I am feeling these stirrings in my heart, the pain that ripples through — stronger, stronger — when I think of our encounter.
The soothing that is sitting in your office.
I can’t let you mean so much to me.
This is not good.
It’s not even real! It’s an imbalanced relationship.
I can’t fall for this. I can’t have you mean so much to me. I can’t need someone who, for all intents and purposes, doesn’t need me.
You long moved on from the encounter — a mere blip on your screen — and I’m still stuck on it. Stuck on replaying the most recent conversation and the many before that.
You’re an encouraging voice in my mind, but I’m not sure this is okay.
I furrow my forehead. To back up, or to let the voice guide me?
To unwrap your kindness and savor it like a sweet treat, or to brush it off and say, It’s just what therapists do.
Pathetic, I think. Pathetic! You are too old for this!
Who exactly is this woman I’m letting live in my mind rent-free?
What is she to me?
Nothing. Just a professional — a very compassionate, skilled, exquisitely kind, understanding, validating, professional.
Let it go, I hiss to myself. You’ll just make her scribble in her notes: Patient finally thawed, responding to interventions.
And she’ll be happy her conspiracy worked.
Oh, but you know she won’t look at it like that.
Not everyone is conspiring behind your back.
And so the internal battle rages on.
And to think I have another week to go until I can lay my doubts to rest for another few hours…