May 27, 2026 - Chiasmus

A book is just a book.

I hugged it at the airport. I set it on top of my pillow. I promised to custody it, cried sideways on it, left a mark, and felt immensely guilty for ruining it. I wrapped it in my favorite shirt, and carried it around like a child. I perched it on the windowsill so it could soak up some sun and vit d.

A therapy session is just 60 mins.

"I'll always be everything you needed me to be."

A promise spoken like a threat.

"Thankfully therapists have really good boundaries."

A threat spoken like a promise.

I worry about the decades of un-love projected onto you. Surely not one person in any existence is meant to carry an adult's lifetime of unmet attachment needs.

It was always meant to be me. That was my job.

I was conscripted to carry these feelings, contradictions, emotions, love, and grief. To be the seer, the holder, the provider, the lover, and the supporter of myself.

So many roles for a person who has no idea how to do any of it for herself. For others, sure.

And then you come along, you're trained for this. This is what you do best. And I still don't know how to let you do it.

“You can always email me.”

I don’t.

“What’s going through your mind?”

I have never been more known than how I’m known in this room and it somehow still falls short.