Part 8: to all the therapists I’ve (n)ever loved - segment two
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When I meet my psychiatrist, everything is funny. He’s a middle-aged man, very serious. It’s hard to imagine him laughing, hugging his child, blowing out the candles on a birthday cake, though I try. And the heaviness of his presence alone is enough for me to invite in humour where it rarely is. There, in that sterile office that makes not even a clinic attempt at warmth, I meet his slow-blinking eyes, and tell him, in between smiles, the troubles of my life.
Part 8: to all the therapists I’ve (n)ever loved - segment two
Part 8: to all the therapists I’ve (n)ever…
Part 8: to all the therapists I’ve (n)ever loved - segment two
When I meet my psychiatrist, everything is funny. He’s a middle-aged man, very serious. It’s hard to imagine him laughing, hugging his child, blowing out the candles on a birthday cake, though I try. And the heaviness of his presence alone is enough for me to invite in humour where it rarely is. There, in that sterile office that makes not even a clinic attempt at warmth, I meet his slow-blinking eyes, and tell him, in between smiles, the troubles of my life.