As Joanne walked through the waiting room and past the desk, giving the receptionist a curt nod as a greeting, she knocked, once, then twice, before opening the door to the psychotherapist, Mr. Davies’ — or, as he suggested she called him, Davies — office. She was some minutes early for her appointment as she was never one to be tardy, and with no one else around, she was allowed to go in immediately.
Upon seeing the man’s seated form, she emerged tentatively from behind the door, closing it offhand and crossing the distance between them.
“Joanne, it's nice to see you again,” he said, standing and holding his hand out, eyes twinkling and tone welcoming.
They shook hands, and with a slight smile — her mood bouncing back slightly as she did her best to forget the conversation she had with Mia — she sat on the only other available seat, her purse on her lap. “Likewise.”
He sat, mimicking her pose, and she could feel the weight of his eyes on her. “Before I tell you what to expect from your treatment, I'd like to go over a few things with you.” Taking her silence for what it was, he continued, “What were your sources of inspiration before the block?”
“My sources of inspiration?” she repeated, cocking her head and furrowing her brows. “I do not know — my personal experience and researchers?”
He nodded, but she was hesitant. “Why are you asking?”
“We need to know what has worked well for you in the past”—he relaxed in his seat, steepling his fingers across his chest—“and incorporate it into your treatment.”
She was still not convinced. “I have tried everything I can find online, Davies, including finding inspiration from the sources I used to. Nothing worked.” She shook her head, frustration underlying the bitter admission.
“Maybe,” he conceded, his hands up in a placating gesture, and she realised she had leaned forward further than was appropriate, her expression visibly tight. “But, and hear me out, we’ve found that previously helpful methods, tweaked properly, can be the solution all along. After all, there's a reason they worked before.”
She straightened, but bit her lips and glanced away, deep in thought for a short while before sighing. “I guess there is no harm in talking about it.”
The man clapped his hands loudly, a large grin splitting his face. “Great!”
“I have always written based on the events surrounding my life,” she began, returning his gaze. “It was the only way I knew how to, and even when I wanted to explore something new for my write-up, my opinions and emotions would colour it.”
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She paused, expectantly, and patiently waited. When there was no interruption and he gestured for her to continue, she obliged.
“I got inspiration almost whenever I achieved something: when I got my own apartment; when I travelled to a new place; when I started dating my ex; when we broke up.” Her breath hitched. “Even when I fractured my kneecap trying to save my neighbour’s cat — but that is the standard for most writers, right?”
“That’s probably true,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and there was a flare-up of irritation within her at his casualness. “Go on.”
Her hands gripped the hem of her skirt. “That is all.”
He blinked. “Really?”
“Yes. My personalised style of writing has always been what caught my reader’s attention, and I like to believe it was because they could easily relate to it, but now”—her grip tightened considerably and she lowered her gaze—“for some… fucking reason, my brain has decided to shut down its creativity and if I can not get a hold of myself — if I can not get over the block before this month’s end — I will lose my job. I will lose all I have worked hard to achieve.”
There was a moment — a brief horrifying one, really — as deep emotions stirred, a single drop of encapsulated frustration welled up from the corner of her eye and threatened to fall — and try as hard as she could to refocus her thoughts elsewhere, the damage had already been done; to her embarrassment, a tear fell down her cheeks.
Thankfully, no words were said, so, in the silence that followed, she took a deep shuddering breath and sniffled once, doing her best to make her outward appearance look calm compared to how tangled her mind was.
“I am so sorry,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “That was very unprofessional—”
“It’s okay, Joanne, I understand...”
Registering his words, she could not help but find amusing the fact that two drastically different people, on opposite sides with opposing opinions of the clinic, had told her the same thing in less than an hour. She sniffled again, her lips forming a quivering smile, before retrieving a handkerchief from her purse and wiping her eyes with it.
Folding the handkerchief primly and returning it, she finally looked up.
There was a smile on the man’s face as he spoke, not condescending and not pitying either, but a balance between them she unconsciously found herself seeking solace in.
“...Joanne, are you with me?”
A sheepish expression overtaking the smile on her face, she shook her head. “Sorry, I was not listening. Please, repeat yourself.” She fought the urge to apologise again and kept quiet as he agreed to her request.
“You’ll be sent an email tomorrow, at the latest.” Any annoyance he felt at her antics was mercifully absent in his voice. “It’ll contain information about your treatment and instructions we implore you not to discount.”
He stood and she followed suit, her purse coming to hang on her shoulder by its chain strap. “I assure you we know what we are doing, and should you do as instructed, your writer’s block will be a thing of the past.” They shook hands again, though this time was a bit longer than necessary as he leaned in with a large grin and continued, “For legal purposes, I'm obligated to inform you of our no-refund policy,”
“Are you not meant to tell me before I pay?”
The man’s grin widened almost impossibly further, an unknown glint in his eyes as he sat back down. “Goodbye, Joanne.”
That was as much a dismissal as any, so, heart hammering at the ominous statements, she slowly walked out of the office, ignoring the goodbye from the receptionist — who, like the first time they met, was chewing gum loudly.
Mia’s warnings about the risk of scams and broken promises played repeatedly in her head, and even as she reached the nearby bus stop and boarded one home, her agent’s voice was a knife meticulously carving at that rope anchoring her to the chance of a cure, threatening to bring her back into the ether filled with disappointment and doubt.