Therapy, in Pam's mind, was for people with problems that they couldn't handle on their own. People who needed someone to unleash all of their repressed childhood memories on, people who were suicidal or anorexic or had some kind of illness. Therapy was for people who were sick. Pam was none of these things, and when she slipped her engagement ring back into Roy's hand and walked out of their apartment for the last time, the thought of therapy had never crossed her mind.
Her mother had sat her down one evening and said, "Pam, I think you need to talk to someone about this."
"I am talking with someone. I'm talking with you."
"I know, honey, but this is something that I don't think I can fix. I think…maybe you should see a therapist."
Her eyes widened. "I don't need to see a therapist," she had sneered, "I'm not sick."
"I know that. Just please, try. Go to one session. For me."
A week later, she found herself in the waiting room of Amelia Rosewood's office, sitting in a worn purple plastic chair, looking around at the motivational posters tacked onto the bright yellow walls. She snorted, finding the idea more than a little ironic. The waiting room was sunny, positive, blocking out all of the torment that went on behind the yellow, wooden door.
A receptionist with frizzy orange hair called out, "Pam? Pam Beesley? Dr. Rosewood can see you now," and she hated the look the woman down the row from her gave as she stood. Full of sympathy and understanding, the glance made her feel enraged. She was not sick. She did not have a problem that needed fixing, and she hated this woman for thinking she could possibly understand.
As she creaked open the yellow door, she realized she'd never really hated anyone until now.
Amelia Rosewood's office was exactly as Pam might have pictured it. The walls were painted a hunter green, a dark mahogany desk at one side. There was an oriental rug below a brown chaise lounge, sitting diagonal from a hardback wooden armchair. The coffee table between them was lined with a notepad, a glass of water, and the obligatory box of Kleenex. She suddenly felt stupid walking into this office, this situation that she and Jim might have made fun of a year ago.
"You must be Pam." The desk chair spun around and Pam was greeted with a woman with a warm smile, dark brown hair in waves, and a navy business suit. She stood and reached across the desk to shake Pam's hand, gesturing to the couch. "Have a seat."
Pam sat awkwardly on the edge of the cushions, hands clasped in her lap. Dr. Rosewood sat in the armchair, crossing one leg over the other.
"So, Pam. Why don't you tell me a little bit about you, to get started."
"Well, I'm a receptionist. At Dunder Mifflin. It's a paper company. A lot of people think we sell mufflers, or mittens, or muffins, but it's paper." She thought about Jim briefly, remembered how he always used to tell everyone they met that they sold something different.
"And…what brings you here?"
"Honestly?" she sighed. "My mom thought I should come. I really don't think it's necessary. I don't have a problem. I'm not sick." She said defensively.
Images of crying herself to sleep each night for two weeks after Jim left for Stamford flashed through her mind, and she began to question how strong she really was.
"I'm not sick." She repeated, hating the way her throat was closing up. "I'm not sick."
She was embarrassed to take the tissue Dr. Rosewood was handing her, just realizing that she had started to cry. She suddenly felt stupid, like she was being judged, like Dr. Rosewood would be laughing later with her colleagues about the woman who had proclaimed to be fine while bursting into tears.
"Pam," the doctor said softly, "I think we need to start at the beginning."
The beginning. The beginning had never been the problem. It was the end, the awful, terribly-timed end that had driven Jim out of her life. It was the pain that came from pushing him away after he'd said the things she had been too afraid to voice.
In the beginning, Pam thought, she never would have seen this coming.
