Where My Ghosts Come Out to Play

 

The room is tastefully decorated
Respectful distance is kept between her desk near the door and the comfortable chair that I decided the first time we met will be mine
Arms folded tightly across my chest,
hands in unconscious fists
Small table next to me holds kush balls and engraved stones with reassuring words like hope and peace and a box of tissues that I do not like to need
Art on the walls is soothing colors
mostly abstract compositions
except for the print of  colorful umbrellas that rests on the floor against the small filing cabinet
This is my favorite
She keeps the office lights dim and I watch the dust motes dance in the open space between us
Where do we start talking about the trauma? asks the kind voice across the room
Where do we start?! I ask myself
The usually tightly barred door that swings slowly open on rusty hinges
that makes a loud noise of protest
(or maybe that’s me)
is the door labeled “loss
My ghosts start to emerge from that cavernous space one by one until the room is full of transparent shapes standing around us curious to find themselves exposed to the light
how does it feel to talk about this with feeling?
without your usual detachment
to not discuss this as if you reporting the news?
it fucking hurts I think sarcastically to myself
snapping the rubber band she has given me to help me stay grounded with increasing  force against the tender skin of my wrist
and then force myself to stop
under her concerned eye
reminding myself that I really do not want to keep hurting myself
being my own worst enemy
inflicting my own wounds

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved

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