I love this black couch with its white fluffy pillows.
I look into the eyes of the therapist, who’s job is apparently to listen and help me see.
“I see fine”, I tell her. She silently nods and writes something down- I never know what she writes down.
Sometimes I talk real fast just to see if she will get frustrated and tell me to slow down – she never does.
I tell her, “I love your black couch and white fluffy pillows.”
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I tell her the black couch makes me feel safe.
The white fluffy pillows make me feel secure.
She looks at me with kindness in her eyes with- is that a hint of pity I see?
I look back and I smile. I always smile. She just looks at me with eyes- no not pity… concern? love?
I sit and stare trying to decipher the code behind her eyes I sit and analyze how best to respond to her unspoken questions.
I laugh in my head about how they always ask.. so, how do you feel? I always thought that was a joke but, no, they really do ask – all. the. time.
I laugh thinking if I knew how I felt, I wouldn’t need her- or maybe I don`t really know much about anything anymore.
She’s looking at me still.
“I love this black couch and white fluffy pillows”, I say.
I smile – but really I am annoyed at her kind eyes and concerned questions.
Why does kindness make me squirm and concern make me want to hurl this entire couch out the window-? Why does being loved feel so wrong, yet so intensely desired?
Man. therapists have a way of making you think deeply even when they don’t speak.
I don’t like her, but I do.
She understands. or at least she tries to.
I think she knows all of this- she’s smarter than I give her credit for.
“I see fine”, I tell her. She writes. Ugh.
I wonder if she goes home and tells her family about me.
I wonder if she ever eats dinner and thinks of me.
I wonder if I am apart of her like she has become of me.
I am about to tell her I love her black couch and white fluffy pillows when-
Honey, that couch is grey and the pillows are full of color.
Dang. Maybe I do need to be here.