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,


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

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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