Therapy, Part I

I feel dead inside.
And thank goodness I write
at least some of it out,
to know there is an outlet.
But the paper doesn't listen.
It provides space, that's all.
It can't give feedback.
It can't anchor me.

I write that I know
how much you try to help.
I see you,
but it's like you're offering
me a lifeboat
and I'm too lost at sea
to reach it,
to know any sense of direction.

You say this cycle must be tiring,
and what should be validating
makes me feel so much worse.
Because you can't
prevent me from sinking.
I'm the one who has to call.
I'm the one who has to
let others in.
I'm the one who has to
put in the work.

And I do.
You tell me to give myself credit.
I show up, each week, on time.
I work through the uncomfortable.
Most times, I can't even sit
because anxiety takes over,
hugging myself against a wall,
wondering when I'll feel the
undeniable proof of comfort,

of unconditional love.

I tell you how ironic it is
that I'm holding on to be strong,
but it's because I don't want
any of my pain to be used
against me (again).

I'm tired, everything takes effort,
but you say I'll make it through the storm.
I always do,

(why must it feel this impossible?)