I sit in a room filled with the lost people of the system. Many of them reeking of cigarette smoke and booze. It seems I am the only one that showered. They wear worn shoes or crocs, they talk loud and angrily with their friends and family. They almost scream with rage at whoever is on the other end of their phone. They all look angry or distraught paying no attention to the people around them. I notice the people around them. I see what they themselves can not.
The door unlocks with an audible mechanical sound and my therapist for the day peaks their head out and motions for me to come back to their office. I weave amongst the many hallways until finally reaching the therapist’s office. I sink into the small couch that is meant for the patient.
“How are you?” the therapist asks, but unlike normal interaction they expect an honest answer. A simple “fine” will not suffice in this situation. I begin to paint the picture of my recent week, the pain and sorrow I feel, the guilt, the shame.
“How does that make you feel?” again the therapist expects honesty. I delve into the emotions, the turmoil, above all the shame that I feel.
The therapist nods as they take notes and asks “How does that make you feel?” they expect more this time, something deeper. Yet my mind has reached a barrier made of steel, I can not dig passed it. I explain this situation to them and they nod their head and jot down more notes.
I start to get angry, not because I can not delve any deeper, but because I am tired of explaining myself and my emotions, they can be vast or fleeting, what I want is help. Help with the causation of these emotions, of these mood states that seem to dictate my every waking moment.
“And how does that make you feel?”