I was talking to my therapist. It was a pretty chill converse. Almost like we were friends or something. I kinda started to think of her as my friend, until she diagnosed me crazy. I thought that was really rude, coming from a friend. I let her know. She told me she wasn't my friend. I started to cry. She called me tearful. I had about had it with the labels. But I did not blow up, because at least she was right. I asked her, will I ever get better? She said it was a process. That made me feel worse. I told her she was a rotten therapist. Her affect remained unchanged. I told her she had no feelings. I asked her how does it feel, not to be able to feel? She gave me that Buddha smile. Totally unphased. I was impressed by her robot. I shut up and started listening. I had eyeliner blend into my eye from the crying, and asked for a tissue. She told me get it yourself. Not to be mean, just because (as she had explained a hundred times before) that would be caretaking.
I stumbled blind around the room for a tissue. I fell out the window. I didn't know it was open. I was wondering how the air-conditioning was so strong that day. Or how they could afford such a skillful window washer. Because the air was so cool, the glass so clear. Before the makeup fell into my cornea. I did not report any of that, because I was supposed to only report my symptoms. Leave all the clutter thoughts up in my attic. I mean head. Well, they came out all right. But not until I landed on my attic, or the ground came up to meet me, after I shook hands with the window. I still could not see. But at least I could think straight. Props to my therapist. Shout outs to the EMTs who came and kept all my blood from running down the sidewalk and away from me.
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