My therapist takes notes, but they are not to detail what I have told her. Every statement I make, leads to a revelation about another patient. At the end of each session, there is a small stack of papers for me to take home. I fill them out immediately, giving little thought to the questions. I answer what I think is most appropriate. We go through the worksheets together, neither one of us really caring for the process. She is incompetent, and I am apathetic.
I am hosting another of the dictator’s relatives. He has heard much about me. I say it hardly applies anymore. I mention that the hellhound has passed away. He looks down, promising to be a gentle guest. He is a man of his word. The discomfort is bearable, but he has taken my voice. No harm done.
The only thing one can say to most people who are a part of their past is, you were not that great. Really, oh really, this should come as a shock to no one at all. We leave those we felt unworthy of, or those we felt were unworthy of us.