Her Unwritten Words.

Therapy.

January 1st, 2020

'Door one, Door two, oh and great another door.'  i muttered as i tried to find the room number i had been given on my piece of paper. Why my mother had thought i would be more than excited for therapy, i have no idea.

Therapy is just a person, with a masters degree of phycology and blah blah blah, who's never experienced a single traumatic event in their life, telling me how to deal with my shit. Who in the 7 billion people would find that shit, even slightly, exciting?

'Door five'  i muttered under my breath, looking at my folded piece of paper, i had took them five minutes to lead me through to this boring, same plain, every door and wall, corridor. Just for me to find a door with the same cheap ass silver plated door sign as every other door, each one with a different name next to, DR., you would've thought this was the hospital with the amount of masters degrees and medical records lying around on counters and the posters on the wall felt more like a child's ward. Then in fact therapy, for fucked up teens and kiddos, like me.

I sighed, pulling the door handle down to be treated by a short old lady, with brown eyes, browny-grey hair, she was wearing the same old flowery shirt, with plain blue jeans. She felt like any other old lady, who you would see on the street, or walk past on another boring walk mother tells me to take to 'clear my headspace'  like mother didn't have enough to do without bugging me to.

She pulled a chair out at her desk, and waves her hand out asking me to take a seat. 

This is going to be one boring fucking hour.

I give a friendly smile, so she doesn't think i'm stuck-up, i take the seat and cross my legs. As i turn to face her she begins with 'So your mother tells me..' and that's how i knew, these next few sessions were going to be hell.

She said some bullshit about 'everything being confidential' but everyone knows what that really means, it means were telling your mother everything from the sessions, even though they know their the problem, and were just going to fuck you right up. 

So for future reference, stick to answering how they want, and never say anything that may lead to her making, that one unessacary phone call. Because i would lose my last tiny brain cell as to how this earth works, if she did as much as ring my mother and play the 'she's been telling me game.'  its happened one to many, times before.

She announced her name, Dr. Alyssa, i'm guessing she chose her first name, not last. But she's another person who's going to tell me how to 'fix my trauma and blah blah blah'  and to say these people have studied this shit, they don't show it. 

An hour through and the sessions over all i have is, her name, number, and a peice of shitty child paper telling me coping mechanisms, not like they'll be any use. Never are.

It's always the same old methods, take a bubble bath, listen to music, 'draw to your feelings', cut a apple, spend time with family.

But it doesn't change how the feelings, the constant pain, will still be there at the end of it. Coping mechanisms my ass, more like distract yourself long enough and you'll forget.

I shake her hand, giving her a smile and leave the small almost claustrophobic feeling room.

Yet again, another person who doesn't understand, just wants to fix, fix a pay check i mean.

Sometime you may get a decent one, who's in it for the right reasons. But sometimes their in it to look like a good person, and earn their 'great pay'. 

But to spend your life sitting in a room, listening to people, cry and rage. One day, it has to get boring.