Flimsiness, Litmus Tests, & Zoom Therapy

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In an ideal world, this sentence would not exist, and this essay would have ended already. Truthfully, I didn’t know I’d be writing more, much less writing to complicate a success, but after returning to my first draft of this piece three-and-a-half months later, I was overcome with the realization that what I had written no longer represents how I feel. 

I remember the euphoria of leaving therapy fondly. During our last appointment, my therapist showed me a graph comparing how I had scored on the intake assessment prior to and after our time together. In the column representing depression, I had dipped from the blaring red zone to the thin line between yellow and green, an undeniable improvement that made me feel like I had won something, beaten myself. In my burst of optimism, I envisioned steadily pushing toward the green and not having to remember how it felt to sit in the opposite color. 

But months passed, and things changed, as they always will. I can’t locate the catalyst— maybe the onslaught of mind-numbing work; maybe poem rejection upon rejection; maybe the moments where I smiled and nodded but found I still had nothing to say; maybe my graduation date hurtling toward me and what the hell am I going to do if I can’t figure everything out; maybe every single mistake I’ve ever made, memories I couldn’t get rid of; maybe the way I refused to be proud; maybe the uselessness of begging myself to try.

So I stayed up all night, many nights, that invisible ocean shaking my bed. One of these nights, I gave in to the emails my university periodically sends to remind us of a new mental health service meant to supplement our twelve session maximum. The site provided a box to list concerns I’d like to discuss prior to confirming my appointment. Sleeping issues, I typed easily, swallowing fatigued laughter as 4AM turned to 5AM.

As much as I still want to end this essay on an upbeat note, I spent the first (spoiler: and only) appointment grasping for words and hoping the therapist would smile or soften her tone. I ended the meeting early and texted a friend. 

Maybe I’ll try someone else, I offered, despite knowing I wouldn’t be able to open up again just yet. 

I think she saw right through me. I’m proud of you for putting yourself back out there though, she responded, regardless. 

In two weeks, I let a message from the therapist drift to the bottom of my inbox, unanswered, and I still haven’t found it in me to book another appointment, either with the same person or another. That leaves me here, sitting at my desk and watching my word count climb upward in search of a happy ending. 

I’m realizing that I could continue writing this essay forever, constantly chasing an ending more impossible than the last. In the short amount of time I spent with the third therapist, she likened my violent need for external validation to the futility of a shopping addiction— and she was right. There’s nothing to win here, no box to check, no antidote to make everything go away.  

I even oversimplified that graph I mentioned before: in the column representing anxiety, the tiny dot representing me was still in the red, even after a largely generative and healing time spent in therapy. Try not to think about it in terms of passing or failing, my therapist had encouraged. You may never test into the green zone, and that’s okay. 

I don’t know what color palette I’ll find myself in next, or how smoothly I’ll transition if I resume counseling through my university with a new therapist (as my old one, the second therapist, has unfortunately left)— but as I return to the rudimentary list I wrote months ago and my later attempt to scramble it into something prettier, this much is clear: I want to buy flowers for myself, even if they’ll eventually die. I want to memorize new numbers. I want to remember the faces of everyone who keeps me going, and when I do, I want to tell you all about them. And I want to keep trying, even if luck escapes me. 

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Would you buy flowers 

for yourself? Can you 

tell me all the people who would? 

The people who have? 

Are you looking forward to what comes next? 

Can you visualize

yourself there? Where are you 

standing? How 

are your knees? How does it feel to dial 

your memorized numbers? 

What do you say 

when they pick up? 

Do you trust your luck? If I tell you 

luck was never a part of it, 

what then? Are you 

translating people’s faces with kindness? 

How afraid are you of their teeth? 

How afraid are you of yours? 

— “litmus test” in Marías at Sampaguitas¹

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[1] Some exciting news: I recently found out that I’m going to have a book of poetry published next year, and this is the second-to-last poem of the collection. In other words, things are looking up again, and I’m trying to enjoy it. Hoping things are getting sunnier where you are, too.

— p. 3/3