Tiger Lily: Part Three (9 page)

My heartbeat sped up upon reaching the floor. We stepped out and headed to the wooden door with the gold placard that read, “Isla Bridgewater, M.D. Ph.D. Psy.D.”
All bases covered
, I mused as I walked up to the door, already imagining a powdered elderly woman with a tight smile and polished leather office.

I pictured the space decorated with framed degrees and ultra-comforting music to lull clients into a relaxed state as they divulged the contents of their lives while Isla Bridgewater, M.D. Ph.D. Psy.D, would sit there and listen. She’d be politely taking notes and handing out brochures at the end of the appointment.

What I found when David opened the door to the office was not at all what I had imagined. Sure, the waiting area had the stuffiness I anticipated, complete with polished leather couches and tasteful pillow accents. But Dr. Isla herself stood before a dark oak reception desk, wearing a white embroidered tunic. She was a short and curvy, with gray wavy hair that brushed her shoulders. Her dark-toned skin was smooth, with a few creases along the corners of her large brown eyes, and her wide mouth was turned up in a smile, which I surprisingly found myself returning.

“Thank you, David. Judy will call you when the session is over.” We said goodbye and he left.

“Hello, Lily. The office is warm and has a nice, thick carpet. You won’t need your shoes and may leave them on the stand.” Isla motioned to a small wooden shelf and coat rack. I quickly removed my jacket and short boots, eyeing her white socks as I followed her into her office. The furnishings were similar to her receiving room but with more upscale eastern artifacts intermixed with framed honors on the wood-paneled walls.

She motioned for me to take a seat on a sofa with a short back and wide cushions. Crossing her legs, she sat down next to me.

“We will start with a breathing exercise. I want you to focus on your inhalation and exhalation,” she said.

I raised a brow. “Seriously?”

She smiled. “Yes. When thoughts arise, bring it back to the inhalation and exhalation. Now, let’s take two breaths together.”

She flicked her finger against a metal bowl and a sound hung in the air.

Since she didn’t leave the exercise open for discussion, I closed my eyes and tried to focus.
What is this?
Inhale.
How is this supposed to help me?
Exhale.
Is this how it’s going to go?
Inhale.
How long is this going to last?
Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. The bell sounded once again.

“I like to begin sessions with the practice of meditative mindfulness. An exercise in staying present and observing thoughts. Thoughts and feelings are separate. Sometimes our thoughts work against us. This will help you shift through the negative ones that may affect your overall health.” She paused to let the words sink in, and had they ever. I could easily admit my thoughts, at times, were my worst enemy.

“So, let’s take a step back. How did you feel after the short meditation?” she asked.

I ran my palms down my jeans and rested them on my knees as I thought on what she had asked. “I feel a little relaxed, I suppose.”

She smiled warmly, and then continued, “I’d like to go over your goals for therapy and what brought you in today.” She reached over and collected a pen and paper.

I grimaced.
And so it starts.
I share and she writes, and after I’m miserable I’ll be handed a few flyers and sent out the door. No thank you.
I knew she was waiting for a response, but I didn’t have one. How would I know about goals when I’d just started? Hell, I didn’t even want to be here.

“What went through your mind just now?” she asked, ending our silent standoff.

I crossed my arms. “I thought this isn’t going to help me. I’ve done this before. The last therapist wrote a lot down, but not much became of it. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for your feelings. So seeing me pick up the pad triggered your memory of your past experience of therapy?” she asked, prodding me to engage with her.

I folded and unfolded my hands in my lap and took a deep breath. I was here, and I promised Jonas I would try. So I decided to share what I could or perhaps confirm what Dr. Steinman had possibly shared with her. “Yes. I went to a therapist and she did the same. She listened, but then…I don’t know. I don’t have many expectations or goals. I came here because my doctor and, well, my boyfriend, recommended I get help after I became ill and underweight from stress. I had been physically attacked and harassed by my ex-fiancé. He escalated after I reported him and, well, now you know everything,” I closed my mouth and pressed my lips together.

“Seeing me with the pad and paper, ready to take notes, triggered a memory of past therapy and you thought and felt…what?” she asked.

I frowned. I just told her what was going on and she’s talking about triggers? I sat there and tried to curb my annoyance enough to try to figure out what response she was after. “I felt like you wouldn’t listen and I’d be left a mess of feelings with a bunch of pamphlets telling me information I could easily find on the Internet. I’m starting to feel happy again. I was sad for a long time. I don’t want to start digging up stuff when good is coming into my life.”

“So, would a goal for you be that I listen and you feel better from what we discuss together?” she offered.

I shrugged. “If that’s possible.”

“I believe so, but we have only started. So, my goal is to be mindful of your feelings about therapy and your goals. I’ll check in often or ask how you are to make sure I help you meet that goal. How does that sound?” she asked.

I licked my lips. “Okay. I’d like that.”

“You came in feeling good. Let’s talk about that,” she said.

I smiled and tucked my hair behind my ears. “Yes. Jonas,” I covered my mouth as I realized she was a friend of Dani’s and possibly knew Jonas too.

“Everything said here is confidential,” she assured as if she read my mind.

I slid my teeth against my bottom lip. “Okay. I’m happy Jonas is back in my life. He’s so good to me. He fusses, but truly he spoils me,” I said.
Fat spoiled princess
. My face fell.

“What are you thinking right now? Did something you shared bother you?”

I looked at her blankly, not wanting to respond.

She continued talking. “You were smiling, talking about Jonas. How happy you were with him back in your life. He’s good, fusses, spoils…” She paused between her words to gauge my response. I blinked when she got to the word ‘spoil’ and lowered my head. “What are you thinking now?” she asked.

I kept my eyes to the ground. “My ex used to call me a fat, spoiled princess. I tried not to be, but I don’t know.”

“What did you think of when you heard your doctor tell you that you’re underweight?” she asked.

“I didn’t believe it possible. My body doesn’t look as thin as others, but Dr. Steinman said I’m unhealthy,” I said.

“Do you believe Dr. Steinman?” she asked.

“Well, yes. He’s a medical doctor. He has a thriving and well-respected practice,” I said.

“Do you think he has anything to gain by telling you you’re not fat?” she asked.

“No,” I replied.

She nodded. “So, if Dr. Steinman doesn’t believe you are fat and you trust in him…Are you fat?”

I crossed my arms. “It’s not that easy. My becoming underweight wasn’t intentional. I exercise to stop feeling. I didn’t want to feel. I was miserable with Declan’s harassment. You see, I gained weight after my parents died, and he taunted me. I…” I closed my eyes.

“Okay. Let’s try another way. What does it mean to be a spoiled princess?”

I frowned at her. Couldn’t she see how upset I was? I didn’t want to keep talking about it. I sat there in silence, but she sat there with me and waited. I was the one to break. “A person that is treated like a princess. They are doted on, given things over and above what is necessary.”

“Who judges what is necessary?” she asked.

I rubbed the space between my eyebrows. “I don’t know. I guess I do. Declan did. I guess.”

“So, let’s say you both judge what is necessary. I want you to tell me how you came to believe it to be true. Tell me how you are a spoiled princess?” she asked.

I groaned. “My parents spoiled me. Declan was annoyed they called me numerous times throughout the day. They always wanted to spend time with me and even went as far as changing their plans to be with me. They helped pay my tuition for college, they met all my teachers, bought me clothes, took me on vacations. They always wanted me to be with them. They told me I was special. That I was a Tiger Lily Princess, beautiful, loyal…”

She passed over a box of tissues, and I realized I was crying now. My words didn’t make much sense to me, but Dr. Isla wrote out notes and then responded.

“So, if I’m hearing correctly, you believe you are a ‘spoiled princess’ because your parents called you, their daughter, every day, spent time with you, helped you with college, took an interest in your education, bought their daughter clothes, and called you a special princess.”

My face warmed. Hearing it back, I thought my explanation silly, so I tried to get her to understand another way. “Declan had a different life growing up. His foster parents were cruel. They didn’t take good care of him. He was beaten, left starving. It was horrible.”

“So because Declan’s life experience was different than yours, he told you that you are a spoiled princess, and that makes you spoiled?” she asked.

I shrugged. “No. I don’t know. Well, my friend Mary’s parents were the same. I thought we were normal until Declan pointed out we weren’t.”

“I want you to focus on you. You think of yourself as spoiled. You haven’t proven it to be true, so let me ask another way. Say: ‘I’m a spoiled princess because I’ and fill in the blank.”

“I’m a spoiled princess because I…enjoyed being treated that way,” I said, my voice graveled.

“Did you do other things growing up besides enjoying the way you were treated?” she asked.

“Well, no. My father was strict. I studied and did extra homework at home. We volunteered. I helped with my mother’s art program. I didn’t believe I was spoiled, but their wanting to be with me and see me often, I loved that. I loved them. I wanted to please them. I wanted to be the princess they told me I was. I don’t know,” I sobbed.

“So a spoiled princess is perfect?” she asked.

I rubbed against the cramp in my stomach. “Yes. I’m not, but I can’t shake the thoughts. I wanted to be. I wanted to be so he would see I wasn’t so spoiled and he would love me.”

“‘If I’m not perfect…’ fill in the rest?” she asked in a gentle tone.

I thought about what comes to mind when I hear I’m a spoiled princess, and the way things happened in my relationship with Declan when he sought to get me to change something about myself. He manipulated me. I wanted Declan to love me. I worked to get that love and acceptance from him. I tried to be the perfect girlfriend and perfect daughter. I exercised to lose weight. I tried to divide my time between him and my parents. But it didn’t help. He didn’t love me. He left me when I wasn’t perfect.
If I’m not perfect…no one will love me.
“I’ll need to think on that more. I feel awful, by the way,” I said with irritation.

“Did your parents ever stop their care and concern? Did you ever do anything that changed their behavior toward you?” she asked.

I wiped my forehead. I felt turned inside out already, but still she was pushing me. I looked at her and saw her poised and attentive. I didn’t see any maliciousness or disapproval on what seemed to be a glowing discussion of my stupidity. “You must think I’m silly after listening to all that I told you.”

“No, I don’t. And I’m not here to judge. I’m here to help,” she said.

I exhaled. “In response to your question, yes and no. My father had a code Salomé’s were to follow. We were to strive for perfection. We fought between us about Declan. They wanted me away from him. They thought he wasn’t good enough. They fought against my changing, but they never stopped the way they treated me. They loved me.”

“Let’s talk about what brought a smile on your face to conclude your first session and to keep my promise of not leaving you feeling sad. You said you’re with Jonas and he treats you as good as your parents treated you, and you’re enjoying it?”

I smiled. “Yes. Jonas is very good to me. I enjoy and love it. I love him. I feel he cares for me. Sometimes I think he loves me, but he doesn’t say it.” My smile wilted. I didn’t have anything to support the thought that Jonas didn’t love me, except that he hadn’t said it. My understanding of love and his actions were the same. The only thing missing was the feeling I had at not hearing it, but even that was related to not hearing the words back from Declan for two years.

A beep went off, marking the end of the session. Dr. Isla cleared her throat and said, “I want you to write down what love means and how that relates to Jonas. Think about what proof you have to support your thoughts and feelings that he might not.” Then looking through her notes, she added, “I want to give you some information about the type of therapy I practice. I prefer to send it by email, if you would like to continue?” she asked.

I sighed. “This has been really intense for a first session, but I’m feeling a bit lighter and emotional. You mentioned things I think I would like to discuss again. So, yes.”

“Okay. I’d like to see you the rest of this week—twice a week thereafter. I don’t want to prescribe medication, but I do want you try yoga meditation and more relaxation exercises. We’ll check in at the beginning of each session,” she said.

“We may be going out of town on Friday,” I replied

She grinned and lifted a folder. “I’ll send you some homework to make up for Friday.”

I jokingly groaned as I gave her my email address. I didn’t know if I would be able to grasp all her concepts or her pushing of things I didn’t want to talk about, but having something else to use against my thoughts and past might be a good thing.

David was waiting for me when I exited Dr. Isla’s office, along with a message on my phone from Jonas.