What's left

My past counseling session was a little traumatic--not because of the subject matter discussed (which, mind you, often wades in the pool of dysfunction and tip-toes near the boundaries of neurosis), nor my tendency to burst into tears within five-minutes of sitting on my very nice intern-counselor's couch, but because of the following conversation.

Counselor: (After spending the duration of the session discussing how I don't feel that I deserve to take care of myself) "So...how are you right now?"

Me: (with tears welling up in my eyes, and wringing a messy mascara-stained tissue in my hand) "Um...ok..."

Counselor: (Sits back with a slight smile, that smirky, smirky smile). "I'm going to leave that for now..."

Me: (What??!! You bastard! How can you do this to me?) "Are we meeting next week?" (please please please please PLEASE)

Counselor: "Ho-hum...I guess I could make it out here on Monday..."

Me: "Uh, no, it's ok...we can meet after the New Year," (I'm only dying inside)

Counselor: (With a genuine smile) "Great! So, you remember what to make the check out to? And, also...just try to have fun."

I'm not sure if it was the insistence to plunge into the very depths of my murky soul and then cut me off with an clearly impossible answer to my unanswerable questions, or that frackin smile he had on his face the whole time that caused the emotional atom bomb. All I know is that I've had really bad heartburn ever since.

What is really disheartening is that after two weeks, I will fail to report back anything from my first and only homework assignment tomorrow. 11 days of genuine time spent with family, friendships caught up on, adventures in different cities, a beautiful and sacred union of two souls, breakthrough personal and spiritual conversations, laughs, tears, and more canine cuddling than I could ever want, yet I can't say I know joy. This is the first time in my life when I have seriously considered requesting a prescription for Prozac. And I definitely can't blame it on the weather.

I wonder if part of moving on is embracing the pain that is deterring you from doing so. I hurt. A lot. Because of various, often terrible things. And I need help. Many people in the mental health field would say that in that sentence, I've just fought half the battle. That it's brave to do what I've done. I think my bravery is very quiet; a small voice trapped amongst the schedules, duties and real, very real problems of others, and is often left between my two ears. As much as I hate to admit it, I think that with somethings, you have to be brave alone. And I'm not really sure I can do that right now.

So, I'm left popping extra-strength Tums, taking numerous pictures of my face on my MacBook so I remember that it's pretty, and listening to the same songs over and over again until they make me feel numb. They probably aren't paying Mr. Counselor enough for this...