Somewhere in the distance of my mind I hear my name being called and find myself heading towards the dark oak door at the end of the corridor. I feel as if I am walking deeper and deeper into the darkness and each step requires more effort than the last. The sounds from the ancient pipework along the walls seems to laugh at my struggle.
He is waiting for me and I shiver at the sight of his pin-striped suit clashing with his bold shirt. Entering the room I become a prisoner as the door closes behind me. He waits for me to sit down on the chair in front of the heavy leather topped desk and then sits opposite me, leaning back in an old hide upholstered chair. Lowering his bifocals to the edge of his nose, he peers over the lens towards me, making a mental note of what he thinks my body language is revealing.
My eyes wander round the room resting anywhere but on his face, my fingers fiddle with the crocheted edge of my cardigan. He was expecting me to say something, I know that, but I can't. My toes rub hard against the insoles of my shoes as if trying to make an escape route for me, and looking to the floor to avoid his stare, I notice he is wearing a different pair of shoes this week.
I desperately want to be heard, I want to say something to make him understand, but have no way of describing the vast blackness that engulfs me.
He is waiting for me and I shiver at the sight of his pin-striped suit clashing with his bold shirt. Entering the room I become a prisoner as the door closes behind me. He waits for me to sit down on the chair in front of the heavy leather topped desk and then sits opposite me, leaning back in an old hide upholstered chair. Lowering his bifocals to the edge of his nose, he peers over the lens towards me, making a mental note of what he thinks my body language is revealing.
My eyes wander round the room resting anywhere but on his face, my fingers fiddle with the crocheted edge of my cardigan. He was expecting me to say something, I know that, but I can't. My toes rub hard against the insoles of my shoes as if trying to make an escape route for me, and looking to the floor to avoid his stare, I notice he is wearing a different pair of shoes this week.
I desperately want to be heard, I want to say something to make him understand, but have no way of describing the vast blackness that engulfs me.
With my head down, I glance up to my notes on the desk and wonder what sort of person has been filed away in there. How accurate are the comments he has scribbled about me each week as we sit in the silence? What is the point of it all … I feel no different. I don't ‘feel’ at all. Feelings can be described, identified, recognised.
My heart beats as it tries to escape my body and be set free from the confines of my ribcage. An expert in creating external pain to curb internal torment I pinch hard into my skin, but this does nothing to distract me. Releasing my fingertips, the pain abandons me, I am alone …
As my eyes search the room for something, anything, to focus on, I catch a glimpse of his face and realise he is speaking, but his words are lost to me. There is no room left inside me. If I let in a single letter from his words, I will explode, but if I let go of anything, anything at all, the barrier will be broken. A wave of nausea passes through my body.
He closes my file indicating the ‘therapeutic’ hour is now over for him, but for me … nothing had changed.
May 2008
My heart beats as it tries to escape my body and be set free from the confines of my ribcage. An expert in creating external pain to curb internal torment I pinch hard into my skin, but this does nothing to distract me. Releasing my fingertips, the pain abandons me, I am alone …
As my eyes search the room for something, anything, to focus on, I catch a glimpse of his face and realise he is speaking, but his words are lost to me. There is no room left inside me. If I let in a single letter from his words, I will explode, but if I let go of anything, anything at all, the barrier will be broken. A wave of nausea passes through my body.
He closes my file indicating the ‘therapeutic’ hour is now over for him, but for me … nothing had changed.
May 2008
No comments:
Post a Comment