the back room

The room is dimly lit, mostly by lava lamp. I'm sitting on a plush black leather corner couch. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall. There is shouting on the other side of the wall. It feels like I'm in the office of a nightclub circa 1985. But instead of a nightclub owner, the mustached man in the room with me is my therapist. And despite the lamp, couch, mirror, shouting or even the mustache, I feel safe with him. He asks questions and the answers just spill out of my mouth, even the ones I had planned to withhold for a while. At some point he says the words "family history" and tears fall against my will. In the mirror I see her...the girl who is crying in front of a stranger, the girl who feels stupid talking about herself. And suddenly I remember why I hate therapy.

Not that I expect any of you to hold hands with me and go skipping into a depression blog, but I haven't been feeling great lately. And I finally got that appointment. And now I am "in therapy." And I'll probably blog about it some.