Therapeutic Musings

There are days when thoughts are like mud and mud is like quicksand. Days when outside turns to in and the world is a place made of barbed wire. Everything hurts

It’s amazing how this works – the days of up and down, that’s what they would call my life if anyone watched it so carefully. If it were a movie, a book. The momentary glimpses into my psyche. And my life is incredibly good. Incredibly good.
Just one of those things

The couch is short, like a fat man who enjoys powdered donuts. If you think too long about it you won’t clutch the pillows. Too many people have blubbered here. The confessional of the nineties, bleeding, seeping, open wounds. I look out the window as we talk. A tree limb taps unceasingly during out 50 minutes. In the winter it becomes an ice branch, in the spring it is supple, light.

She sits quiet, hair grazing her chin, eyes fine china gray. Judgment in a tea cup.

“The world hurts”
She nods. I wait for her to ask how that makes me feel, but she never does. Only jots occasional notes on a steno pad and waits for me to speak. If I ask she will say she doesn’t judge, only listens and lets me bounce things off of her. For $125 an hour, that’s an expensive bouncing board. She does judge though, I know. I would if I were her. How do you not?

I remember things no one else does. Painful things, things that make sleep impossible and nightmares creep into daylight hours.
I watch her while I talk. Waiting for the disgust to creep into her face.
She only sips at a cup of something hot. Prompts me to continue.

I curl into the corner of the overstuffed couch and wish there wasn’t any more. the dirty feeling returns and I hold onto a pillow as though it is a life vest and I am bobbing in dark waters. Maybe it is, maybe I am. There is no one else to tell this to, no where else to go. I speak words that lighten my body until I am finally above water. Finally able to breathe again.

“The world hurts” I whisper.
She nods as the timer erupts