January 12, 2011.
7:02 pm.
The therapist handed me a tissue as I began to breakdown.
The tears poured out of my eyes and I couldn't make them stop.
The therapist comforted me.
“I understand how painful that must have been for you.” She said. “Oh yeah. It still hurts.” I said.
“Are you still holding on to your pain? Is that why you went back to drinking?” She asked.
“Yes. I tried my hardest not to drink again, but losing my husband triggered my relapse. I ended up getting drunk at least three days a week.” I said.
“Blake being a new gay kid at his school made him the target of bullying. He started coming home with bumps and bruises, but I was usually too drunk to care. I feel like he gave up on me at some point.” I continued.
I sobbed. “Everyone did. Especially my parents. I still feel guilty because this is basically my fault. If I hadn't…”
“You're beating yourself up again. I know that guilt can eat away at you from the inside, but you have to let it go.” The therapist said.
“I want to let go.”
“Then do it. Learn to forgive. Value who you are now, Erica.”
“Should I even call myself that?”
“I can’t answer that for you. That’s your decision, whoever you want to be.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay.” I said.
My therapist clicked her pen. “Well. I think that was all the time we had left for today.” She said.
I took a final sip of water. “Okay, thank you.”
I got up and began to leave.
“Never forget, I’m here to help you.” The therapist said.
“I appreciate you.” I said.
“Same time next week?” She asked me.
“Yes. And next time…”
“I’ll bring my son.” I said, closing her door behind me as I left her office.
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