You could have a big dipper   

Therapy, 10am by Allison Black




Shuffle in. Can’t stand, must sit. Try to arrange my limbs, get settled (as if that were remotely possible). Seated, the two of us, you watch me. I don’t know what to do with my face. I know you are trying to read it. I am self-conscious. I am getting this wrong, this therapy thing. I am failing. The white noise in my head spills out through my face as I wrestle it. Your eyes are burning my skin. I will never be comfortable with an audience, even a private, caring audience like you. My face squirms. I try to still it, to freeze it, to pull it into line. I am failing. You are reading the white noise and trying to make sense of it, but there is no sense in white noise. Your questions reverberate, tumbling jumbled, as I trudge and stumble through the suffocating fog of panic. It’s a mess. I’m a mess. Thoughts are floppy now, refusing to form. My words are lost, walking in circles, banging into bone. I am failing. The self-hate roars, rages, tearing at my insides. I can feel my blood rushing through my veins, but I cannot feel my fingers. The clock’s tick-tick-tick is gaining on me, grating. Time is broken in here. Breathing is hard. So hard. I am gasping. There is no air why is there no air I need air. I think I will implode, I am certain, it is happening, it is—

but we’re done.


Same time next week?



Allison Black is a queer, disabled writer who has a very tricky brain and a BA in Creative and Professional Writing. She currently resides on Dja Dja Wurrung land in regional Victoria, Australia with her awesome rescue cat, Astrid. You can find them both on Twitter @crashing_silent.

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