To some degree, it feels as though that each moment I believe to be significant finds itself rendered irrelevant by the next passing instance of time. I look for markers to tell me the beginnings and endings to stories that would not have otherwise existed, had I not sought to separate them from the bucket of collected memories. Those markers, though, sink as quickly as they rise in pail full of events. In turn, it becomes apparent that what I am searching for is completely arbitrary.
The appointment was for a medication refill; the halls and waiting areas were empty on account of spring break. I had a meeting with a psychiatrist, whom I had never met before, and thus I dub the Newbie. Winding through the corridors, something seemed familiar – the particular twists and turns and doors past inflicted jolts of familiarity. Pushing open the door, it became clear what it was that I recognized.
It was the same office where I had originally started off. The insipid paintings that I “critiqued” two years ago still hung on the walls, and the uncomfortable couch on which the Intern sat as she tried to convince me to take medication for my depression still sagged at the slightest touch. This room captured not only my secrets, but also, more importantly, my misery, traumas, and distress.
I awkwardly slid onto the couch and narrowed my eyes, squinting to see if I could catch a glimpse of my insults and comments from years prior. I uttered a comment that I had been here before. I then asked the Newbie if that had always been her office; to which she responded with a “no.” She was new, having only arrived in January.
Proverbially wiping a bead of sweat away, I gestured to the decor and recalled verbally the disdain that I had for it. My comments were met with a chuckle; the Newbie pointed to the now-empty space above the computer and noted that she couldn’t stand to look at the horrid picture any longer and took it down. The affirmation that my perception of at least something in that time was true provided a sense of relief to what I now feel to be surreal.
If my life were a narrative, written by someone, we could say that this subplot has come “full circle.” But what do I call it? Do I write it off as the ending to all of “this?” “This” being the vague entity that I use to define the past few years in which my depression and string of experiences overwhelmed me. It almost seems pointless to declare an ending to anything, as like a soap opera, new developments or nuanced themes continue to arise. Nothing is definitive, even though there are the instances that make me think otherwise. But I’ll simply label that meeting for what it was – a coincidence.
Image courtesy of Flickr (user: seadevi)