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  • Writer's pictureMelissa

What Was I Thinking?

The problem with an email is that once a few seconds pass, you can no longer revoke it.

The problem with words is that once they’re uttered, you can no longer take them back. You can cover them up with disclaimers and excuses and arguments. But those words are said.

And someone was on the receiving end of them.

4,000 of them.

Securely in the inbox.

Of my therapist.

Words that I can’t read now without wanting to run away and never face my therapist ever. Text I can't get through without wanting to vomit and let the awfulness leave my body somewhat.

Words that I'm starting to doubt… who even wrote them? What possessed me to share them? Oh, dear, holy G-d, what was I thinking?!

Why did I share the thoughts that were supposed to remain hidden in a lockbox in my heart forever? Why did I say things that will make her want to push me away — farther, farther, farther — maybe get rid of me altogether?

Why did I share stuff that makes me want to hide and roll into a ball and just pretend I never existed in the first place? And not face her and not face myself and not own up to these words I wrote some five days ago.

With tears. Believing every word.

Thinking I was being brave. Thinking I was doing what’s right.

Thinking that these thoughts were worthwhile to share.

Knowing that I might falter, but not realizing that at this point, a day before my session, I won’t be able to face myself. Won’t be able to face the words I have strung together with care.

Won’t be able to think of visiting some office where my therapist — the one now privy to those shameful thoughts — will sit and wait for me to explain.

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