Dedicated to.. | Chapter 10: Therapy
A Collection of Short Stories on the Flower That Grew From Concrete
I spent a growing number of hours lying down on the mid-century modern velvet couch, breathing in therapeutic aromas of lavender that gently erupted from the Japanese essential oils diffuser — embracing the controlled sensory elements. Doing exactly just that, lying.
Even in an open environment, such as therapy, fear haunted me from telling my truth.
Her name was Diana, my therapist.
Diana is a middle-aged, second-generation, Asian-American woman, so I’m not sure how much she related to my personal experiences.
I believed it would have been beneficial if Diana directly related to my experiences. Yet my options were limited. It was hard to come across a therapist that looked like me. In this country, there weren’t enough accessible therapists to go around.
I had to make do.
It was expected that I’d repeat jokes I recently saw on Twitter during our sessions, but I never got a laugh. I think Diana saw right through my attempted humor as an escape mechanism from getting to the truth.
Outside of our sessions, there hadn’t been much progress. Or so, that’s how I felt. Like I was failing in therapy.
My insecurities had always been rooted inside of myself, and even with therapy, they’ve been hard to shake.
I had a confident ability to hold back. It was hard for me to ever let go. To be vulnerable. To express. To share my truths.
Often, I questioned myself, “Maybe therapy isn’t working, after all, Trey.” “Maybe, I should take it to Jesus,” as much of the older generation proposed when it came to conflicting emotional distress. “But, I’d have to be truthful with him too,” I would contemplate.
In due time, I’d realize that I was only failing myself. Therapy was as helpful as I was honest.
DEDICATED TO..
is a collection of flash fiction short stories on the stages of life we grow through, the battle of youthfulness, and the transition into adulthood.