I sat alone on that plush couch that I always hated—so fancy yet so uncomfortable. So very uncomfortable. You don’t understand me. No, I don’t think you do. I sat alone on this empty couch waiting—just waiting. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. When my name was called, I sprung up too eager—yes eager. My brain, the jumbled mess it was, pulled me along into the room to be tested again. Poked again. Disappointed again.
This would be the cycle until someone got it right.
And it couldn’t be me. I couldn’t depend on myself for this—if I could, it would have already been done.
Ded. The desperation and desire to be healed
