dear mr. therapist

writing is my therapy. and each word, line, paragraph, the therapist. as it comes spilling out i can visualize him sitting there, nodding and taking notes in his spiral book. 

during each session, i'm free to scream, yell, sob, laugh, get angry, break down,

fall apart. it's freeing, liberating. like a suffocating chain that is spontaneously

broken from around my thoughts. how wonderful is freedom of expression- my opinions,

feelings, words, none of them can be judged. they're mine. my property. completely 

under my own control and authority.

however, during the occasional session, those walls of control fall apart. and as 

words spurt forth from my fingertips, i have no power over what story they decide 

to tell. the beautiful part? no one knows the truth. my words can be filled with 

truth and sincerity or more closely resemble a tall tale. 

my words are filled with quotes, stories, images, thoughts, dreams- all my own and 

unaware of their reliability. but honestly, what does it matter either way? it's 

word vomit. continuous phrases and in-cohesive ideas that emit what i'm feeling at 

that very moment. 

the therapist turns the page of his book, enough information to write a short story 

filled with my thoughts. as nonsense and nothingness continue to flow throughout the 

pages, they retreat to a common idea. sad. angry. happy. overwhelmed. scared. whatever

the feeling of the day is. furious. depressed. overjoyed. confused. they vary from day 

to day, hour to hour, minute to minute. each period of time is as unpredictable as the

one before. 

today? hurt. longing. frustrated. overwhelmed. i don't know how to express these 

feelings healthily. until my fingers come into contact with that lovely pen and page. 

and at that moment, i become enraptured with clearing out my head. my words stumble over 

each other through my rush. it's as if the words won't come out fast enough, but i have 

no way to speed up there delivery.

an obnoxious ringing timer symbolizes the end of our session. "until tomorrow," the 

therapist tells me, closing his book. my fingers stop their rapid movements. my head stops

spinning. and my heart rate slows. tomorrow will be a new day, new emotions, and a new session.