I rocked back and forth on the couch cushion as the therapist gazed into me. Even though I could recall a previous therapist telling me it was nothing to be ashamed of and it was just my way of consoling myself, I still felt like I looked crazy. But that was nothing new, I had always felt defective, for lack of a better word. Still, it was nothing I could ever get used to.
“Why do you think your anxiety is so high?” She asked.
I kept my gaze on the floor, rocking back and forth. “How do I explain my feelings right? There aren't words to explain this. The more I go on, the less sense everything makes.”
The tears began to well up in my eyes, but I pushed them back. I didn't want to be pitied on top of everything else. Being pitied made me feel like the bad guy.
After a long pause, the therapist glanced at the clock. “Well, we are out of time. But next time, let's work on addressing your thoughts, okay?”