Category Archives: Therapy Sessions (A Chapbook Series)

session 3, once a young girl

Barbie dolls and hair bows
That’s what I dreamed it’d be
Instead innocence and security
Was ripped away from me
Young girl turned quick
Delicate skin forced thick


Hesitant to talk about it
No one else ever did
Shit like this should never happen to a kid
Where do I start
How do I begin
I trusted this guy
And maybe that’s why kids are such a target because who don’t we trust


On my back I lay still
Hoping my silent screams
Reached the ears of anyone willing to listen
Because this can’t be right
This can’t be the way I learn about love
This can’t be how I learn about intimacy


His pants have come down now
And his penis is exposed
I am one step closer to intimacy issues
I am one step closer to never fully trusting a man
I am one step closer to the misunderstood adult that I didn’t know I’d grow up to be
I am one step closer to the depression that leaves me in the same position I was in when this all took place
On my back, I lay still


Penetration came next
Is this considered sex
Am I supposed to be this scared
The sound of my suppressed tears must’ve been loud
Because I looked up and saw my mother standing there
The words “save me” fled from my closed lips
The pair on my face and between my legs


She had done her part
She showed up
Wiped her daughter from front to back
But there was no conversation
Just hesitation, hugs, tears, her breast cancer, and then her death
The first of many bags I’d learn to carry alone


Barbie dolls and hair bows
That’s what I dreamed it’d be
Instead innocence and security
Was ripped away from me
Young girl turned quick
Delicate skin forced thick

session two, the about me.

Clenching the arms of the chair I sat in, I worry the next name to be called will be mine.
Am I really ready to do this?
The door is opening. The fucking door is opening.
Is it to late to leave? I may be coming down with something.

I think I forgot to cut the stove off.
Shit, she called my name.
Where do I begin?
How do I accurately describe the being that is me?
I am a Gemini.
Maybe that’d be enough in searching for your soulmate, because I hear Gemini’s are a catch.

Sorry. I’m deflecting.
Coping mechanism.
No eye contact.
She just asked about me avoiding eye contact.
Which further makes me avoid eye contact.
See because the second our eyes meet you will see the tears begging to be free and I will have no
control and I will let them go.
So, no. Definitely NO EYE CONTACT.


I am now digging my fingernails into my palms.
The slight tingling pain distracts me from how
uncomfortable I am sitting here trying to
open up scars only to discover new ways to close them again.
See what she doesn’t realize is that while she is asking her next question,
I am thinking about all the things I have left undone at home

Did I lock the door when I left?
Did I leave the milk…wait did I leave the stove on?


Where were we? Yes, I’m sorry.
I’ve been diagnosed with severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD
Is there a pill that would allow me to be happy?
Something that’ll make me stop thinking that my death is around the corner,
control my anger outbursts,
all the while keeping me awake to take care of my children.


I so desperately want to be whole again
I am willing to carry all the pieces of myself to you once a week
so that we may sort through the bad that has made me who I am
and the good that will determine who I’m going to be.


Is there anything else you want to know about me?

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.