K

Hello.  You can call me M.  I’ve never told my story honestly to anyone.  But if you’re willing to listen to a bland rant, please stay.

My therapist is the closest to actually understanding me – not my dad, my mother, my grandmother, no one – but my therapist – we’ll call her K – she pried into my life and summarized me.  Helped me.  Listened.  Laughed.

Ironically, I’m just a young client to her, a misguided, awkward teen.  Nothing more.  She’s an objective audience, untied by family biases.

And she’s indifferent, correct?  She endures my little tales of woe and anxiety, etc, before dismissing me from her office, and preceding to paperwork, or the next distraught client.   She sympathizes with me as a stranger sympathizes.  As you sympathize.

And that saddens me.  I’ve grown attached to K.  Our sessions will soon end.  I’m stable.  My depression is fading into a dull ache.  Tolerable.  I’m no longer harming myself, or so K thinks.  The only secret I keep from her.  The angry slashes are fading to purple marks on my arm.  But there’s other places.  Legs, etc, that no one knows about.

I’m a socially awkward kid.  Never had friends, etc.  Not one.  It’s draining to just walk into Walmart.  You don’t know who’s staring at you, at a grey skeleton with a misshapen chin, who struggles to open those plastic fruit bags.

Yes.  No friends.  I mechanically moved from class to class, rarely talking to any peers.  I was in my own little bubble.  The less people noticed me, the better.  I’m a boring, bland child, a waste of space.  So – I made myself invisible to the clans of bubbly Snap-chatters.

But now – my therapist, K, is the closest thing to a friend I’ve ever had.  And that’s impossible.  She’s paid to listen to me.  She has kids she loves, of her own.  She has a life.  I’m just a blip in her work days.

K can’t be my friend.  And that’s painful.  There’s just a few weeks left, a few sessions left, until she won’t schedule another appointment, and hand me a sharp-edged business card.  I’ll walk out of that office.  My mother will drive me home.

And that will be the end.

I won’t see K anymore.  I won’t talk to her again.  Maybe I’ll pass her one day, in the grocery store.  Maybe a nod of the head, a small smile.  Maybe she won’t remember my splotchy grey face at all.

I’m crying.  My stomach’s in knots.  I want to die.  And that’s ridiculous.  It’s ridiculous to want to die, because your therapist cannot be your friend indefinitely.

If you’re still reading, thanks.  I’ve eaten up your time with this jumbled little rant.  Sorry.

Bye.