Is it a weight
on my shoulders?
It’s not.
I would have to care
for it to weight me down.
I’m too tired to care.

adventures in therapy part 4

how are you feeling?”

It is a new week,
a new session
and Amy is once again
mirroring me.
We are not sat cross-legged this time.
We are curled up
in the corners of our respective sofas,
feet tucked under us.
I have my arms folded
across my chest
in a very intentional act of hostility
and I am staring past her,
out the window.
She is a lot more open,
fiddling with her anklet
while she waits for me
to acknowledge her existence.
I don’t want to acknowledge her.
I don’t want her here.
I don’t want to talk to her.
I don’t want to think about him.
I want to shrink down
and slip down the back
of the sofa cushions
to live amongst the pennies
and sweet wrappers
that have long since
been lost and forgotten.
Eventually, I grant Amy
the privilege of a half-shrug,
still refusing to look at her.

“You know,
I didn’t drive
all the way the way
out to your home
for you to ignore me.”

That gets my attention.
My eyes snap to her with a cold glare.
She copies my expression
so closely
I may as well be looking in a mirror.

“Never asked you to come to my house.
You lot decided I was too
‘high risk’
to travel to your offices.”

I wish I could hold her stare,
but I am already on the brink
of crying under her gaze.

This is going to be a long session.

metaphors are garbage

My therapist taught me about
“the stress bucket”;
a concept where stress is water
slowly (or quickly) filling up the bucket.

Coping strategies are holes in the sides,
a way to safely release the water
and avoid the bucket overflowing.

My therapist did not teach me about
the roaring fire under the bucket
causing the water to boil uncontrollably,
making the bucket too hot to touch
so I cannot pierce any holes.

My therapist did not teach me about
the dead bugs
floating on the surface.

My therapist did not teach me about

– for Amy, my favourite therapist to date