Irene sits in the chair, her psychiatrist sits behind the desk. Irene had a psychotic break a decade ago, and has been on medication ever since. Her psychiatrist has been the father she never had, so seeing him every two weeks is a lifesaver.
"I'm painting," she tells him, "but I've come to that place where I shut down, and things go wrong."
He nods his head. Irene watches him carefully, waiting for him to offer up pearls of wisdom. Instead he begins to cough.
"I hope you're taking good care of yourself," she says.
He pulls out a bottle of water and a clean little Dixie cup. "I'm fine, really," he says. "Would you like some water?"
Irene shakes her head. "Chocolate would be good about now. Maybe a Hershey's Kiss."
"You're anxious and getting a little depressed," he says.
"My cousin, Becky, goes to work everyday and no matter what else is going on, she gets her work done," Irene says. "My friend, Annie, makes applesauce whenever she is having a bad day, sometimes a few days in a row, then she's back on the saddle."
"How are you sleeping?" the psychiatrist asks.
"I had a Cheshire Cat bizarre dream," Irene answers. "Colors and nice people and bubbles, like at a party, then it popped and was gone."
"We've talked before about how you struggle with setting boundaries within a creative context," he remarks as he scribbles on his note pad.
"I nearly lost it the day I had to take my cat, Chris, to the vet," Irene says. "In the end, it was easy."
"I have a dog whose given me a few scares. How are things at home?" he asks.
"The Thai friend who cuts my husband's hair came over last week," Irene says. "She told the story of Solomon and made it sound better than Star Wars. Says Jesus makes her a good life. Gilda, who lives next door, I've told you about her before, still screams at her kids so much that I keep the windows on that side of the house closed."
"Do you feel that way?" he asks.
"No. Not like her. I think she screams to get attention and cries when she doesn't. Kind of her own worst enemy."
"I think you're doing a lot to help yourself. Going to yoga, spending time with friends, painting with serious intent. The painting is important. You need that creative outlet. Could you look at your work from a different perspective?" He's leaning back in his chair peering at her above his glasses.
"Well, this woman, Henrietta, from my yoga class, said her debit card was counterfeited and it upset her so much that she changed her name to Etta and listens to jazz," Irene mumbles.
"Etta James, I guess," he says. "I listen to her in my car and let my mind wonder. I find it very relaxing."
"Stay with my painting, right? Irene asks. "Enjoy the process, right?"
He nods. "Takes a different tilt at times, when you're a creative person."
"I think I understand. Thank you," Irene says.
"See you in two weeks," he says as he walks Irene to the door. "You're doing fine. I look forward to seeing this painting."
"Me too, me too." Irene says, turning away as the door closes. Fifty-five exquisitely sensitive minutes twice a month.
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