Fucking feelings

“Tell me how you feel.”

How should I answer that question? I knew I needed help with all the feelings in me. I had to tell someone, but as I sat in that plush and deep chair at the therapists’ office, I could not get anything out. Where to start? What to tell him?

I could tell him I dropped out of one of my classes. My ex is taking that class, and I could not stand to watch his smug face every day, standing there with our friends, his friends now, and talking shit about me. Telling them it is my fault that we broke up, instead of being a gentleman and telling them the truth. That I broke up with him because he did not understand boundaries, especially the ‘no means no’ thing, that mothers really should teach their small boys.

However, what feelings could convey the way I felt? I could say I felt angry, but that would not do justice to the white glowing ball of hot iron that was stuck in my throat. The pain of that iron, the struggle to get that fucking thing out, how could I ever tell him about that so he would understand?

I could tell him about my birthday last week, where no one arrived. It was because of my ex that no one arrived of course. I had planned a fun little party with my friends in our apartment. My ex and mine. We had been together for a long time after all, and shared a flat together a couple of miles from the college. He was a co-administrator on the Facebook-page of the arrangement, and a couple of days before the party, he just cancelled the whole thing. He told everyone that I would not have a party since I was devastated from the breakup, but that he would host another party, the same day, in a clubhouse at the college. Of course, he did not tell me, and every one of our, my, his, friends went to that party instead.

I could tell my therapist that, but what would be the point? He would just tell me that I needed to understand the actions of my ex, setting myself in his shoes. How does he feel about all this? How would I know how he felt? I did not even understand what I felt about all this! I could tell him I was angry with my ex, of course, but that is normal. I would not need a clinician to understand and know that everyone felt anger toward their ex.

Alternatively, I could tell him about the call to my mother. The demented women, only 58 years old, that did not understand the difference between up, down and all the things between. Still, I called her every Sunday. I had done that since I moved out to college, and even though she remembered less and less every week, I still called her. When she answered her phone, she always asked who was calling. I always told her it was her child. Her only child. She asked every time if she had a child. She sounded confused. Angry. I knew she was angry at the world for doing this to her. Making her forget who she was. That did not help when she directed her anger at me, her child.

She was the only family I had left.

How could that feeling of anger at the world, and sorrow for a women that brought me to life, be translated to words? What words would be good enough to tell the therapist that would make him understand the wrongness of those feelings together.

If you had never been mad at someone you love, because you love them, then you would never understand the pressure in the legs. The tingling of blue anger that swelled the knees and made the thighs grow restless. The feeling that no punk-song in the world would be enough to calm yourself. No amount of exercise, no amount of comfort food, no fucking amount of any goddamn thing would be enough to calm the body. How can a person who has not experienced that, understand?

Every story was there for the taking. Every store was tellable. I just knew that he would not understand why I told the story. I knew that, no matter how hard I tried, I would not be able to explain what these stories meant to me. What these stories said about my feelings now. What these stories had done to my body. Because, even though I knew every word I would use, even though I could look them up in the dictionary and understand their meanings, the word would not be what I wanted them to be. They would not be the words I needed for his understanding. Words was too clinical. Too sterile. Too little.

In addition, I did not know this man. How would I know that he understood the words as I understood them? How would I know if he could help me, just from me telling him about my feelings? Even though I found the right words, which was difficult in of itself, how would I know if it was the right words for telling this particular person in front of me?

“I feel fine” was all I managed to say. All I could say. All I could accept myself to say. All he would understand.

“You do not look fine Daniel.”

How the hell could he know how I felt just from looking at me? Only I knew how I felt, and I did not understand it. The hot iron ball in my throat almost jumped up onto him, but I held it down.

“It’s just much at school. Tired, that’s all.”

“It does not look like just tiredness Daniel. You look depressed. Hollow and blue eyes, like you have not slept in a long time. You are draping the chair, your body hanging down on itself. You are crying, Daniel.”

That old man. That fucking old man. Yes, I was tired. Yes, I had not slept well in a long time, but that did not mean anything! How dare he think that just because he could spot those things about me, he could understand my fucking feelings?

“Daniel, there has to be a reason that you contacted me.”

Well, there was. However, how to tell him? How to make him understand what kind of help I needed? I just tried.

“I have all these feelings in me; I just can’t get them out.” My voice was a low murmur. It sounded awkward.

“That is normal Daniel. Practice. Try to get something out."

“I’m tired.” I whispered.

“I want to help you Daniel, I really do, but that is hard if you are not letting me inn. Try to explain your feelings to me Daniel. Maybe tell me some things that has happened?”

“I can’t. I do not understand. I don’t…” my voice broke. My face twitched. It was so hard to be in control in front of the therapist.

“Ok, if you say so Daniel.” His voice was low, and his head bowed when he spoke. I knew he understood that there are more feelings inn I than I accept. More than I said aloud. “I think we should meet again next week. To practice at getting your feelings out into the open. Would same time next week be ok?” he asked me.

“Sure.”

I stood up, grabbed my stuff, and walked out of that office. The tears stinging my eyes, saying more than words ever could.