"So, how are you feeling?" my therapist cooes. "Here, let me show you your distress chart." We get up and go over to her computer that is surrounded by sayings like "We Can't Choose What Happens To Us But We Can Choose How We React" and other things I generally react to by rolling my eyes. She points at the sloping and rising lines on her chart, the part in red, and now, she says, the numbers are showing that I'm happier than I used to be.
My mom picks me up. “How are you feeling, my smiley daughter?” Her voice sounds like a party next door when I’m trying to fall asleep.
My brain is full of mosquitos that leave my head both swollen and empty. “I’m fine, Mom. How was your PTA meeting?”
Last week my mom told me she wanted me to get fixed. To be like I was before. I don’t really know what she means. I told her that people who aren’t sad and angry all the time maybe just need to pay more attention to the world. She said I was cynical. I said I was hurt. We were probably both right.
Each morning, I watch the sun rise like a question, pitch increasing as it peaks. It’s probably asking me a question about myself that I don’t know the answer to.
I watch the heavens a lot for someone who never seems to hear back from God. Sometimes I wonder if God is one of those people who likes to sit in silence in long car trips and feels like that’s bonding. I’m more of the talkative type, even if it means I’m talking about the weather (which I, for one, think is a fascinating topic of conversation).
Praying makes me feel like an amputee, reaching for God like a phantom touch. It’s been a while since I felt like the heavens were opened to me. But I still believe in them.
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