God, my God! She told the truth. The fact bowled me over a dozen times a day, every time it wended its way into my brain.
I don't remember who sent her. It's not in my notes nor does it matter. In my new world, I know necessity dictated she join my roster of patients. She needed to come to me. It took two weeks to discover the beauty of Stella Morelli. On that first morning, said treasure required excavation. She hung on by her fingernails. Her clothes, stylish and clean, registered as wrong, too big or mismatched. It was nothing I could put my finger on or define, but then I cancelled my Heidi Klum subscription when she started wearing clothes.
Stella's hair flowed untamed. Emotional turmoil oozed from her pores, ears, eye sockets, through everything she wore. She sat in the leather chair in front of the desk and raised her eyes to meet mine.
Like all experienced therapists, I had my routine. As I met those eyes, the patter died inside of me. I waited for her to speak, needed to hear what she would say unprompted.
She started out fine. " I ..." The emotion erupted in tears, sobs, snot. "I want to stop." She studied the diplomas on my wall.
"I can't do this anymore."
