My therapist is different. He asks me questions no one else asks me. Questions that mean something, but I never answer fully, never really give him all of me. Just the part that needs to get out of here, the part that needs to get back home.
“You’re still. What are you feeling when you’re still?”
“I feel…I feel heavy. But hollow inside. There’s nothing there and so there’s no reason to move.”
He wrote a few words down in his brown leather-encased iPad. The texture reminded me of a journal I made a long time ago. Not like this one. But at least they are letting me write.
“How often do you feel this way?”
“What does it matter? I’m not here to dwell on the stillness, am I?”
“There is a difference between dwelling on something and then trying to understand it so that you can move forward, combat it later on, when you are on your own.”
“Alone, you mean.”
“You are never alone.”
He sat back in his chair and wrote some more. We ended the session in silence. He was there with me in the room, but I had escaped elsewhere, somewhere, there but not there.
– M. R. –