the therapist on my screen asks me how I’ve been. we haven’t spoken in a couple of months, and the last time our conversation surfaced a new label to stamp on my medical record. without her presence in the room I can tell she is tired. there’s a quiet strain in her voice that I hear in the patient questions of my manager on the phone to the others she is paid to wait on and keep organised. I tell the therapist about my new religion and how faithful I’ve been to the emails and spreadsheets. she wants me to be mindful of balance and asks about my food and sleep. I answer all her questions and leave the narrative behind. I confess to loneliness and dissatisfaction with this routine of shame and perpetual loathing for myself and for the world. we talk about the slope and knowing where it leads and I agree to goals she sets and says well measure as time passes. before we say goodbye she offers me another session for earlier than we had planned. I accept without question and see some good in the absence of pride.
on my run the clouds are grey and heavy with the promise of rain that never comes. I twist around trees and keep score of the number of steps I’ve pressed on certain tiles like a spell. the counting that used to dictate every move creeps back into the patterns of my thinking like an absent friend that made me feel they really cared once upon a time. however unwelcome, the return does little to shake me. I am tired and fragile and the counting is just another bug devoid of meaning. it will come and go like every thought or ghost I shouldn’t entertain and I will still be here.
I dream of change like a tree that grows through the floor of my room overnight.
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