The Fist Day Of Therapy.

On the morning of my first therapy appointment I feel physically sick as I am so nervous and my hands are shaking. So that I do not have to walk through the building on my own my therapist has told me that she will wait for me in the reception area of the day hospital.
I feel embarrassed and a little ashamed as I approach the doors of the building. My embarrassment is based on vanity, I am worried that I will see someone that I know, or worse, someone I know will see me, without me realising it enter the building . The Mental Health building. My shame is based on the fact that I know that I cannot make myself better on my own, that my problems have escalated to such a point that I have asked professionals to help me, help me with this trichotillomania hell.
I dismiss these thoughts from my head as I convince myself that as always I am so smartly dressed, if anyone I know does see me they would probably assume that I am attending a business meeting , particularly as I am being met in reception.
As I push the large glass doors open I feel the shame flush my face, to my relief I see my therapist waiting for me, as she said she would.
As I walk with my therapist through reception I expect to see lots of people, patients I suppose and the prospect of this frightens me. However I only see a couple of people who return the smiles that I give them. I kid myself that these people think I am an important official visitor to the day hospital. A cleaner is vacuuming the carpets and stops her work to let us pass, she does not look at me, she appears to avert her eyes as I walk past her, perhaps out of respect for my privacy, I can sense that she realises I am a patient, she looks like she has seen it all before.