Score |
87
How do I explain a wound that doesn't bleed
<p><br/></p><p>The chair is a bit too small. It digs into my back in a way that makes me want to disappear into myself. </p><p><br/></p><p>The room is dimly lit. One measly bulb hangs from the ceiling and flickers every few seconds, like it’s tired too. Like it can feel how heavy the air is in here. </p><p><br/></p><p>I watch my therapist. Her frame looks frail under that light. I can tell she doesn’t want to be here either. At least she’s getting paid for it. </p><p>I’m here for my mum. </p><p><br/></p><p>“Why am I like this?” </p><p>That’s the fifth time I’ve asked in the last two hours. The words taste the same every time I say them. </p><p><br/></p><p>She sighs. Not out loud. But I catch it. I always catch it. And I hate that I do. </p><p>Then comes the answer I already know by heart. Something about learning to love yourself. About how hard it is. About how one day I’ll see how amazing I am. </p><p>Different words, same song. </p><p><br/></p><p>I’m not angry at her. </p><p>If anything, I feel sorry for her. </p><p>Who would choose to sit in a dark room with an 18 year old who feels like she’s falling apart, asking the same question on repeat? </p><p><br/></p><p>But hey. It could be worse, right? </p><p>At least I’m here. At least I’m trying. </p><p>At least the bulb hasn’t gone out completely. </p><p><br/></p><p>Maybe that’s what being 18 and “adulting” is.... sitting in uncomfortable chairs, in dim rooms, with questions that don’t have answers yet. And still coming back next week.</p>
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6
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