Jill

It trundled into the psychologist’s waiting room, looked longingly at the comfortable chairs lining the perimeter of the room, sighed, and found a spot near the entrance to the private office, close enough to be seen when the doctor emerged, but not so close that It would get slammed into the wall when she opened the door. It had learned this the hard way. One doctor had actually tried to use It as a doorstop. Humiliation was tiring. ###Within a few minutes, the psychologist appeared. She looked around the room, puzzled. Hesitantly, It cleared its throat, and at the sound, the doctor glanced down, started a bit, but quickly recovered. ###“Good morning,” she said, in a tone that suggested at least a number of her clients were small wooden objects of no discernible use or value. “I’m Gia Tamarin. Please come in.” ###It followed the doctor, pleasantly surprised that not only had the doctor introduced herself by her first and last name, rather than playing what It thought of as the doctor game, but that in lieu of the plush carpeting that It often encountered in these settings was a hardwood floor, polished but not overly slick. It rolled in front of the red brocade loveseat, centered itself, and looked expectantly at the doctor. ###“Are you comfortable on the floor?” Gia asked. “If you would prefer the sofa and would like some assistance…” ###“No, no, I’m fine,” It assured her. ###“In that case,” she said, “do you mind if I sit on the floor as well? I would feel uncomfortable looking down at you.” ###“Please don’t worry about it,” It said, grateful for the offer but embarrassed nonetheless. “I’m used to it.” ###“I’m not,” Gia replied, and seated herself on the floor in front of her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her. She propped her pad on her lap. “What brings you here today?” ###It was stunned. In almost a decade of therapy, with scores of clinicians, no one had ever opened a session with that question. ###“Really?” It said suspiciously. It’s last clinician had started the session by asking It whether It really did, in fact, zip when It moved and bop when It stopped. It had left the session immediately and reported him to the American Psychological Association. ###“Yes, really,” Gia assured It. ###It wasn’t sure how to respond. “Don’t you want to know what I am?” It blurted out. ###“What you are, or who you are?” the therapist replied. “You can tell me whatever you like. It’s your session.” It searched her voice for even a trace of irony or amusement, but could find neither. The respect was unfamiliar, and unsettling. There had to be a catch. ### “Please…don’t fuck with me,” It said bitterly. Tears rose to its eyes, but It forced them back. It had had it. “You’re all the same. No matter what I say, I know what you’re thinking: ‘What is that thing? How the hell is it talking with no mouth?’” It’s voice rose to a fevered pitch. “I know I’m a freak – a monster. You can just say it. Go ahead – say it!” ###Instead, Gia got up on her knees and turned toward her desk, rummaging through some papers and pulling out a thick manila folder. It’s heart sank. It was It’s clinical file. It knew what was in there, although the labels varied depending on the doctor: Identity Disorder NOS; Mood Disorder NOS; Sexual Disorder NOS (that was a doozy; talk about projection!); and then of course, Personality Disorder NOS, with a range of features: Histrionic, Borderline, Avoidant – even Antisocial. Of course, that was after It ran over the therapist’s feet on It’s way out the door in a way that certainly smacked of callous indifference. The only thing the clinicians could agree on was NOS – Not Otherwise Specified. In other words, no one knew what It was. No one. ###“Have you read this?” Gia asked softly. ###It shrugged, avoiding her eyes. ###“Have you?” ###It nodded, ashamed. Suffocating. ###“I haven’t,”Gia said. “And I’m not going to – not unless, or until, you tell me you want me to.” ###It stared in disbelief. Gia smiled gently. She returned the folder to her desk. ###“Now,” she said, “what brings you here today?”