Therapy

I’ve lived my whole life underwater, you see. A long time ago, when they asked me if I’d rather burn or drown, I chose to drown. It was not an easy decision. But the very second my choice was made I was dragged down to the depths.

I’ve lived that way ever since. The pressure of the ocean above me, my lungs collapsing under the weight. It hurt, yes. Every day the pain was nearly unbearable, but in time, I grew accustomed to the quiet. The weight of the world above me became the blanket I used to hide from the demons in the dark. It was so easy to become comfortable in the discomfort.

But now, once a week, I sit in the chair across from you. You, who swam down to the depths and grabbed me by my hair. You, who forced me from the water and threw me into the fire. For my own good, you tell me. After so many years underwater only the flames can dry you to the bone, you say.

And all I can do is scream that it’s not fair. I beg you to understand that I made my choice all those years ago. I chose the weight of the ocean to avoid the sting of the flames. And now you tell me that after a lifetime of drowning, in order to survive, I have to burn anyway.

And this is healing, you say. This is the pain being scorched to ash. So, you pour gasoline onto the fire and you encourage me to burn as the flames lick their way into my soul.

Burn, you say. For weeks. Months. Years if you have to.

Burn.

And then.

Rise.