𝐁𝐌𝐔𝐒 𝐈𝐈
衛ゑニ
𝐵𝑒𝓎𝑜𝓃𝒸é ♡
Knock Knock.
"Come in!" I shouted from my desk, lowering the daily newspaper from my viewpoint.
Yes. I still skim the newspaper in my free time. The news that is televised is toxic these days, an unserious joke. Plus, it's something my grandmother instilled in me that I'll never let go of. I remember sitting in her lap gazing at the thousands of words, and multitude of fonts, as she had her black coffee in hand. I plan to pass the same habitual standard to my babies in the future.
An ancestor ritual, if you will.
"Your patient, Onika Maraj is here for her session, Mrs. Fenty," Lauren announced as she peeked around the door.
I eyed my gold AP watch, exhibiting the woman was on time. "Okay, you can send her in." I stood from my swivel chair making my way over to the door to properly welcome Ms. Maraj, as I do all of my incoming patients.
Shortly, the small woman presented herself to my office, causing me to internally gagged at the immense of pink she attired her challenging heightened figure in. If you assume for one second your therapist isn't judging you based on first impressions, nine times out of ten, we're performing judgement day in our head. Behind our comforting smiles, acts of concern, and trained empathy, is tons of 'yikes', 'damn that's crazy', and my personal favorite, 'hell is HOT.'
"Welcome, Ms. Maraj, please grant a seat," I instructed, shooting my hands in the direction of the creamed plush, three-seater sofa. "Good morning." She greeted me in return, flashing me a large smile before following the direction of the seat awaiting the company of her warm physique.
I couldn't help but notice, she is a nice-looking woman. Quite petite in comparison to most, but shapely all over. I could sense her confidence was all over the place just from her strut. Her ego possibly being tinier than a grain of salt. Honestly, it was refreshing to see she doesn't wear her disorder on her sleeve.
But then again, neither does Michelle Obama, and she's my biggest patient yet.
Onika assembled herself in a light pink blouse, displaying a peak of her cleavage, paired with light grey trousers that appeared to be freshly streamed from the cleaners by the defined creases traveling to the very bottom seams of the pants. Finishing the look off with a pair of pink opened-toed, Vera Wang heels that emphasized her small 5'2 height. Her flowing jet-black hair sat a tad longer than bob length, coated with a nice shine, free of any frizz.
Just from my observation, she cares about her appearance, and needless to say, I'm impressed. Even from her choice to accent her attire with a Valentino bag, and dainty silver jewelry. Everything was placed perfectly.
Hm. A perfectionist. I noted.
"Would you like any tea, coffee, or water this morning before we get started?" I offered.
She glanced at me, then darted her sight to the dark grey carpeted floor. It came across as if she were deliberating inside her head, I guess trying to find the best solution to quench the thirst of her disposition. This step is pretty normal, I've noticed amongst my patients with DID. I've always tried not to rush them and give them their time and space to process everything.
