I shift my weight from foot to foot, uncertain what to do. A quick glance at my phone reveals it’s 1:58 p.m.

I lift my fist toward the door but hesitate before making contact. There’s no receptionist or sitting room, so I go straight to room 2A. When I reach the modest little building where my therapist and other mental health professionals have their practices, I key in the code 222, let myself in, and walk up the musty stairs to the second floor. Tough love is our way.īeing tough on myself isn’t working now, though. They’d tell me to quit indulging myself and snap out of it. I haven’t told my family because I know they wouldn’t understand. I took a leave of absence because I can’t perform when I’m stuck playing in loops like this. I navigate the steep streets and weave through the pedestrians, wondering if any of these people are going to the symphony tonight. Outside, the air smells of car exhaust and restaurant cooking, and people are out and about, bicycling, shopping, catching late lunches at the cafés. Somehow, these are considered more appropriate in public even though they’re more revealing. I remove the pajamas that I’ve been wearing all day and pull on exercise clothes that I don’t plan to exercise in. My parents would be disgusted by the waste of money if they knew, but I’m desperate and they can’t mourn dollars they don’t know I’m spending. Attempting to muddle through things on my own hasn’t helped, so I’m determined to give this therapy thing a try. Still, I drag myself into my bedroom to change. It doesn’t help that I think my therapist secretly dislikes me. The alarm notification on my phone screen says THERAPY, and I turn it off with a grimace.

The heart principle series in order