My therapist says I am sick
In the kindest, gentlest way I have heard it
Her words do not bite
They do not scratch
She says I am sick
And I am healed.
My therapist says she does not know
How I got like this
Says she can't determine
Which piece is pulling the strings
And which is just tied up in all of it.
My therapist says I am safe
And I want to scream
I want to scream because that safety
Is lovely
But does not follow me to the car.
My therapist says I am on the fast track
And widens her eyes when I tell her
I feel stagnant.
Maybe she does not know
I have been waiting for someone
To help me unpack this box of trauma
For decades
And it is heavy.
My therapist calls me my dear
Organically
And it sounds foreign to me
A pet name I have not earned
And I have it etched into my skin
So that one day it may be mine.
My therapist says to have patience
My therapist says to honor myself
My therapist says to focus, ground myself.
My therapist says I am sick.
And it is the kindest thing I have ever heard.
