Me and my therapist

I finally realized how much I needed someone to talk to without having to face any judgemental eyes or disappointed grins. So I got me a therapist. After only two sessions with him, I am actually feeling better and I have a kind of a positive view or more hope that things might have a slight chance of probably getting better.  I can tell him anything I want, all my little dark secrets hidden in a very dark faraway place inside of me. I can cry and laugh and be a bitch about something that I totally had to accept for the sake of my kids, my folks and even my job. I told him about my ex of course and I opened all hell’s doors and spitted my gut and slit open my chest and showed him how my heart held so many cracks and about to fall apart, cause a stupid ass, emotionally dead, selfish bastard and junkie decided I was a good enough a choice for a wife and a mother of his kids.
It felt good to cry and it felt even better to feel weak and helpless and scarred.  I want to face my nightmares and start afresh.  I want to fall apart and stand up again. My therapist told me I am no super woman. Well I had to be. I had no choice.  Two kids to care and provide for had to have a super mommy. Since daddy decided he would sit on his butt at forty cause he was a victim to drugs and his life fell apart and he is too weak to hold a job.
I get to hang my cape once a week now and show the world that I am made of flesh and not steel. It’s okay if that world consists of me and my therapist alone.  At least now I get to do that.

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