I close my eyes and tilt my head back. I want to pretend what lies before me is a mere illusion, a construct of my mind. Suddenly a woman’s voice brings me back to reality.
“Are you waiting for me to announce whether you made the right decision?”
I open my eyes, and my therapist stares at me. I try not to let her know I was not paying attention to what she said in the last 5 minutes, so I swiftly compose my thoughts. “Am I waiting for you to announce whether I made the right decision?” She nods in affirmation.
Yes, f*ck hell, yes. I am a professional people pleaser; I grasp for validation like other people grasp for air. And here I am—wanting to please even my therapist. But I don’t say anything. I take a glance at my Apple Watch, my heart rate has been a constant 86 beats per minute since the change of topic. Maybe next time I should mark this as a physical exercise—I mean, damn, it certainly feels like one.
“Evita, what are you thinking about?”
I need to respond at last. After all, for the 70 euros I pay for each session, I could do some talking with her instead of dwelling in my mind over the same five thoughts as I do during the remaining 10,035 minutes in the week. The same thing I have done for the last 25 years on this planet. Almost 26. OK, maybe only the last 19—I can only recall a handful of thoughts from before age 7. Isn’t it funny how you grow up but don’t necessarily become any wiser? I often re-read old stories of mine and feel as though I am standing still while time runs past me. The few wrinkles on my forehead and the eye bags that even concealer can barely hide don’t truly reflect my thoughts, feelings, emotions, experiences, pain, trauma, and more. The list could go on and on. I could fill thousands of lists and even if my hand hurt as if it was falling off from all the writing, there still would be unsaid words, unwritten thoughts trapped in my mind. Words never mean what you want them to, especially during therapy sessions.
I take a deep breath and say, “If my brain was a train station, ten thousand different trains would be arriving and departing simultaneously. Most would be very old and should have been sold a long time ago, but I am too attached to them to say goodbye. There are a few new trains – shiny and bright – but you can barely spot them between the old trains. And I am so frustrated because I know there are moments of happiness and self-acceptance, but each train of thought filled with self-love departs way too quickly and even though I run and run, I cannot jump in, and I eventually miss it. I am tired.”
“Evita, you are focusing too much on the number of old trains. The fact that there are new, shiny and bright trains should already be a victory.”
“I guess so.”
“You cannot undo 26 years of self-hatred in a year and a half.”
“True” I nod slightly. Not all therapy sessions end in joy and significant realisations. Some just end.
© Evita Ločmele 2023-08-29