"i want to be classified."

there were few things i truly wanted to talk about sitting on a plush maroon couch with a box of tissues staring invitingly from the other cushion in a dim room. i sat with my hands between my knees, glancing at the cream colored tissues puckering out of the box.

fuck.

no art on the walls. a small tape recorder on the table. tasteful lamp and a few brochures about group therapy. a doctor propped up in the chair across from me, eyes never moving from my face.

fuck.

i almost started crying in the lobby. this was the energy in this place. i sat down to fill out the general paperwork, and i felt my body began to rock ... my lip break. stop it. stop it. stop it. name. address. phone. name of person who died. circumstances surrounding this death. relationship to deceased.

fuck.

so, i went in and talked nervously for the hour. i cried, defending myself from memories that i never wanted in the first place. mainly, it was the hospital and the ultimate decision. sometimes, it was my panic attacks at night and why i don't sleep. once, it was why can't i talk to new people now?

fuck.

i came home and emptied my pockets of eight or so crumbled kleenexes that i absent-mindedly stuffed into my hoodie as they became useless. explorer and i fell asleep on our couches to empire records on vh1.

and that, my friends, is how therapy goes in my world.