A Therapist Writes

I judge you, dear one. Even though you graciously bow and listen, quietly refuting, every time I do.  I judge your thin hair and your pale skin. I judge every ridge, every blemish, everything that’s not quite in place.

I try to change you, dear one. I try to squeeze you into spaces you don’t belong. Try to morph you into new shapes, into new forms, into something you are not.

I want you to be perfect, dear one. From the tip of your nose, to the crown of your head, to the gap in your teeth- that gap I have willed to close so many times. From your soft belly to round butt, your strong thighs and wide ankles, I’ve tried to scale you down, make you smaller, less robust.

I fight you, dear one. I struggle, wrestle, wring out every drop I can. I dive down deep- deep in your belly, deep in your lungs, and I desperately grasp for something more, scream and persist and demand something more.

But you persist, dear one. You remain steadfast against my strivings. You stand up against me and proclaim, “we are perfect, we are whole, we are complete.”

You insist upon it.

You carry me when I cannot move. You fill and empty my lungs when I don’t bother to notice. You beat my heart, mend my hurts, fire neurons from brain cell to brain cell. When I do not believe you, you know differently. You hold onto what I cannot-

We are perfect, we are whole, we have always been and always will be, complete.