Juliet Cook

I've lived inside my mind for decades
(a stranger who has talked to me for an hour doesn't know me)

In my mind, my first therapist questioned the way I dressed,
suggested that I dressed to get attention even though in my mind
I dressed the way I dressed because that was my own style
and what's wrong with expressing oneself? He said that nobody cared;
that nobody looked at me the way I thought they did.
I had no idea how anyone looked at me.
I didn't want to be stared at. I just wanted to be me.
He insinuated that my mind's style was wrong.
Then he asked me about my sex life.

My second therapist suggested I should learn to drive
and get my license even though I didn't want to.
I told her right away that I didn't want pills prescribed,
but she recommended pills anyway. She said it would tone me down
as though that was a good thing; as if controlling my emotions was a positive.
She told me I wouldn't be able to cry while watching sad movies.

A past friend of mine who worked as a therapist was as mentally fucked up as me
and some of my other friends. She quickly blocked me on social media
as soon as I didn't give her what she wanted. She didn't bother trying
to communicate about why. Other people pay her to listen to them
and suggest what they should or shouldn't do; how they should or shouldn't feel.
I think some people who have trouble handling themselves and their own emotions
would rather act like experts in front of others.

But what do I know? I'm no expert on anything except that
I'm pretty sure I can interpret my own mind
better than anyone else can, especially strangers.
My third therapist yelled at me for getting upset
about my own brain damage. I don't remember much
of what she told me.  She mostly just handed me generic
paperwork tests to take home and bring back to the next session.

The person who drove me to my third therapist appointments just sat in the car
and waited. I'd walk into the waiting room, sit by myself and wait.
One time in that waiting room, I saw a man I used to work with.
We both recognized each other and attempted to talk to each other,
but neither of us could quickly and easily get the words out,
in order to explain exactly why we were there.
When I had my turn in that therapist's office, she acted like
she could assess my brain in less than an hour,
but she knew nothing about me or my poetry.