We all throw verbal darts around as though we’re engaged in a massive, drunken tournament at a bar, but the most poisonous ones seem to hit me the most often, admittedly somewhat a consequence of my own sensitivity. Within the confines of my family, I’ve always been the biggest target of ridicule. “When you said you’re attracted to me,” she continues.īack in session three Lori was trying to build my self-esteem, the lack of which is one of the reasons I’m in treatment. My eyelids tighten, my mouth puckers to the left, and my head tilts, as though I’m asking her to clarify. I so supremely wanted this not to come up. “I don’t think I should let you go until we’ve at least touched on what was put out there at the end of last week’s session.”
“Well,” my therapist, Lori, says, the millisecond after I become certain our time is up and I might be in the clear. On the surface, when the patient has been highly selective of the discussion topics, therapy always resembles a friendly get-together. I’ve barely looked into my therapist’s blue eyes at all, and yet I think the hour has gone very well. I try to relax, but the plush leather couch crumples under me when I shift, making the movements extraordinary. My entire body feels tense, not ideal for the setting. It’s the waning moments of my fourth session with a new therapist.