
I look forward to coming to these counselling sessions every week because i know i need help, because i need answers, and i know i can't do it alone anymore. However, every time she opens her door and discreetly speaks my name to signal she's ready for me, i always feel a little sorry i came.
It is the initial silence that is the most unbearable, the awkward silence as i walk toward her and through the entryway into her office, the forced small talk that i always start in an attempt to relieve the uncomfortable silence-the small talk that she knows is a sign i can't handle the silence, a sign to me that i can't.
Exhausting all my observations on the weather with little help from her, i take my usual seat, looking out the window. I feel her eyes gaze at me unabashedly, notepad in front of her, pen poised.