Therapy
I sat there painting, tapping my feet, hearing the race of my heart beat.
Unable to sit still, there was just too much to tell, will they just get me to pop a pill
Looking for something to fidget, I twisted my ring, chewed on a pencil, hoping they'd be helpful,
and treat me with dignity and grace. I now sat, staring into space,
hoping they'd understand as I sat there nervously with my clammy hands.
Would they gasp or laugh if I poured out my heart?
The door moved slowly, I took a deep breath, bit my lip and held my breath, and was unable to move.
The first thing I noticed was his brown shoes, darting eyes, and adjusting cuffs. It was just us.
He sat now and fixed a gaze on me with a warm smile; I froze and stared with long blinks, as I wondered what he thinks. With my narrowed eyes, he was too close; he needs to step back and this paranoia definitely did’t have my back! What is this I clenched my fist.
He had got his pen and pad ready to go and doodle . I slouched on the couch and a weight hung over my face - now the session in place.
One hour goes by.
It wasn't bad as I thought, and he didn't make me cry. He really taught me how to deal with the hurt, so I can testify therapy works.