I rarely ever question whether I'm entitled to the feelings I have towards people. Tuesday was very chaotic, or at least that's one way to put it. When you think of your therapist, you think of the more vulnerable side of you. They provide a space for you to feel safe, but what does one do when said space begins to fill with water? It feels wet and cool and easy to get out of. But the more it fills up and the faster it does it begins to feel burdensome. Where is your safe space then? When the room becomes yellow and your head has too many cars passing through. There's not enough time to think about what's going on inside or outside. It's impossible to sort through it all. When can you decide that its time to leave the room, space, your therapist? Is it when the room began to fill, when its already filled, or when the cars finally begin to crash. There's no way of telling when all you've got is yourself. It's empty. The room is white and the tides begin to creep up the sand before pulling it down with it. Everything consists of something much bigger, rather its all just a couple of puzzle pieces. But at this point, all I'm getting are centerpieces. There was a very distinct sound when I was in the room, the sound of her typing on her laptop, the murmur of the people on the other side, the impatient sigh. It was a very common encounter I have whenever I go. The sounds outnumber the feelings I want to express. It's quiet.
3-5-20
YOU ARE READING
Dear Deppresion
Non-FictionDear depression, Do you really need to be a part of my life? Alot of these notes are old, some are recent. These can be triggering so please read with care. Aside from that this book follows along with some of my most hidden and deepest though...
