I’ve been “officially” going for more than a year now.
She started by furiously scribbling down every detail of my life thus far that I was willing
to cough up.
She was getting more of a grip on my daddy issues than I had in the past 6 years.
What about your mom? Are you close with your mom?
I mean, yeah. We’re close. Real close.
Are you distant from her?
No, never…well, not never…just…I don’t know. No, I’m not.
Is she dating anyone?
I don’t…I don’t know. It’s complicated.
Describe to me the toll your dad’s passing took on your family.
Um, I don’t really remember too well. I was numb. I was just really numb.
How close were you with your dad?
I think pretty close.
Why are you here?
To be honest, I don’t really know.
That was the only remotely coherent sentence that
for the rest of the session.
I looked around a lot.
At the deserted table in the back corner, dressed in vibrantly hued paint globs
and crust-covered Tonka Trucks, idling beneath the pounding analog.
It all looked so lonely,
waiting there for someone to discover its unsung beauty.
I didn’t get a good look at her face.
Mostly, it hung over her
clunky notepad of secrets.
She was so sweet; raw like an open pore,
slurping up my sob-stories.
The funny thing is, she’s only ever as thirsty as how much water I bring for her to drink.
So, your dad.
What about him?
I understand it was brain cancer?
How much did you know?
(What, 10 seconds ago, or 6 years ago? Specifications are everything!)
Not a lot.
How did you find out?
The morning after he was rushed to the emergency room, my mom gave me a heavily watered-down-six-year-old-version of what brain cancer was, and that Daddy, well, my dad, had a brain cancer tumor that was removed.
I told myself I would never cry.
If only I knew crying would soon become my greatest accomplishment.
But I cried.
I just did.
They were like flawing claws, plummeting off the cliffs of my corneas, hooking into my cheek blubber, and lowering themselves down
I thought about so many things.
I hated how I felt like purging everything I hated about myself into the plasticy trash barrels of her certified, state-approved bubble of tissues and couches and head nods and stupid, stupid tears.
But I couldn’t get enough.
Everything started coming out.
Puzzle pieces rearranged, and finally started clicking into place.
It was like word vomit.
Wiping away tears and spitting out random details,
I almost felt claustrophobic in the vicinity of my own life.
Suddenly, she stopped me.
I ignored her
regularly darting towards the clock beside me,
but forcibly halting my therapeutic breakthrough?
“Honey,” she tried, “unfortunately, our session time is over, but I think you’ve made a lot of great progress today! Hopefully we can meet again soon?”
I looked down, and carefully inspected the wrinkles of my upward-facing palms.
I glanced at her walls, decorated with countless degrees and certificates.
I stared at her notebook of secrets. My secrets.
I turned to the deserted table in the back corner,
dressed in vibrantly hued paint globs
and the crust-covered Tonka Trucks, idling beneath the pounding analog.
They looked so free, and beautiful now.
I chuckled a little at how free and beautiful I felt, too.
I looked back her.
I pushed myself off of the clunky brown sofa,
and wadded up the collection of tissues I’d assumed.
“Yeah,” I sniffled, smiling.
She smiled back.
“Let’s meet again soon.”