telling me about such place.

“They will keep everything for themselves as professional helpers. What you talked inside the room is your privacy and they would keep it that way. It’s their policy.” My friend told me once about her experience. “Everything you said, stayed in the room without any possible way escaping it,” she also added, “my psychiatrist never told my parents that I went there when I had an abortion. They are trained to keep your information classified.”

It was never my intention to go to a place like that because I always believe that each of us is capable to help ourselves. It’s in our gene. That’s our special treat as a human. We create our own poison and potion. We are the cure of our own disease. Apparently that rule doesn’t work well when we are living with seven other billion people out there. Some of us spread deseases to others. I could not help myself on that. I could not thoroughly self diagnose like all laptop nowadays could, then delete all unnecessary files. Some files are sometimes hidden beyond your reach to delete or fix. That’s where I need someone else’s help. Psychology is deeper that its cover, I figured.

Fifteen minutes later, I stomp out my second cigarette, open the gate, and walk my way to the only door exist after the gate. I was kind of expecting a receptionist or such thing where someone would ask for my name before I could meet my savior. But the house is nothing but a huge room where a woman sits on a three seats couch in the middle of the room – or the house. She sits at the left side of the couch resting her head on her left arm at the armrest. Her eyes closed when I open the door. She slowly opens them when she heard the door closed behind me.

She stands up, and smiles to me. I knew right way that she is my psychiatrist and she’s been expecting me. If I am not mistaken, her name is Rose. Another friend of mine suggested me to go to her. She is probably at her middle forties or early fifties. Not particularly beautiful now, but I could tell that she was a beautiful girl once. Time worn out her brilliant charm. Yet some of it still remain there, refused the time to beats her.

Neither of us make a move or sound for a brief moment. And when I see that she is staying on her spot, I start to walk to her. As I walk, the sole of my shoes making a squeak on every step I take as if the floor just newly waxed. The noise is echoing inside the empty room in a peculiar way. I feel disconnected from the very noise I make. On the fifth step, I stop bothered about my squeaking shoes and look around. The room seems slightly bigger than the appearance on the outside. Or probably because it is very empty that I begin to think it is bigger. Whichever it is, the room still serves its purpose as it meant to. There is nothing inside it besides a couch where she stands beside it and a coffee table in front of it. Everything is white. The floor, walls, ceiling, and everything is white except her, my therapist in a green dress, the sofa which is brown and the wooden coffee table with nothing on top of it. Very plain and empty. But it doesn’t give me the cold vibe. It is very warm, in fact.

I wonder why she dressed in green as I get closer to her. Is it because green as a symbol of life and renewal? Does she always dress in green to relate her work that fixes people? I could only wonder why not yellow as Van Gogh used to represent hope? Maybe it is only me that came here, hoping be fixed. Why didn’t she use red just like her name? Probably too cliché, and red as the symbol of love and passion is too much for our first meeting. Then I wonder about green rose. Does it exist? I put a mental note to look it up later when I got home. She could also didn’t think much of the color of her dress. She just simply wore it because it looks nice on her. As I get closer to her, I force myself from thinking about random stuff and try to be calmer. I need to smoke.

“Hello,” she said in a calming voice without introducing her name. So I take that as a Rose. “Please sit and make yourself comfortable,” now she doesn’t ask for my name and allow me to sit on the same couch. So I take that she really is Rose, my psychiatrist. Her gestures and voice are telling me that she is a kind person. I understand now, why she became a psychiatrist. I feel calm already just to hear her voice.

I sit on the right end of the brown couch, leaving an empty spot between us. The couch is extremely comfortable. Must’ve been an expensive one. Slowly I could smell her fragrance. It is sweet like candy. Could she be a pisces? Why pisces cross my mind? I never believed in astrology crap. This room makes my mind works differently. Should I call it quit and get out before I change into something else?

“Before we start, I need you to know about yourself. Like, where do you work, how old are you, and stuff like that.” Her smile stays there when she isn’t talking. Is it a practiced one just to send a friendly gesture, or is it a genuine one? Nonetheless, it is a gorgeous one. Maybe I’ll stay a bit longer.

I begin to talk about my age, then what kind of work I do, my family, and simple stuff like that but without my name because I, one-sidedly decided, that we know each other’s name. She listens carefully to every word I say. Her eyes locked on me. It is very hard for me to look her in the eyes. I have to forcefully look at her so that she wouldn’t think I am lying. Avoiding eye contact means that you are lying. Or that what it said in an article I read some time ago. I don’t think that’s true, because I am not lying. Her presence intimidates me, that’s all.

Once I am out of word of what to say next, she asks me to relax and gives me her gorgeous smile. I can only smile back to her. I have lost my voice, defeated by her charm.

“Now tell me about your problem, if there’s any, or why you’re coming here?”

Uncertain about my reason of coming, I told her everything.

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