A Day in Therapy

A day in therapy

Heavy smells of chamomile and jasmine play a game of tag on my nose while the fan sputters and twists like an older ballerina with tight hips. The skin around my thumbs are white as I pick and pick, the sound like a drumstick hitting a drum’s rim. My senses are magnified; I can hear a weep in my throat, a rumbling ache in my stomach and lower back. I scan books on the brain and think how easy I can be defined pick a leather-bound DSM-4, turn a few pages and you’ll see me riddled with anxiety and an ever changing mood that can spend a paycheck in a day, cry for hours, and wish nothing but to be a separate into a single atom, a single bit of dust. In a room that is a microscope, that can take any movement and saying and attach it to a “why” can be scary but I come back to earth with a scrunch of my nose and the thick smell of calmness. It elevates my perceptions and I can hear my words sputter over each other But they are out. And away from me.