Letters to the Void

The shrink

"Breathe" she cooed. Pulling me out of my thoughts

I open my eyes to her emerald ones.

This is my 50th session with Ms. Kitridge. She was a middle-aged woman originally from Manhattan. She quickly got tired of the hustle and bustle of the city and moved here. To shitsville. (Ok, that wasn't really the actual name of the town but that's just how I feel about it)

Today we didn't achieve a damn thing but me choking on my own tears, gasping for air. Shaking like a heroin addict. Possibly even worse even though I'd never touched it. Most I ever did was amphetamines for finals week.

"Tell me in the most detailed way you can how you feel"

"It feels like they've got a gun at my head 24/7 but instead of pulling the trigger they're digging the barrel into my skull; hoping to make a hole as painfully as possible"

Her expression remained neutral. That always reassured me that she wasn't judging nor pitying me. I could help but fall back into my thoughts as I got lost in her medium length red hair, glowing perfectly with the sunlight seizing its opportunity to shine its rays through the blinds.

She was divorced. I was widowed.

I often found myself more comfortable with the males of the species. Partly because of the atrocities my mother committed at my expense.

But Ms. Kitridge was disarming. I trusted her. But that isn't to say I didn't hold back certain things that would get her to commit me; no matter how many defenses of mine she managed to knock down, I wasn't letting her in that easily. This was business, like most things.

Nevertheless, she was one of the few people I entrusted with letting myself go. Receding back into my 5-year-old mind always left me gasping for air. The vivid memory of receiving one punch after another; stuttering and screaming for them to stop.

I wanted to slip. I so desperately desired to tell her how I wished I could have the guts to hang myself. To no longer awake to hear the Idiocracy blaring through the television set. Or the animosity in the streets. Or feel the manipulation in the sheets...

This is not to say I had any sexual desire for Ms. Kitridge. I didn't know what to consider her. A mother-figure? A friend? A foe? All three encircled my mind

Why wasn't I honest? These conversations are only confidential to the point where SHE deems I'm no longer in control of my faculties and become a danger to HER.

And so it went on like this. Week after week. Day after day. I'd arrive at her office at 8:30 AM on the dot. With impotent rage building within me, waiting to burst through my ribcage like a Xenomorph. A catastrophic beauty born out of another's pain and anguish. I'd then leave as grief-stricken as before. Heart heavy with the weight my friend's death. Or my father's disappointment in me striving to be just like him.