Sacrifices of Joy by Leslie J. Sherrod Page B

mental health problems, then help him. You are a therapist.
    Laz’s words brought a burst of calm and confidence as I extended a hand to the man. He gripped my hand in a dry, firm shake.
    â€œYou sought me out.” I smiled. “Come on back.”
    Without a word, he stood and followed me back to my office. I had a large corner room with floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls. The rolling hills and pastoral views of Northern Baltimore County were my backdrop.
    â€œHave a seat,” I offered, waving a hand at the large leather couch that faced my armchair. He sat down and I took my seat. Both my armchair and my desk were closer to the door than where my clients sat, a first lesson learned in graduate school.
    â€œBefore we begin, I need to let you know that whatever we talk about in here is confidential, unless you are having suicidal or homicidal thoughts, or you disclose a child, past or present, who has been abused or neglected. These exclusions to privacy are to keep everyone, including yourself, safe. More details about our policies are in the welcome packet I will give you at the end of our session today. If you have questions at any time, please ask.” It was my customary spiel that I said to each client at intake.
    He nodded and his smile widened, showing off perfectly aligned white teeth. Darci was right. He had movie star good looks. Why had I been so unnerved by this man again?
    But good looks meant nothing.
    â€œOkay,” I continued. “Let’s get started.” I grabbed a blank intake packet, an ink pen, and notepad.
    His smile suddenly weakened some.
    â€œYou don’t like me taking notes.” I said what he had not voiced.
    â€œYou can take notes,” he spoke softly, his smile now fully gone.
    â€œLet me just get some basic information from you, have you fill out some forms, and then I will put the pen and paper away. How’s that?”
    â€œYou didn’t get my message?”
    The e - mails! “Uh . . .” I tried to think of what to say.
    â€œI left a phone message for you Saturday.” He studied me as he spoke. “I said that I can pay you myself. You don’t have to worry about any insurance billing paperwork.”
    â€œOh, yes, that.” He’s not talking about the e - mails. Exhale, Sienna. “I did get your message.” I managed a weak smile as I continued. “You stated that you wanted to simply meet to have, what was it? Conversations. No insurance forms. No diagnoses. Just talking. We can do that, but I still need to get some basic information from you.”
    He raised an eyebrow. I quickly continued.
    â€œLike, your name? Your age? Your address? Your contact info? That sort of info helps if we are going to talk.”
    â€œWhat does a name tell you?” He crossed a leg over a knee and sat back more comfortably on the sofa.
    â€œWell, it lets me, and the rest of the world, know how you want to be identified, for one.”
    He stared at me intently for a moment, then cocked his head to one side. “The Non-Exister.”
    â€œExcuse me?” I tried to avoid blinking my eyes, but my eyelashes fluttered anyway.
    â€œYou asked how I want you and the rest of the world to identify me, and that is who I am. The Non-Exister.” The man continued to stare at me intently.
    â€œI need your name,” I asserted.
    â€œNo, you said you needed to identify me.”
    â€œSo, you don’t have a name that you answer to?”
    â€œI have a name. It just doesn’t match my identity. And you asked for my identity.”
    I looked down at my notepad and considered whether I needed to take notes. A personality disorder? Schizophrenia? I was determined to stay a step ahead. A working diagnostic impression, even if I didn’t write it down, would give me a frame in which to base therapeutic treatment. Was therapy what he even wanted?
    â€œOkay, let’s start this again. Hello, my name is