We often walk into a therapy session with the best intentions. We promise ourselves: This time, I’m going to say it. I’m going to be brutally honest.
Even in a judgment-free zone, the fear lingers. I didn’t tell you about the intrusive thought. I didn’t tell you about the thing I did three years ago that still makes me cringe. I didn’t tell you that sometimes I don’t want to get better—because my sadness has become a strange, familiar blanket.
There is a strange power dynamic in therapy. You know everything about my trauma, and I know nothing about yours. I wanted to ask: Do you ever get home and cry? Have you ever felt this hopeless? Do you actually like me, or am I just a case file?