Dear T,

I must have called four times today and wussed out at about the third ring each time. I hope you don’t have some sort of caller ID system. I kept thinking, “What’s the point?”

And, really, what is the point? What’s the point in seeing you if I’m this ambivalent about whether I even want to see you? If I don’t want to do work.


And I don’t. I really, really don’t. I’m not even sure I’m capable of that. Maybe I lack something. The fortitude? The constitution?

Oh, that’s right – The courage. To heal.

I’ve always hated that ****ing book title. Always hated that idea. It enrages me for reasons I can’t articulate.

I stopped coming in because I felt bad about myself. The longer I stayed away, the more phobic I got about returning. It reminds me of that time you led me into an exam room for session.

I think that was bad practice, by the way. Just like I think it’s bad practice that you apparently can’t, I don’t know, put a sign on the door or just train the ****ing techs not to walk in on our EMDR sessions.

Anyway, one would think your presence would make the exam room more tolerable. That’s a thing, right? Having a ‘safe person’ when facing a phobia? But you didn’t make the exam room better. The exam room made you worse. I wanted to punch you right in that expression of mild surprise.

I was afraid of you.

Not that I’d ever tell you that. Apparently I lack the courage to be forthcoming, too.

Anyway, this is kind of like that. I find myself going about my day, and -BAM!- there you are, suddenly popping up between me and my scrambled eggs. Always the same image – you leaning forward slightly, reaching toward my face. I’ve actually developed this weird little twitch when that happens, as if jerking away from the memory of your fingers waving about my face.

And that makes me feel terrible, of course. You’ve been nothing but helpful and I thank you for it by cringing. And disappearing. And calling your office four times without leaving a message.

****.

Argo