No. 3, Noel

No. 3, Noel.

It took me three call-and-hang-up incidents and 45 minutes to finally make an appointment with Psychologist No. 3, and the conversation left much to be desired.

“Turn left on Wheatson crescent, and it’s two doors down from the Jim’s Pool Mart. Alright? See you Friday 2:30.”

I listened to the hang up tone for a full minute.

My Doctor had scribbled Noel’s number down for me on a scrap of paper, assuring me that he does good work with kids. I was more than a little dubious, but desperate enough to try anything. Two psychologists and three years of therapy down, I was still on the downhill slope, and gaining speed. I mentioned nothing to my parents, telling myself I was waiting to see what Noel was like, but really I had no intention of telling them anything until I needed money. The benefits of living independently were endless.

I pulled up in front of Noel’s business on a sticky late-summer afternoon and peeled myself off the seat. My stomach was churning, and my heart beat so hard that the combination made me feel as though I was going to throw up my heart right there on the pavement. I gently made my way up the stairs, ten minutes early for my appointment. Inside the building was cool and it smelt fresh, no, clinical. There were offices for property developers, dentists, and a modelling agency. I passed each one with care, slowly pacing my way through, forcing my breath to come slowly, begging my stomach to settle. I reached the door and held my breath. I could see kids toys through the door, feet, the carpet, a coffee table. Like ripping off a band aid I pushed the door straight open and pushed myself inside.

“Hello! Fiona?” The receptionist was terrifyingly bubbly. Not trusting myself to speak I nodded in response and took a seat in the corner of the waiting room. The air conditioner was loud, and I was cold. I wanted to run away, really, really fast. In my head I’d conjured an image of Noel. Tall, broad shouldered, bearded, glasses, potentially an accent. I could not have been more wrong.

Noel appeared from the end of the corridor and stopped at the reception desk, hands clasped. He was short, maybe a few centimetres taller than me. He was balding, and he had grey hair and a grey moustache. He was grinning a truly reassuring smile, and it lit up his old face. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt in lurid colours with his bland suit pants. “Hello Fiona, I’m Noel”. Ah, squeaky voice, very Australian accent, much stronger than my own. I can not lie, I was taking in a lot about Noel merely from his appearance, upon seeing him my judgement went in to high gear. I assumed him immediately to be funny and approachable, but also lacking in wisdom and sincerity. I turned out to be mostly correct.

I followed Noel down the corridor in to his office and took a seat. The usual questions were asked. Yes, I’ve seen a psychologist before, No, there is no family history. I recounted my childhood in brief and we disposed of the whole assessment of history. He was even less interested than I was. Now I got to find out what Noel actually did. My memory of his explanation is foggy, but my understanding is this; Noel used a therapy called Neurofeedback, where the patient was hooked up to an EEG, or in easier terms, had wires attached to their head with a sticky gel that was impossible to completely remove. Those wires were then hooked up to a machine that measured that patient’s brain waves. That machine was hooked up to a television that played a movie, and here is the important bit; when the brain waves were behaving as they should be, the movie would play in full colour and volume. When the brain waves were too slow, or too fast, the colour of the movie would dim, and the volume would decrease. The aim of this process is for the brain to begin to self regulate. The brain associates the healthy brain waves with full colour and volume, and remembers that the too fast or too slow brain waves are bad. At least that is the general idea. Noel’s explanation included studies, and talk of a German psychiatrist who started it all. At the time this was made no sense to me, that is until I was actually hooked up to the machine. I remember clearly that I was watching ‘Diary of a Wimpy Kid’, a movie that I ended up hating. The seat was cold, in the corner of my vision was a fish that I ended up watching more often than the movie. I was scared, my head felt funny, and I didn’t want to do it. It could not have ended sooner.

In the end I went back three times a week for three weeks. Each time I was hooked up to the brain machine, and for an hour I sat and watched a movie. At the end of those three weeks I saw Noel again. He asked me how I was doing, and for once I gave him the rare privilege of an honest answer. I told him how I was running out of energy, how I was tired of being sick, how everything was too hard, how things were getting out of control, how I couldn’t do it anymore and oh god please, please help me.

As far as I know all Noel heard was noise.