"These mountains that you carry, you were only supposed to climb them," my therapist tells me.
"Then how do I put the mountains down? How do I tell people I can't take care of them any more? How do I tell my family that I am not made of money, and I go through the same shit they do? How do I tell these men I'm not fucking them because I'm trying to build a relationship and my own family? How do I tell my family I'm gay. I come in here every two weeks like clockwork, and you say some wonderful sounding shit. But at the end of the session I still have no idea how to fix anything and I don't feel any better by just saying it. So why am I here? How do I climb the mountain that is therapy?"
We sit in silence for a moment. He looks back at me and I don't break eye contact with him. I'm not trying to scare him. Just trying to show him that I'm serious. Maybe I'm the reason this isn't working. I was never a believe in therapy. I know I shouldn't just bottle up my emotions, but I never thought talking about them to some random person would help either. Thank you for telling me I have some issues with my mother. I can see that.
"Therapy isn't always about finding the answers. Sometimes, most of the time, it's about gathering the tools needed to address problems in a healthy way," he finally responds.
"Then give me some fucking tools, and I'll cut a tunnel right through the mountains. Give me the tools, because your little happy phrases don't help."
"Maybe, we should finish up for the day. Jasmine will book your next appointment."
I walk out of the office, pull my jacket from the coat rack and keep going. I don't have anything against Jasmine but when she calls out to me for booking I keep going. I'm not coming back. This has been a waste for me. I spent a shit ton of money to tell someone why I was fucked up and all I got back was a well dictated "wow, that's crazy."
