Your Did It ☆ IOP
I showed up to group therapy on time.
I didn’t pull off of the side of the highway to “box breathe” while cars zipped past, rocking my car’s red frame.
I kept my eyes open and held my tongue when Tracey said she had sex with her ex–again–even though he doesn’t want her back.
I said hello to Matt. I asked him if anxiety was still giving him stomach aches, or if he had ever watched The Good Place. He hadn’t. Then the new facilitator walked in.
When the new mother talked about checking her rearview mirror thirteen times–just in case she hit someone–I told her about my childhood compulsion: I had to step on the sidewalk crack dead center, or I would get stuck in place. If I skipped one, I’d make my mother late for work because I had to go back and try again. She nodded along.
I might have napped during meditation, but I didn’t cry.
I let my “thought records” be read by the entire group, since no one wanted to volunteer as the example. “Call me Jen” frowned when we made eye contact, but the old facilitator isn’t coming back, so I will have to make do.
During the break, I refilled the water for the coffee machine and put out a box of tea to share. I tried to smile with my eyes, but not my mouth.
When Susie says she’s tired of her suicidal ideation, I perk up. Like, it’s not even interesting anymore, she shrugs. Just a constant, dull “there-ness.” Like washing the dishes on Saturday. A fly that keeps almost landing on your face.
You want to kill it, but it never lands quite close enough to slap
Kara J Page: “I earned my undergraduate degree in Creative Writing from Waldorf University, and my work has also appeared in Make Magazine, Palooka, and Pink Panther Magazine. I was born and raised in the Rocky Mountains, but I call the Midwest my home.”