To those who listen:
Today, I thought about writing a journal entry instead of a poem, but it’s different to write my thoughts without their metaphor blankets, to see my words bare and raw in their truth instead of swirled between symbols and line breaks, pauses and similes that hide what I’m really trying to say. It’s different to just say something that’s real instead of clouded by interpretation.
I’m starting therapy in a little over a week. I’ve only told one person that I’m going. Why is this a secret? Maybe I don’t want people to know I admit my crazy, but I’ve been making poor and dangerous decisions as of late, so it seems apt I go talk to someone about my unhappiness that’s more like dissatisfaction.
I’ve never been to therapy as an adult. As a child, it was mostly mandated due to neglect and trauma I suffered at the long tentacles of my hapless mother and the short-bursted love of my distant father. But how will it be now that I’m going out of choice, or lack of depending on how you look at it? What is the first thing a therapist says to a new client? Will she ask me why I’m there? Because I’m not completely sure. There are so many reasons I wouldn’t know how to answer.
I’m worried. My friend asked if I was excited. She said she’d go every week if she could afford it. Will I feel that way? It took me twelve years to tell her Johnny’s name. How will I ever spill this shit to a stranger? I don’t fucking know.
So there. I’ve said something real. Therapy for being dissatisfied. I need it. At least I think I do, and that’s the first fucking step, right?
I don’t know if it helps–the plainness of it, the ugliness of truth when the beauty of language is stripped away. I think I prefer poetry–the figurative interpretation of literal pain. I’m going to write more of these though. It’s therapeutic in itself–emotions without ties to perfection of language. We’ll see how many more I write.
Until then, dear listeners, I say goodnight.