1 Therapy Session #9

They've just been staring at each other.

Neither of them has said a single word since their last screaming match.

I couldn't blame them, though. It was pretty intense.

Words were said, and none could be taken back, no matter how hard they tried.

But, honestly? I don't think they wanted to. Even with all the freedom and autonomy in the world, the last thing they would ever want to do is take those words back.

I mean, to me, they're just words, spewed from pent up rage and frustration, building in the bottom of their chests for months and months, like a dumbbell resting in your stomach, only getting heavier and heavier.

But, to them? It meant something. There was truth behind them. Each syllable. Each breath they took before their chest would rise in preparation to retaliate against each gut-wrenching comment.

They looked strong, sure. But, those words came with a punch. And neither of them were about to get knocked out in front of the other. It would only mean submitting to their power. Admitting the other was right.

And they were too stubborn to do so anyway.

"Okay," clasping my hands together, "so, we've said some things. Things I hope we can revisit another time. But, for now, let's change the game here. From now on, we're going to start each sentence with 'I feel...' Okay? Sounds good?"

I'm assuming the disgruntled groans were a sign of agreement. Either way, I couldn't quit on these two. There's too much history.

"Great. Who would like to star--

"I feel that you do not respect me."

"Oh, okay. We're starting. Great. Well, Mariana, how would you like to resp--

"I feel that you are not deserving of my respect."

"Oh. Um, maybe we can hit the brakes with the back and for--

"Oh, oh-kaaay. I, your father, the man who put a roof over your head and clothes on your back doesn't deserve your resp--

"That's what a father is supposed to do! You don't get brownie points for being a parent and taking care of your child!"

"You know, I don't have to feed you every day. I could have thrown you out on the street years ago! I only put up with this disrespectful attitude because--

"BECAUSE you know how mom will get if you did! She's the only reason I stick around anyway! Otherwise, you wouldn't need to kick me out. I would already be packing my stuff!"

"Listen here, I don't know when you started acting all grown all of the sudden, but it needs to stop now! I am your father and you WILL respect me!"

"I don't have to respect you! You did nothing except birth me to deserve my respect. And that's not even enough."

"Eh! Look at this mouth! Look at this mouth of yours! Where do you learn to speak like this to your father? Eh?! Jesus Christ of Nazareth, save this devil child."

"I'm not a devil child! I jus-- Ugh! You're hopeless! I try to talk and talk and talk and you never listen to me! How do you expect to be respected when that feeling isn't reciprocated? I deserve your respect too!"

"Eh? Deserve? DESERVE? You are a CHILD! You 'deserve' nothing! You know nothing! You ARE nothing!"

"Fuck you!" she spat back, with that same fiery red in her eyes from the moment she walked into my office, ahead of her father.

The father didn't respond. He couldn't respond. But, at last, the air was still, and the room was silent. You would think things couldn't get any tenser, but the mood completely shifted.

It was their twelfth session. Twelve. They've been here for twelve weeks, with the same back and forth attitude as the previous week.

There's no light at the end of this tunnel. There's no door in this escape room. They're talking to their own personal brick wall, pushing themselves to get their point across, not knowing that it's just going to bounce back.

How can I go on? It was no use for these two. They were done.

I think I was done.

"Well. That was...something. Same time next week?"