This blog is coming to you live from my therapist’s waiting room.
It’s a bit of a dated term, isn’t it? We don’t have to do much “just plain waiting” these days: we can catch up on our Facebook feed, text our niece for her birthday, check out next week’s weather – or even write a post for our blog!
I’m alone in this room, but I can hear the patient who’s currently with the therapist. She’s sobbing loudly. I’m not trying to hear her, and I’m certainly not eavesdropping, but there’s no escaping the sound. It’s quite distressing. I wonder whether her session will finish on time, or run over? I wonder how my therapist will be, afterwards? He’s always very professional, very detached. I assume he’ll be OK, and have the energy to listen to me next. I wonder whether he treats all his patients the same? I know how he reacts if I start crying.
The sound has died away now. I hope she’s feeling better and is able to leave her session relieved of whatever burdens she brought with her.
I would like to go in there and cry today, but I suspect I’m too numb. I can’t feel the emotional intensity which is appropriate to the events of this week. I know how I could feel, but I’m not experiencing it – at least, not on a level where I’m conscious of it.
My turn soon. The sobber has left, looking more or less composed.
I wish I could cry with such abandon, and leave looking as together as that.