The sound machine is going, likely for both comfort and privacy, though I find the sound distracting and grating. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Like being back in the womb. I can’t imagine my mother’s was a very comfortable place to be.
There are one, two….five indoor plants. All thriving as if in a botanical garden instead of a strip mall office. Bamboo screens placed around different groupings of seating, again, for comfort and privacy, but too confining for my liking. I always like to see a whole room. To analyze my surroundings rather than have anything lurking, unseen.
My heartbeat is steady, but pounding in my chest. Like a bass drum. Thump. Thump. Thump.
It is harder to come to therapy when I most need it. I don’t want to face it all. I don’t want to put words to feelings. To admit that I’m not making the healthy choices I know I need to, and therefore I must deserve to feel these feelings. The dread. The anxiety. The self loathing.
Once I get in the room I know my throat will get tight. It will be hard to squeeze back the tears so that the words have room to escape. I know I will feel sweaty. I know I will want to lie. I might lie. Even therapists are human. Even therapists must judge.
This, the most vulnerable place in my life. Where I have to strip it all away. I cannot hide behind my perfectly curated outfit, fashionably styled hair, dyed to disguise my age, and masterfully applied makeup, hiding all my exterior imperfections. Is there makeup for your insides? There’s a million dollar idea. My therapist does not come to my pristine, eclectically decorated home, so I can prove that, actually, I am fine. Look at me thriving! “Why do you even come to therapy?” She would say, “Clearly you’ve got everything perfectly under control!”
Sometimes it feels like I just come to therapy to show myself, “See, I am doing what I need, to take care of myself.” Pretty steep price to keep up appearances…to yourself, no less. I don’t even get any of the good drugs.
But today. Today I need to be here. Better to cry in the therapist’s office than the Kohl’s parking lot. The circumstances of my life are challenging. Sort of. Nothing I should have to pay nearly as much as my mortgage, to deal with. But I can’t. I don’t. I won’t. So here I am.
I may or may not feel better after my appointment. My therapist knows that my carefully curated outfit and a pristine home don’t mean shit. So here I don’t have to be in control. But also, I can’t hide. Not that I don’t still throw around a little bravado. Old habits die hard or maybe became zombies. Therapy is a better solution than being high on my bathroom floor though; where the fan is as annoying as the damn sound machine. Is this better though? Certainly nothing has been *solved*. But at least I am trying to do the responsible thing, trying to strive toward wellness. And therapy is better for keeping appearances, than weed.
I am not fine. It doesn’t matter if it *looks* like I am. It doesn’t matter if I should be. So I wait. With the stupid whooshing sound machine and my stupid bass drum heart. Stripped of all my best defenses. I wait because it’s either here, or the bathroom floor.
little victories 
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