session one, the session before all the others

How many firsts are we allowed when trying to close the gaps that leave us empty?
First day of therapy, again. First day of starting over, again.
A song on repeat. Played over and over again with the hopes of remaining relevant.
I have done the introductions. The intake paperwork.
The very specific questions that determine just how damaged I am.
How can I spruce up my lyrics? How can I make my overplayed tune sound brand new?
You’d think I’d be prepared for this dance. You’d think I’d have each and every step memorized.
To start over for the sixth time should not be terrifying but it is hard to let go of my stories. Reliving my trauma is like ripping the band aid off a scar I am desperately trying to heal. I am hesitant to rip it off, because I am scared I’ll bleed out.
My hesitation is an indication of uncertainty.
Without my tears how will I stay afloat?
Who am I without my scars?
Will an untouched soul get lost traveling along the roads that are on my skin?
Will anyone else understand the stories I still try to explain to myself?
Will my hurt be healed or am I fooling myself with things I only dream of?
Glued to the sheets of my bed, cradled by depression and anxiety I am not yet convinced that I’ll ever be whole.
“Think woman. Think!”
“This is your sixth time doing this. You ought to be able to speak in a language that you are understood.”
These are the words I say out loud to pry myself out of bed.
And I say them very loud, hoping they will carry me long enough until I can fall onto my therapist’s couch.

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