06/11/2026
So true!❤️
"You're not helping me. I feel worse than the day I walked in here."
I said it to my therapist on a Thursday at 3pm, the same Thursday at 3pm I had been giving her for eleven months straight.
She let me finish. She let the whole thing come out of me, every sharp word of it, onto the floor between us.
When I came back the next Thursday, I sat down across from her like a person returning to the scene of something.
We talked about what I had been feeling, and she took it, all of it, a second time.
And the next Thursday, she took it again.
And the Thursday after that, again.
It took me years to slow that hour down enough to see everything inside it:
..I was angry at someone, and I let them know it.
..I asked for something different, before I had talked myself out of wanting it.
..I told someone they were disappointing me, and I stayed long enough to see what remained between us.
I didn't realize it at the time, but I had been waiting my whole life for a room like that one.
A place where I could break something open in front of someone and come back the next week to find the two of us still there, mending it.
All these years later, it became so clear: the mess on the floor was the cleaning.
