“So
how are you feeling?”

my new therapist asks,
sat on the sofa opposite.
She is mirroring me exactly –
cross legged,
shoes kicked off
hands loose in her lap
wearing a fairly neutral smile
waiting for me to respond.
She itches her face
and I instinctively go to itch mine
but I catch myself,
my arm half raised
and stop.
This gets a slight raise of an eyebrow
from the woman I am supposed to
bare my soul to.
I know what she’s doing
and I hate that it’s working.
I have the burning desire
to tell her everything,
a sinner
pleading the sacrament of confession
before the priest.
The words are burning in my chest
but I swallow them down,
biting the inside of my lip
and looking away from her
because maybe if I can’t see her
she can’t see me.
I take a deep breath
and play with the rings on my fingers
and remind myself that
she is not my eating disorder therapist
who fixated on the slightest family dysfunction.
She is not my high school therapist
who tried to get me into conversion camp.
She is not my university therapist
who believed I was faking to get extensions on deadlines.
She is Amy,
she is my adult mental health team therapist,
she is new
and she deserves a chance.
I look back at her
to see her picking at split ends in her hair.

“I don’t know how to answer that.
If I was feeling fine, you wouldn’t be here.”

She blinked and laughed and
I allowed myself to genuinely smile.
I think I’m going to like this one.