the therapist

 

There's a burden in being loved.  Sometimes, I know I say too much.  Overpromise.  Sometimes, I hold back.  Underwhelm.  I think she's the one.  Whispers in the back of my mind.  I don't think it would be fair to say this aloud.  I am not comfortable on this couch.

For what it's worth, I'm pathologically self aware to the point of paralysis.  I know it's love when it hurts.  Finding balance.  The worse part of talking with you is the silence.  Only because I hear how ridiculous I sound.   Like now.  Like every day, we talk.

There's a burden in feeling unlovable.  But I'm not unloved.  I want the best for her.   The hardest thing for an only child to come to terms with.  I won't cry over hypotheticals.  I am not comfortable on this couch looking up at you.

I get these dreams where I am transported back in time.   Doesn't feel like a mid life crisis.  I am comfortable at this stage of life.  Sometimes, I write down these thoughts.   Overthinking.  Sometimes, I let these words float around aimlessly.  Uncompromising.

In a perfect world.  I always stop myself there.  What's perfect for me is not necessarily perfect for her.  These dreams where I am transported back in time are cloaked in loneliness.  I was too busy to notice then.  And I still don't feel lonely.  I think she's the one.  Loneliness isn't why.  It's not fair to tell her.   I am uncomfortable on your couch.

For what it's worth, you and me.  

Therapy.

Things I'd never tell my therapist.