Don’t laugh. My therapist was adamant about that. No one finds this funny, except you. You’re using humour and it’s distracting. It was the eleventh session of twelve and Lina deserved a breakthrough although she was neither triumphant nor amused. I felt detached from my own body, encased in a calm honey that gave the room a sepia tinge. My brain began building a psychotic home movie to be replayed as propaganda for the memory wars. It’s a cliché to say I flatlined but that’s honestly how it was. Unplugged, every cloaking device disabled to leave me naked in the room. Lina held the space, passed the tissues, made empathetic noises, didn’t judge, but shame is like the dye they use in security vans and bank vaults. Even if you look clean on the outside, in the right light all will be revealed. What’s important in the world of therapy is to look cured. Then they’ll leave you alone. Say the right things. Don’t act mad. Share just enough of your crazy. Let it seep gently into the chair cushion but try not to leave a wet patch.

 

To keep me grounded

I look to the tree outside

Verdant salvation