Troy

I wrote this after my last session with my therapist at school. I had a hard time getting over the loss of a confidant and friend.

                A slightly older man sits across from me in a leather chair. He’s asking me some tough questions about myself. Challenging my thoughts, but always in a very kind, gentle manner. His blue eyes crinkle when I make a dumb joke about cats. He’s talking again, asking me to recap everything we’ve done in session. Then he tells what I’ve left out. At this point, we breathe in and out, preparing for the “real world.” We both stand and he opens the door. I follow him out until he disappears through another door and I am on my way out of White Hall.

                As I’m walking down the two flights of steps, I try to regain control of my emotions and facial expressions. To hide, I pull out my sunglasses and they cover up my eyes like a one-way mirror. I turn left and start up the hill and pass by Oscar-Ritchie Hall, where my Spanish class is. Then I walk through the basketball court behind the honors college and around Taylor Hall, which houses the May 4^th Visitors Center.

                My thoughts return to the man that I spent the past fifty minutes pouring my heart out to. How rare is it for one to subject themselves to crying week after week in front of an almost stranger? But then again, I’ve gotten to know him a little since then. He’s a twenty-four year old grad student for the Counseling program. He has a cat named Jinx. He is a vegetarian. He wears glasses sometimes and has a beard. He likes to run. He earned his BA in English from Kent. He is my therapist.

                In this session we exchanged letters and cards. We read them aloud to one another, and during my turn, I couldn’t read a word I had written. He suggested that I replace it with the word lasagna. Then we had trouble determining how to spell lasagna, hence “the lasagna tissue.” He wore mustache socks specifically for me. He also wore a bowtie. He looked very professional, as always.

                I am writing this because I fear that I will forget what a great experience this has been for me. I fear that I will see or hear something and wish that I could tell him. But he can’t be there to listen. He’s also graduating and we just finished our last session together. I am afraid that I will get bad again. I have been afraid of this Thursday for quite some time. Four o’clock came and went in the blink of a tearful eye.

                I am writing this for me, and also for him because we determined together that writing was a good outlet for me. That writing was going to be the way out being cooped up in my own mind. You can only write about something so many times before it doesn’t have a grip on you anymore.

Reviews

[Chad Sell]

In a short piece mostly about the therapist/counselor guy, I feel like I've gotten to know you a little bit. And I love the undercurrent of courage that seems to flow throughout this whole piece. There's no breakthrough moment or cure-all solution, but I finish reading it feeling inspired and hopeful. It's clearly from the heart. And for that, I admire you as a writer and a person.

[Rachel Mason]

Thank you! My therapist still means a lot to me. He helped me through a really tough time and taught me so many skills that I use to help myself and others. This was sort of a tribute to all of the work and effort he put into me. I am very honored to know that it inspired someone else.

[Harmartia Poe]

You sound exactly like Charlie from The Perks of Being a Wallflower and I love that. Those are my favorite kind of books. As much as I love flowery language, when words almost talk to you, they feel so real. Knowing you personally, I know how you feel about Troy, but this is so captivating for those who don't. Keep it up, baby girl :)