Short, straight black hair. Eyes of deepest blue. Tanned skin. Tall. Clipboard in hands. Composed and perfect. A gaze that attempts to peel back my layers to see the weak, shredded creature I am inside. Words that aid in the attempt. This is my therapist.

Every session I sit in a cold, impersonal room across from this person. A session that always ends with "I understand that this is hard on you but I'm here to help". The kindly tone would convince a stupider person. A more gullible one. The tone I hear screams fake.

Understand me? No. I think not. This therapist is just like every other: faking for the sake of money. How can someone like that understand me? Even I can't understand me. I have long ago resigned myself to that fact. I am unknowable. I am tired. I am unreachable. I... am... weak.