The amount I was once willing to pay to rid myself of my mother was my own life.

The least I can do at this point is a week with the person I’ve determined to be the best therapist for my particular brand of possession.

That is how it feels. Like a splinter of my mother’s evil is inside of me and not only does it cause chaos in my life but it tries to prevent me from getting help.

I’m afraid to see this therapist, I think. No, I correct myself, my mother is afraid for me to see the therapist.

She hated me for needing help as a child.

You can see this all over my life now at just a glance.

I’ve grown into an adult who once, when taken off guard, yelled “don’t touch me!”, startling the kind clerk at the self check out when she tried to assist me with my groceries.

I’m not afraid to see the therapist.

But I am afraid of being found not worthy of his help in some way.

I am afraid of the feelings that arise when I feel disappointed that he has some important issue in his life preventing him from giving me, a stranger, what I want.

And I am afraid of entering into a relationship that will begin the moment our voices connect digitally.

Relationships of any intensity have hurt me way too much.

I prefer my trees, thanks.

I’ve found some solace in meeting the person out here that I thought I always wanted to meet.

I was surprised to find that I feel less empty inside. Or maybe now I am more numb to the emptiness.

Inspired by S, I am googling Stoic Philosophy.

Lately, I have been longing for the ocean.


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