Therapy, Numbness, And Heavy Tears

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.

 

Daddy, this.

Daddy, that.

 

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

slipped out

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,

just

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.

 

My

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?

 

Yeah.

 

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

one

by

one.

 

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.

 

GoingandGoingandGoing.

 

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

not-so-inconspicuous eyes

 

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.”

 


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