That was always the first thing she said. It always irked me, but I never said anything because I had the new Catastrophe of the Week ™ to discuss with her. I know it was an online call, and technical issues can happen and whatever, but couldn’t she say something else? “How are you?” maybe? If I can’t hear her, I will most certainly say something immediately. 

She was a fantastic therapist, which pissed me off even more. Even though we never really got to make a long-term treatment plan, and I’ve been seeing her for almost two years —every week. This was partially because of me, as I was always trying to put out fires and consistently trying to run away from very slow dogs. Every week, there would be something urgent, and she would immediately ask if I could hear her. 

We had a few technical issues here and there, but overall, I could hear her fine, and she could hear me well —because now I made it a habit to ask her back if she could hear me. The second question was always, “How are you?” Now, this was more tricky to answer. Whenever someone asks me this, I have to figure out if they genuinely want to know or are we still in the formality stage.

You know, when you go into a doctor’s office and they say, “How are you?” you say, “Good, how are you?” Then they ask okay, so what’s wrong, and only then can you go on your rant about that weird sound your elbow makes sometimes. Tt this point in my life, I reply with the formality as soon as I get that question, but be warned, ask me again, and I will go into my Catastrophe of the Week ™ speech.

After establishing that we can both hear each other and that we’re alive and well, her real work began. She was relentlessly perceptive, and I take issue with that —I never want to be perceived. She cared for my emotions and preferences unless they prevented me from improving, so she continued to perceive me rampantly. She would notice the extra slouch in my shoulders or when my eyes considered the option of crying. 

It never stopped at perception; she had the audacity to include action in the bundle. She would tell me to put on something warmer if she saw the slightest hint of a shiver. She would always be right, but I couldn’t just let her be right all the time —not on my watch. I tried to slither away; “oh, I’m not cold. Maybe the camera isn’t working properly.” But we’d both know because we’re beyond checking for technical issues. 

Yet what annoyed me even more was when she used logic against me. Only I should get to wield logic against others, but it should never apply to me, I declare to myself, using my inside voice. She used what can only be described as witchcraft to turn my own weapons against me and then not allow me the decency to fire. With a few questions and sentences, I would be utterly disarmed. 

But her mortal sin, the most unforgivable act of the best therapist I’ve ever seen, was that she never talked about herself. I know exactly two facts about her: She used to be a teacher, and she does not reside within the city limits. The first part she willingly mentioned in her deplorable pursuit to make me a better person. The second was because I asked her how the weather was when I left the city for a week.

She replied, “Oh, I don’t actually live in the city.” Well, couldn’t you mention where you lived? It would have required the same number of syllables, but no, she would never give me the satisfaction. Her saving grace —other than being the only person on the planet who could get inside my brain and make it a better place— was that she occasionally laughed at my jokes, and in my holy book, that clears your slate. 

How I hated that question, but I wish she could hear me now.