Previously published on Feminine Collective
She always asks how I am doing. I rattle off a few tidbits, mainly professional milestones or interesting people who I crossed paths with over the past week, simultaneously picking at fluff that does not exist on her couch.
She probes again “How are you doing?”
I always reply “I told you how am doing, it’s been a great week.” And so it goes, week in and week out when I’m on my therapist’s couch. I’ve been a regular cushion warmer since last September. I thought that I had my shit together.
Dark clouds started rolling in, a storm without warning. They gathered together, forming black thunderheads that have obscured my view. My senses abandoned me one by one, falling away without ceremony. I lost my faculty of smell and taste. My ability to discern my emotions vanished seemingly overnight.
Back to the couch.
By the way, the couch is located just off Ventura Boulevard in Los Angeles, California. California, sunny days, mountains that meet the sea, and 57 flavors of tacky. I love it. I walked in and greeted my therapist dressed in my usual undercover garb. Disheveled, crazy hair, and bulging eyes. I fidgeted, divulged my dark suicidal thoughts, cried, screamed and begged for medication. She was not having it.
Read the rest of the article here.