My parents had me in therapy
From the age of thirteen,
But no matter how hard they tired
Shutting down became routine.
I think it takes a while to accept
That there is something terribly wrong;
Because once it is acknowledged you wonder,
Was I fucked up all along?
All the times I berated my parents,
And persecuted friends for being slack,
Was it I who was the monster?
And they who had my back?
It was not until I perused alone,
The “psychologist idea”
That I accepted what was wrong with me
And everything became clear.
Two years in of weekly sessions
And I arguably felt worse;
Although living in denial is bad,
Raw exposure is what hurts.
When someone finally hands you a mirror
That doesn’t enlarge or distort,
You’re forced to see what you are inside;
A little child who is distraught.
So how do you mature your soul
When your body and life are old?
When you’re wary of what people say
And challenge what you’re told.
I started to take on board,
The things my therapist had to say,
And just as I felt comfortable
He had to go away.
“Just another person giving up”,
My mind will spin these lies;
Because anyone who abandons me
Is a person I truly despise.
So I let my anger seep –
Out my eyes and out my words,
Cutting down his solutions
And refusing to be referred.
In time I am reminded, “the world
Does not revolve around you”
But I opened up to someone
And refuse to start anew.
And so here I stay,
Trapped by my fear of pain.
I question if it was all worth it
And wonder if I should try again.