Behind the Front.

For some reason, I don't or can't tell Dr. M about the memory of when I was in the second grade. I decide this while I sit in the "living room," in the single chair by the window, next to the table with a bouquet of flowers; there are always flowers of a yellow variety on the table but this week I can't tell what kind they are. They are very pale, barely yellow with delicate petals. They look very fragile as if they will shatter if anything or anyone gets too close. I factor this into my decision of sitting in the chair by the window, but I figure someone must have put the flowers in the vase and they are still in one piece so sitting in a chair next to them will probably be just fine.

Whenever I go to Dr. M's office I feel like I'm stepping into an upscale apartment that's actually a front for some kind of underground business, not an office on the 17th floor of the Two Union Square building, a building I once temporarily had a job in. This building is so tall that there are two sets of elevators. I took one set that went up to the 20th floor, the other set of elevators takes you to floors 21-47.

Anyways, I call the reception area the living room because that's how it feels, and I call Dr. M's office the "bedroom" even though it is an office and because of that I always feel oddly like I am seeking out the services of a prostitute or something that is forbidden as I wait for my appointment to start. I don't know why I feel this way, perhaps part of me still feels like what I am doing is a dirty secret that I dont want anyone to know, I mean I can't even tell my boyfriend where I go on Wednesday evenings, he thinks I'm volunteering at the library. But it's in everyones best interest if I keep these sessions to myself, I'll let other people know when I think the time is right, maybe after I know when or if these sessions will be helpful.