EVERYTHING THEY DIDN’T TELL THE THERAPIST

 

My sessions with Dr. Sharma are a well-rehearsed ballet. I chat about my job, the stress of meeting deadlines, the day-to-day irritations. I speak about my family, the regard in which I hold my partner's support. I outline my new hobby, the healing powers of painting. She nods, she listens, she makes some notes. She wants to know how I am, and I say, "I feel good." And in the one little word is the entire truth.

My Job

I tell her I'm overwhelmed. The truth is that I'm afraid I won't be able to do it. I head home and sit in the dark for hours with my eyes fixed on the wall. The deadline isn't the problem; the problem is the blank page, the fear that I don't have anything else to write. I'm not tired; I'm empty.

My Partner

I tell her how supportive he is. He makes me a cup of tea, he asks about my day. He's a nice man. What I don't say to him is that I'm a weight. His kindness is like a searchlight, illuminating each slightest fault, each smallest flaw. I don't need his help; I want to be the one who doesn't require it. I want to be the competent one, the one he can depend on. But I'm disintegrating, and I'm afraid he'll notice.

My Family

I tell her we're close. We eat together once a week. We laugh, we reminisce. What I don't say is that the laughter is scripted. We never speak of the serious business—the silence, the disappointment, the accumulated years of unspoken resentment. We're an acting family, and our stage is the dinner table.

My Hobby

I tell her about the escape of painting. It calms my mind. And it does, for a moment. But then I look at the canvas, and I see nothing but failure. The colors are terrible, the lines are sloppy, the vision in my head never materializes on the paper. I'm not creating; I'm just pretending over and over again that I can't do anything right.

How I Feel

I tell her I'm fine. It's a lie. I am a house with a locked door, and inside a hurricane is raging. The windows rattle, the roof creaks, but outside it's fine. Dr. Sharma questions me about the tiny cracks, the peeling paint. She's so close to laying her hand on the door, and I'm so afraid she'll open it. So I just continue to babble on about the weather, the flowers, anything to prevent her from realizing the truth.