People try to reach me, I
try to reach people. But
my sadness is the longest
tunnel, where the reception is always bad.
The light is not at the
end of my tunnel, the light is not the way out.
The light is a mere flash,
in the second-long intervals in-between tunnels.
The flash is people’s
voices telling me to:
Go out more,
Make new friends,
Exercise,
Take antidepressants,
See another therapist.
As I nod and say thank
you. My mind, filled with abusive insensitive mouths, that understand my pain more
than I do.
I don’t tell my therapist that
I feel worse when I leave her office.
I tell my therapist that
my body feels heavy, that my feet are made of lead, that my bones are as
brittle as porcelain. I say my body is sore, and achy, and that I’m always
tired.
She suggests I rest more.
I tell her that I wish to
be touched, not in a sexual way. That I would like to be held.
She suggests - like all my
therapists before her - A massage.
I want to explain that
that’s not what I mean, that I tried getting a massage once, and it was a
terrible experience, but I’m afraid I will sound like I’m dismissing her advice.
I’ve dismissed too many of
her advice already, and soon she will grow impatient.
The way my mother was
impatient with me when I was child, and almost always sick.
The way my father was
impatient with me when I was a child, and didn’t understand math.
I tell her I can’t trust
the good days, because they are always followed by a very steep fall.
She suggests I be more
optimistic.
I want to task her to
please stop suggesting.
I saw her yawn once, while
I was wrenching my heart to her, and I understood.
That my sadness is very boring
- of course - but also, that my sadness pays the rent, that my
sadness puts people in college, and finances vacations. That my sadness is a
tremendous industry, that my sadness is necessary.
