An excerpt from a longer work about magic wands.
In my very first therapy session, my therapist held up her pen. “Imagine for a moment,” she said, “that this pen is a magic wand. If I waved it, what would happen? What would be the thing that would make this all better?”
The answer immediately popped into my head. It popped into my head before she had even finished her question. It had popped into my head as soon as she said the words, “magic wand.” Because I had written a poem about what I would want. It’s almost a little embarrassing how quick my answer was, and a little embarrassing how hesitant I was to share that answer with her.
I remember avoiding her eyes. I remember looking down at my hands as I anxiously picked at my cuticles — a bad habit I am constantly trying to break. “It’s funny,” I replied, “I knew what I wanted before you even finished asking the question.” There was a pause; she always waits for me to speak before adding in her voice. I let out a big sigh and then, “He’d be back.” And then, all those tears I had been holding in out of fear she would judge them came pouring out.
“Your tears are welcome here,” she told me. So, I cried.
She knows to focus the moments he comes up on me and my feelings, not him. What he did — and how he did it — isn’t important, at least not anymore. What he feels isn’t really important, either. There isn’t a magic wand in this whole world that is going to change what happened. What is important now is me and how I move forward — how I must learn to renavigate my world without him.
There also isn’t a magic wand that will help me with that. It’s something I’m going to have to do on my own (and with a little support).
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