With the door locked, all my blinds shut, except for the small lamp shining in the corner, I take deep breaths. My laptop awaits on my desk, the screen already glowing.
A notification pings in the corner of the screen:Your session starts in 1 minute.
I exhale through my nose and run both hands down my face. I rub my eyes, hoping the anxiety for this call magically disappears. I sink into the chair like my body weighs two hundred pounds more since my last call with my therapist.
My guitar sits across the room on its stand, a thin layer of dust covering its beautiful oak.
The screen glitches, then reloads.
“Hi, Elijah. It’s good to see you!” Lillian says too brightly.
I nod once, voice low. “Hey, Dr. Lillian.”
Her smile doesn’t push me. “How are you feeling today?”
I was good an hour ago, until I realized I had this appointment. Talking about my feelings always creeps me out. Like a snake slithering its way to me before latching on my ankle and squeezing its way up my body.
“I’m alive.” I chuckle, twisting a ring around my finger. “But when my head hits the pillow at night, I can’t sleep.” Tapping a finger to my temple, I admit, “It won’t stop.”
She leans closer into the camera. “And what is it thinking?”
I gulp, and my breath hitches. “That I didn’t do it on purpose.”
She tilts her head. “Do what on purpose?”
“Almost overdose and drown at the same time.”
There’s a pause. She’s quiet. Thinking. Observing me. “Is that how you feel? That people think you intentionally tried to overdose?”
I look down, trying to process my thoughts. Yet everything feels like a jumbled mess.
“No, I don’t think anyone who truly knows me would think that,” I begin, clearing my throat that feels like it’s shrunk. “But a small part of me fears that could be a thought in their heads.”
Silence again. Before, “That’s a fear you have, but what’s the truth?”
I swallow hard. “My family believes it was a mistake.”
She writes something down offscreen, but her gaze remains warm.
“Do you believe me?” I blurt, eyes a bit glassy.
She looks up, caught off guard. “Distrust comes from past experiences of someone being dishonest. Which I don’t believe you’ve ever been. So, yes, I do trust you.”
Relief loosens my bones. “Thats good to hear.”
She raises a brow. “Something else is holding you down.”
How can this lady read my soul?
Sitting back in my seat, I cross my arms. “You need to teach me how to read people’s minds.”
“Well, for starters, you’re avoiding eye contact with me and fidgeting, and you have closed-off posture.”
I freeze and then look down in slow motion, like a lion stalking its prey. I find myself unintentionally picking at my nails and fidgeting like I drank a gallon of caffeine.
What the fuck?
“Talk to me. What’s on your mind? Talking may help the stress feel less overwhelming.”
