therapy

Walking down the hallway at my therapist's office is like walking through a waterfall.

The creaks of the old wooden floor are hidden by the sound of a white noise machine positioned outside each door.

The symphony -- upwards of 10 machines, all gushing soothing static from the speakers like water from a sprinkler -- works like a charm.

The audio waterfall is all you can hear walking down the hall from his office to the bathroom (which I do after every appointment)...

And I'm not sure if it's eerie or comforting.

His waiting room is small. I usually sit in a gray reading chair that looks like it almost definitely came from Wayfair.

It's one of those chairs that doesn't seem supportive enough on its own, so it has a pillow on the back for extra comfort.

Yesterday, as I was sitting there, I became acutely aware of how soft that pillow was.

Much too soft -- compared to my swiftly beating heart and my vast internal discomfort.

I've been going to therapy on and off since the fall of 2014.

Some appointments are easy. But the most rewarding ones are not.

I spend the days and weeks leading up to an appointment deciding what I want to talk about...

How much I want to share...

Whether I really need to share that detail or not.

Then, I sit in a gray waiting room chair that is a little too soft, still trying to figure out what I will say when I go into his office and am given 45 minutes to spill my guts.

I try to slow my heart down. I bargain with the butterflies in my stomach to see if they're interested in taking a rest.

And after a few minutes, my therapist pops his head out the door and invites me in.

45 minutes later...

The butterflies have left -- gone vacationing, I guess -- and even though I'm a little sweaty, my heart feels mostly normal again.

Going to therapy is anything but comfortable. But I've found that's usually the case with the most rewarding things in life:

They're not comfortable. But they're worth it.