The Therapist

“I am happy.”

The words felt more forced than anything, if not well-rehearsed. I’ve said those words to appease each of my previous therapists, and this one was next in line.

She glanced up from her notebook and looked me in the eyes. Straightening her glasses, she was surely about to attempt to prove me wrong, much like her past colleagues. I prepared myself to break this poor soul with my wits alone.

“What makes you happy?” she asked, her eyes unwavering.

This statement was an unexpected parry to any remark I’ve used before. It wasn’t a fact of how anxiety, depression, and other mental health conditions are all the groove in youth today. It also wasn’t an accusatory question, trying to discover what “caused” me to be here.

It was just a simple question.

Exasperated, I blurted, “Music, I guess.”

“Music? What kind?” she said through a small laugh.

And that is how most meetings would go. I’d educate her on all of the reasons I shouldn't be here, and without fail, notebook in hand, she’d always ask a variation of her favorite question: “What does it mean to be happy?” or “What do you do when you’re happy?” and so forth. For the sake of filling up time, I’d answer the questions as she jotted down who-knows-what in her notebook.

Occasionally when I opted out of answering, she’d mention some of the things that made her happy—random little things like walking in parks, yoga, her stupid chihuahua named Beany, sunsets, sunsets with Beany and pizza. For the most part I’d let it slide, because who could hate things like pizza? She even brought some once or twice. It definitely felt like a bribe, but at least it was a delicious one.

One day as I walked in the office ready to debate my freedom, I sensed an upcoming violation to our daily routine. The therapist's notebook was not in its assigned place, but on a desk near my seat. I wondered if somehow I’d broken her will with all of my sarcasm over the past few months, and this was her signing off. But then she asked, “What makes you happy?”

Sarcastically, I shrugged, “I dunno,” so we could move on to our regularly scheduled events.

But then she said, “I think you do know,” and pointed at her notebook.

Unsure if it was kryptonite or worse, I looked her in the eye and slowly picked it up as she nodded. I opened that notebook. All I could do was slowly leaf through those pages as I saw my own words appear before me.

She hadn’t been writing down ways to fix me. No criticisms of my attempts at humor, either. The whole notebook was on what I said made me happy. Some notes spoke of the few moments in our sessions where she saw me happy—in between the rants where I started to let myself go—talking about my favorite songs, foods, people, and even things I’d like to do someday.

Soon enough, I reached the end. On the bottom page, she had left one last note.

All it said was, “It's ok to be sad too :)”—and at that moment, I let something break in me in the best of ways. Tears welled up from emotions I'd long-locked down.

Smiling, all I could manage to say was, “I am sad.”

Those words felt lighter than anything.

This is a short story from an Andrews University student. If you’d like your own narrative, creative work, or art piece to be considered for publication, please send it to tjhatra@andrews.edu.