subject line: I cried to my therapist today


Pittsburg, Pennsylvania

I cried to my therapist today.

Gross. The thought of it makes me want to cringe and scream and vomit, all at the same time. How did I get to so comfortable with the curly-haired woman in the yellow chair that I allowed myself to release actual tears in front of her? I know nothing about her, but somehow she knows everything about me. Gosh, she knows more about me than my mother does. Four walls, no windows, one door, fake pictures, plush pillows, hideous lamps, suffocation…and somehow I managed to become comfortable enough to cry.

And I feel like a failure. God, I feel like a pitiful failure. For seven years, I fought the idea of therapy. I can do this myself. I’m a strong woman. I don’t need someone I don’t know to tell me that I screwed up; to sit there across from me in her polished nails and cat-eyed glasses and analyze my fucked-up life. It’s my damn fault and I’ll fix this myself. But, I guess after seven years, you get sick of the all-too-frequent 2 a.m. crying sessions, and you take your stubborn ass to that four-walled room with the woman in the yellow chair to break down those walls that you spent seven years building up. But, demolishing the walls that you’ve spent a whole third of your life building up isn’t a walk in the park, especially when there’s a sense of pride attached to that closed up heart. I’ve spent so much time cementing my heart shut that allowing it to be opened up is kind of like dropping out of College a week before graduation. In other words, it feels completely pathetic. So, when I let tears fall down my cheeks while staring at that hideous painting of a poppy, I knew that I had officially broke down walls that I never planned to destroy; I had officially chosen to heal instead of just deal.

So this is to you, curly-haired woman with the polished nails and cat-eyed glasses sitting in the yellow chair: your tissues suck, but the taste of freedom and healing doesn’t. Thank you.