In the Waiting Room

Therapists, Rothkos, foster cats, and starting over

Jul 24, 2026

I miss my therapist.

He wasn’t terribly good at his job. He mostly asked me things like: “Well, what do you think you want to do?” Or: “Tell me how I can help you?”

I suppose I saw him because he was a very nice guy who got both my banal and obscure references, had an Eames chair (which he said wasn’t comfortable), and a lovely Rothko on the wall.

I’m a sucker for Rothko.

But mostly, he gave me somewhere to go after my cat died, my kid left for college, and my apartment permanently yawned at me.

“Well, what would you like to do?” the walls would ask.

And: “Who are you?”

I couldn’t answer.

I did some redecorating.

I bought a boho pouf and a large, overpriced cream-colored wool rug. I hung up a lot of art—only to pretty much get rid of everything a few months later when I decided to abandon the idea of staying in L.A.

During my manic purging days, I met a lot of cool neighbors through the local Buy Nothing group and got a reputation for giving away amazing finds.

A few guys asked me out. A woman invited me to see her band. Some people came over again and again, eventually knowing my address by heart.

Everyone was so nice.

One woman picked up all my plants and later sent me a picture of her living room jungle. She told me my babies would be very happy there.

Another woman, obsessed with all things black and white, rescued some café au lait mugs I’d had for almost thirty years. She sent photographic proof from her sparse space. They looked great there.

Aside from my cat and my kid, I mostly miss my books. Especially the ones I lost “by accident.” A first edition of Oscar Wilde’s Salome with illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley. All of Anaïs Nin’s journals. Andy Warhol’s fat, tedious, but brilliant diary.

I miss my yellow bedroom and the two replacement cats I fostered for a while, Alistair and Penny. They had been rescued from a hoarder house, and I nursed them after they had to have most of their teeth pulled. They didn’t look as cute afterward. But they were my weird foster cats. We coexisted happily, them curled up by my feet under the duvet.

And yes, I miss my therapist because I don’t want to whine to my friends. Even if he had very little actionable advice, I felt like he really listened. A silent witness. Someone to tell all my repetitive and trivial musings to without worrying that I was being repetitive and trivial.

One of our big to-dos was to get me to cry in his office. Catharsis. But I couldn’t. I’d cry afterward, in my car and back home with the kitties. They’d lick my tears. Probably fiending for salt.

But more than him, I miss Dr. S.

No one comes close to Dr. S., with his soft Indian accent and thick, now-disgraced tomes of Osho and Winnicott on the bookshelf, walking around in expensive socks on thick, luxurious rugs. The rugs were the first thing I felt when I crawled into his office twenty-five years ago. And I mean literally crawled.

I had just been “released” from the psych ward at Glendale Memorial Hospital, and I was afraid to stand up and take up too much space. I also had extreme vertigo. He led me to one of his plush couches and said: “Everything will be OK.”

I instantly believed him. He broke my heart when he decided to retire, move back to India, and devote his life to yoga. I don’t blame him. I just miss him.

Soon after, I found Dr. S. number two. Chubby and jolly in blowsy, large-print kaftans, promising the soothing embrace of a sturdy “pick yourself up by your bootstraps” earth mama, she looked like she might own an art gallery in Taos.

I never called her Dr. S. number two. She just became the new Dr. S. Now she’s retired, too—ensconced in the foothills of Altadena. It’s nice and calm there. Woodsy. You spot pretty (not mangy) coyotes, and people have fine, shiny horses.

Anyway, now there was Mister B. I want to call him Dr. B., but he doesn’t even have a Ph.D. We made an anti-suicide pact in the first session. The first time I walked into his office, it was a sweltering L.A. October day. When I parked, I scraped my shiny black rental car, a Toyota Corolla, against the white curb. My GPS said: “You have arrived.” But it’s always wrong. Premature.

I parked and walked along a very pretty street in Los Feliz with some very shabby and some very gorgeous houses with nonexistent numbers. I was trying to guess which one was his. I was hoping it would be nice—but not too nice or, you know, EXPENSIVE and out of my league.

I wore a pretty sundress and had done my hair to make a good first impression. Look! I am mentally at death’s door, but I’m a stylish quasi-hipster. I finally found the house because it actually did have a small number on it. All I remember is that it was white and up on a hill a bit.

There was a gate that didn’t latch well. But inside—oh, inside—I was greeted by cool, crisp air conditioning and a vast and stylish waiting room with colorful, abstract paintings on the walls. Blue velvet couches and lounge chairs. The Paris Review on a coffee table. A bit show-offy, but he got brownie points for his choice in magazines.

I was early, of course, and while I waited, I saw a couple of other patients—or clients, or whatever they’re called—come and go. The matcha-latte-bearing kind.

The ones who look like they have good jobs in marketing, which is what I should be doing.

There were doors all around leading to bright offices where therapists met with their $250-and-up-an-hour clients for fifty minutes. At one point, a really chubby, smiling man with glasses came out to fill his Hydro Flask. I was hoping he would be Dr. B. False alarm. The real Dr. B. is skinny and sporty, sneaker-wise. I liked him. Although my dwindling bank account couldn’t afford him.

Enough about him.

What about me?

I’m a work in progress.

I’m sourdough rising.

I’m in the waiting room, waiting to be seen.

I’d like to run some ideas by him.

I still don’t think I could answer his questions.

How could he have helped me?

Discussing art and Gaspar Noé films and the homeless situation. It distracted me from my sorry-ass self.

Seeing him was a reprieve from being me.

Even if it only lasted for fifty minutes.

I was thinking of him again today, as I washed my hair and put on some perfume.