“I write.”
“What do you write?”
“I write.”
“What do you write?” She repeats, kindly and patiently, knowing I am slow to warm up.
Everything. I write books. I write poetry. I write blogs. I write on my stomach. I write on my shoes. I write at work and in the middle of the night and even in my dreams.
“I just journal sometimes” I offer casually, hoping I sound truthful. She jots it down in her notebook, satisfied with my answer. She doesn’t really care, she just needs an answer. She needs an answer that shows I am an adult capable of handling emotionally charged situations. She needs to write something down so she can type it up and prove she did her due diligence to research my ability to handle grief, loss, heartache and the emotional roller coaster that has become my life.
“Anything else?”
“Umm...” my voice trails off. Think. Think! What would a healthy person say?!
“I talk to people.” I offer, ironically refusing to make eye contact.
I cry. I scream. I pull over in the car and scream. I yell at God. I come home from work and lay on my bed without even taking my shoes off and I cry until I fall asleep. Sometimes I cut. Sometimes I run away. Sometimes I break the trash can in my car. Sometimes I take all the sadness and roll it in a big ball and stuff it way down in my big toe so that no one can ever find it, hopefully not even me.
Again, she takes my answer and jots it down in her notebook, seemingly satisfied with my healthy person approach.
“It’s okay to be sad.” She tilts her head and looks at me serious. Now she’s real. She’s not looking at her notebook, she’s looking at me. She cares about me. Stop it. Stop caring. She doesn’t just want an answer, she wants me personally to be okay.
“I have no feelings, like a robot” I tease – the safest way I can connect (or disconnect?).
She smiles, knowing it’s not true of course but believing me slightly. I hope she thinks I’m strong. I hope she thinks I don’t get sad very much. I hope she thinks I handle everything in stride. I hope she thinks I am healthy and strong and capable.
She closes her notebook and I sigh, realizing I was holding my breath. I breathe slowly and begin to write in my head.
“What do you write?”
“I write.”
“What do you write?” She repeats, kindly and patiently, knowing I am slow to warm up.
Everything. I write books. I write poetry. I write blogs. I write on my stomach. I write on my shoes. I write at work and in the middle of the night and even in my dreams.
“I just journal sometimes” I offer casually, hoping I sound truthful. She jots it down in her notebook, satisfied with my answer. She doesn’t really care, she just needs an answer. She needs an answer that shows I am an adult capable of handling emotionally charged situations. She needs to write something down so she can type it up and prove she did her due diligence to research my ability to handle grief, loss, heartache and the emotional roller coaster that has become my life.
“Anything else?”
“Umm...” my voice trails off. Think. Think! What would a healthy person say?!
“I talk to people.” I offer, ironically refusing to make eye contact.
I cry. I scream. I pull over in the car and scream. I yell at God. I come home from work and lay on my bed without even taking my shoes off and I cry until I fall asleep. Sometimes I cut. Sometimes I run away. Sometimes I break the trash can in my car. Sometimes I take all the sadness and roll it in a big ball and stuff it way down in my big toe so that no one can ever find it, hopefully not even me.
Again, she takes my answer and jots it down in her notebook, seemingly satisfied with my healthy person approach.
“It’s okay to be sad.” She tilts her head and looks at me serious. Now she’s real. She’s not looking at her notebook, she’s looking at me. She cares about me. Stop it. Stop caring. She doesn’t just want an answer, she wants me personally to be okay.
“I have no feelings, like a robot” I tease – the safest way I can connect (or disconnect?).
She smiles, knowing it’s not true of course but believing me slightly. I hope she thinks I’m strong. I hope she thinks I don’t get sad very much. I hope she thinks I handle everything in stride. I hope she thinks I am healthy and strong and capable.
She closes her notebook and I sigh, realizing I was holding my breath. I breathe slowly and begin to write in my head.
