And so the saga continues...

Tonight was my first appointment with "Melanie," a benevolent mama bear of a lesbian and my new therapist. She co-founded "The Center for Counseling" which comprises a basement suit of carpeted, homey offices furnished with farmhouse chairs and a collection of brightly colored, refreshingly unintimidating sofas. I sat on one of these sofas - bright red - as I waited an hour for Melanie to call me in. (I'd mistakenly arrived an hour early.) I busied myself with my cell phone, checking e-mail and trying (but failing) to advance a level in Angry Birds. The waiting area had the effect of an Enya record. New-age music played; a small, plug-in waterfall trickled. Between Angry Birds and aimless internet surfing, I nearly fell asleep.

I'm no stranger to therapy, but somehow I always feel embarrassed by how much I talk. The serenity of the Center may have amplified my self-consciousness, I'm not sure. All I know is I gave Melanie the opportunity to ask a grand total of eight questions. Those questions were:

1. Can you fill out these forms for me?
2. Do you prefer "Stephen?"
3. Have you been in therapy before?
4. What brings you here?
5. Did you see it coming?
6. Did he tell you why?
7. How do you see your future?
8. Can you tell me more about that anger?

I cried as endlessly as I talked. My eyes welled up seconds after I sat down in Melanie's office, and by the time she asked question #3 the tears were flowing freely. They were a strange, automatic kind of tears which I experienced at least once before following my "suicidal gesture." These tears lack musculature. Absent are the heaviness behind the nose, the clenching of the mouth, the tense-and-release of the neck. Instead, these tears simply flow like a runny nose. No spasm of recognition that you're about to cry. No vain efforts to repress the urge only to feel your eyes explode into fountains. These tears defy resistance. They swell as blood from a paper cut attempting to form a scab. These are the tears of the body attempting to heal itself.

Melanie listened dutifully and sympathetically. She asked her eight questions and made me feel as comfortable as she could while I answered. My previous therapist had a vaguely manic, Muppet-like quality. A big-eyed woman, she sat with her legs yanked up at her side as though she were half-expecting to be startled by a mouse. She helped me survive some of the darkest moments of my 20s, but Melanie may turn out to be a nice change of pace. She sits with both feet planted on the floor, calmly and deeply rooted.

At the end of the session, my automatic tear-flow tapered just as unconsciously as it began. Melanie concluded by saying it was good that I'd cut off communication with Ex, putting my needs before his. She also said it was good that I'd come to therapy and - something of a polite understatement, perhaps - that I'd begun to talk about my feelings.

I will be talking Melanie's ear off again this Monday. Lest I arrive early and dose off to the soporific trickle of the plug-in waterfall, I will be sure to come well-rested.