Dark Therapy

1– Aiden

People come into my office believing they know themselves. They walk in with rehearsed truths, curated pain, tidy explanations for why their lives look the way they do. Trauma wrapped in humor. Shame hidden behind degrees. Anger smoothed into diplomacy. Everyone wears a mask, especially the ones who swear they don’t. My job, on paper, is to help take that mask off. I’ve learned something over the years, most people don't actually want healing. They want relief, they want someone to carry the weight for them. I’ve always been good at that.

It’s 9:04 am when my first client of the day enters. Mrs. Goddard, she’s shaking slightly. Her eyes are red and her voice small. She sits across from me like she always does, legs folded tight, fingers twisting the sleeve of her sweater.

“Rough morning?” I ask gently to which she nods. “Nightmares again?” Another nod.

I study her in the soft morning light. The tremble in her hand. The way she keeps one shoulder raised, protecting a bruise she no longer needs to hide. She’s lighter today, body looser, breathes deeper, and she doesn’t know why. Her world is safer now. I made sure of it. I let her speak, let her empty herself until her shoulders sink with relief.

People mistake me for quiet because I don’t rush to fill silence. Truth is, silence tells you more than any confession ever could. When our session ends, she smiles, a genuine smile this time.

“I don’t– I’m not sure why, but… it feels lighter today,” she says.

I return the smile, “Some days are like that.”

She leaves believing she’s simply healing and I let her. The next appointment isn’t for twenty minutes, so I take a moment to breathe, letting my mind settle the way it does after I fix something broken. It’s the closest I get to peace.

The clock hits 10:29 am when my next client trolls in without knocking, he never does, already talking before the door fully shuts.

“Doc, you’re not gonna believe the week I’ve had,” Mr. Dalton says, adjusting the gold watch on his wrist like he’s giving me a show.

I don't respond. Men like him come for conversation, they come for validation. He drops into the chair with practiced ease, legs crossed, arm thrown over the back like he owns the place.

“My wife’s on her bullshit again,” sighs dramatically. “Says I’m self-centered, emotionally unavailable, dismissive. I mean, you know the usual.”

I arch a brow. “Is it how you’d describe yourself?”

He laughs, loud and forced, like I’ve made the world’s funniest joke. “Of course now. I mean, look at me.” He gestures vaguely, as if his existence is proof of virtue. “I provide, I work, I don’t cheat. I’m a good husband.”

“Then why do you think she is unhappy?” he stops smiling, for two exact seconds then shrugs.

“No idea. Some women just don’t appreciate greatness.”

I could list at least fifteen reasons based on ten minutes of conversation alone, but therapy isn’t about telling people what they don’t have the capacity to hear. “I think your wife wants to feel considered,” I say calmly. “Not competed with.”

He waves me off. “She’s dramatic, Anyway–” he checks his watch “–my assistant is waiting downstairs with my lunch meeting notes, so let’s speed this up.” I end the session as soon as the clock allows. He leaves, ego trailing behind him like cologne. My peace once again returning, but only briefly.

At 11:40, my last morning client slips into the room. Ms.Alvarez, the one with the hollowed-out eyes and exhaustion stitched into her posture. She closes the door softly, as if noise might break her. She lowers herself into the chair and folds her hands like bracing for impact.

“How was the baby last night?” I ask.

Her lip wavers. “He cried for hours. I couldn’t soothe him. I tried, I really tried.”

“You’re not failing,” I say before she spirals. “You’re overwhelmed, sleep deprived and going through a divorce in the middle of postpartum hormonal imbalance. What you’re experiencing is not weakness, it’s simply biology.”

Her breath shudders as she wipes tears with the back of her hand. “He said I’m.. too much, too emotional. That I make everything harder than it should be.”

I feel the familiar heaviness in my chest, the kind that comes when someone has been carrying far more than their share. “Your emotions are telling you something.” I say gently. “They’re not the enemy.” She breaks, not loudly, just quietly to herself. A cry that comes from exhaustion, not from heartbreak.

By the time we finish, she looks softer around the edges, less brittle. Her hands aren’t clenched when she stands to leave. “You really think I’ll get through this?” she whispers.

“I know you will Ms. Alvarez.”

I always have to make sure I call her by her soon-to-be maiden name because saying her married name always leads to us having another 20 minutes tacked onto our sessions. She holds my gaze like she needs to borrow some strength. I give it freely. When she leaves, I check my notes, organize my desk and breathe.

The afternoon is usually slower and more quiet. I’m always grateful for the short intermission, but today wasn’t so peaceful. I don’t know what made my assistant schedule so many clients today, but I will be sure to have a conversation with him later about it.

It’s 4:03 p.m. when my last appointment of the day pushes the door open without knocking. She steps inside with this energy, sharp, direct, a strom contained in a single human body. Essence Clark, is court-ordered to be here and has missed two sessions. Didn’t even care enough to apologize or bother hiding the fact she didn’t want to be here.

She lets the door fall shut behind her, leaning on one hip, keys dangling from her fingers, eyes scanning my office like she’s deciding whether being here is worth her time.

“Traffic,” she says flatly. It’s not an apology, it's an explanation she doesn’t actually owe me.

“That’s alright,” I reply, gesturing to the chair. “Have a seat.”

She drops into it without hesitation, crossing her legs, arms folding across her chest like armor.

“So,” she says, tone clipped, “tell me what hoops I gotta jump through so the court doesn’t hit me with a fine.”

Direct. Unfiltered. Borderline hostile. Interesting.

“Let’s start with why you were ordered here,” I say, keeping my voice even.

She rolls her eyes — not dramatically, but with the confidence of someone who’s spent her life defending herself. “Got into it with some woman in a parking lot,” she says. “She disrespected me. I finished the conversation.”

I don’t look up from my notes. “Finished it, how?”

“However, it needed to be finished.” A challenge sits under her words. Testing how much she has to tell. Testing how much I can see.

“Do you get into fights often?” I ask.

“Do you ask stupid questions often?”

My lips curve before I can stop them. She’s not like my other clients. She’s not timid, fragile or afraid of confrontation. But she’s tired , I can see that. Tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.

“Therapy isn’t punishment,” I say. “You’re not here to be lectured.”

“Good,” she replies, leaning back. “Because I’m not interested in spilling my whole life to a stranger.”

“You don’t have to.” I meet her eyes. “But if you’re here, we’re going to talk about something real.”That makes her pause. Just a flicker. Barely there but it’s the first genuine reaction I’ve seen from her.

The session is short — she gives me fragments, pieces she doesn’t care about, nothing that costs her emotion. But her silence speaks, her posture speaks, her tension speaks. She’s not unreachable. She’s just untrusting. When the hour is up, she stands, grabbing her purse.

“Same time next week?” I ask.

She shrugs. “If I feel like it.”

She will. People who fight this hard not to be understood usually need understanding the most. And Essence Clark, walked in here insisting she didn’t need me. But for the first time in a long time, I felt something pull, a shift, small but dangerous. A client I shouldn’t care about, yet one who will matter anyway.