The Counselor's Couch, No. 2

Or, You just keep living

The Counselor’s Couch, No. 2

I’m never quite sure what to do with my hands while I sit here. Fold them over my lap, prim and proper and confident? That doesn’t really describe me. Cross my arms, and rest my hands just above each elbow? I’m sure I look angry. Set them down on the couch, next to my thighs, holding up my posture? I must look like I am uncomfortable, sitting here like that.

Today, I settle for rotating between all three options–folded and confident, crossed arms and angry, set down and uncomfortable. The constant movement of my hands seem to be a perfect reflection of my feelings. 

“I think I would like to talk about getting better. By myself. And I guess by that I mean, how do I be okay, how do I flourish, how do I heal–or even know what that looks like–completely independent of what I’m given, or told, or shown, from someone else?”

“Well,” she adjusts her position on the chair and moves one hand under her chin, “let’s dive into that,” she tells me.