Unworthy Hands

When you sit down across from a therapist and they ask, “How’s your week been?” or even, “How’s your day been?”

The load of that question.

I thought of this while standing at my washing machine, watching towels spin. I started to have a panic attack… brief, but sharp…and I realized how impossible it is to form a sentence that paints the full picture. Even if I could, the feeling would be gone by the time I found the words.

I’m trying to mentally prepare myself for Thursday. To sit there again, trying to explain myself well enough for someone to really get it.

Half the time, I don’t even understand myself.

I’m frustrated. And sad. Sad that I have to start all over again. To give another brief summary of my life to someone I don’t know. Someone I don’t trust. Someone who might not even care.

Because not everyone does.

And, if I’m being honest, I think more people don’t than do.

That thought makes me angry. Angry because I know what it’s like to end up with someone who doesn’t give a single fuck about your well-being. Someone who treats you like a difficult project. Something to drop when it becomes too heavy. On to the next.

I hate her.

And I hate that I was starting to heal with her.

I hate that she knows any part of my story. The parts that kept me up at night, the parts I don’t tell to people easily.

I wish I had never met her.

Because some people shouldn’t be allowed to hold others’ stories if they don’t know how to carry the weight of them.

I wish I could take every single word back to hold for myself.

I hope it rains when you wear a new pair of shoes.