Work Text:
Therapist.
You're not helping. We don't connect. I was too... unsatisfied to pretend today.
Pretend like what you say doesn't fly in and out.
Like I believe you may help.
Like I wish I didn't have to listen again.
You're not a bad person, probably. I don't think so. I could be wrong. But you don't help me. You try, I think. But it doesn't work.
You tell me things I read about, and you try to reaffirm me about my feelings. You tell me to do things like "give positive enforcement" to myself. You tell me it helps.
I'm not sure you're wrong.
I'm not sure I wouldn't believe it.
But I'm sure I don't right now, and I do not want to lie to myself.
I am afraid of fooling myself. It scares me, not as spiders and needles do, but in a quieter way that makes up for it with frequency.
I can't believe you when you say good things about me; your job is to help me feel better, not to reinforce negativity. I'm not supposed to know your thoughts.
I don't feel like I can open up to you. I don't trust you. I talk to you, and it may seem like I trust you a bit, but I only tell you things that I would tell others. I'm open in ways you would think I'm not. You know a bit more than them; you know I don't particularly like myself. Do you know I don't trust future-me, because I know I forget? Do you know I drift during our sessions when you can't see most of me behind a screen? Maybe.
Do you know I don't talk about my feelings in-depth? Do you know I don't speak negative about my friends to anyone? Do you know I think I'm going nowhere in life?
I'm sure I'm too young to worry too hard. I'm also sure I don't worry enough about it. I'm sure I worry too much about what people think of me; I'm also sure those same people don't even think about me.
I'm sure I have no meaningful impact on lives I touch; my parents, sure. Maybe some friends. Where does "acquaintance" end and "friend" begin? Maybe people I care about don't feel the same. Maybe I don't feel as strongly as I think.
I'm not sure I would miss you. If you were switched out, I'm sure I'd feel a twinge of something; fear of change is nothing new. If you died, I'm sure I'd feel something stronger. I've only faced human death once. I don't remember it well. But I don't think we have a strong connection; I don't know I'd mourn. We don't have much to lose.
I think it might be cruel to say. I feel bad thinking about it. But I think it's natural, as well.
Therapist, I would thank you for your time, but I hope you never read this. I doubt you would. I'd certainly never tell.
And I likely won't again, ever.
Emotions don't feel good, often. I'd be afraid to lose them, if I felt that was a choice. I would keep them always. But that doesn't mean they're kind as often as I'd like.
You say I'm "good at expressing" myself. I think you're incredibly, incredibly wrong.
Goodbye, Therapist.
This is not a goodbye, really. I'll see you in two weeks. And another after that, and another after that, because I'm too complacent to ask for another therapist. I'll take this. Even if it doesn't help.
Goodbye Keyboard.
I'll see you when I go talk to online friends right after as a distraction from my thoughts; they're already leaving, replacing themselves with things I have no need to think about.
So really,
goodbye Document. I'll think of you, occasionally. But I don't think I'll review. Or reread. Just repress.
Bye.