A pang in my heart tells me how much I’m going to miss this. How I was wrong about therapy after all these years. It wasn’t that therapy didn’t work, it was the therapists I’d seen. I’m even going to miss the way she always calls me by my full name, never abbreviating it. I’d originally hated it, but I grew to like how she doesn’t call me Al or Alex, like those closest to me do.
I ignore her hand, breaking the formality and giving her a tight squeeze.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Later, I realize that I’ve also come to appreciate the rustic charm of my room. It’s a lot more basic than the rooms I’ve found myself in over recent years, but there’s something charming about the simplicity of this place. The wooden bed frames, the small wooden desk and chair separating the twin beds, the same color of brown-grey carpet that adorned the bedroom I shared with Harrison growing up, where we played for hours with our toy cars. Even the retro lampshade, lighting the table while I open my leather-bound journal, has a certainje ne sais quoi.
I slowly turn the pages of my journal, noticing all the things I’ve gone over these last two months. There’s the family constellation to help me understand the intergenerational trauma I’ve been carrying. The letter to my younger self. The protective, nurturing, and wise figures I identified before beginning EMDR therapy. The Rock, who brought a smile to my face when I chose him as my protective figure and not Rob. Rob will kill me if he ever finds out I’ve cheated on him with another bodyguard.
There’s so much in here that I’ve learned about myself, that I can pull from when I get back to creating again.
I start to close the journal when I notice the faint markings on my palm.
Ah, that song title.I’m A Broken Man.
I grab the pen from the holder and open a new page, writing the title at the top.
Lyrics instantly start flowing through me and I move over to the bed, leaning back into the pillow.
I’M A BROKEN MAN
I guess they call it art,
The way I fell apart,
But I’ve been here before with the knife I keep on twisting.
Finally bleeding out,
The curtain call is now,
And I can’t face the demons that keep on screaming.
My mind is racing, skin is itching,
My nails are gone, my eyelids twitching,
Settle down, settle down, simmer down, simmer down.
My lungs collapsing, barely breathing,
I’m stuck in quicksand, slowly sinking,
Deeper down, deeper down, deeper down.
I’ve fallen from the stars,
Looking at the pieces of my fractured parts.
Unable to run,
Hands are tied.
Forced to face the one thing left behind,
Realized that I’ve been trying to hide,
I’m a broken man.
