My Therapist Tells Me

My therapist tells me to write. Processing emotions like I know how, writing them on a page, feeling them…she says it’ll make me feel better. I don’t know anymore. Which is very strange, for me in particular, whose job as an artist is to feel, to express, to share. But, I’m also a man raised in a society that tells you to do the exact opposite and dredge on. Don’t show, don’t cry, be strong. I’m in a tricky position now, one I never actually counted on. My work, who I am, means something to people–there’s an image of me I feel like I have to uphold now, above all else. Anthony Azekwoh, the boy who ran, the man who built, the one who always seems to succeed. I’m thinking now about how all stories are good lies and mine is a better one than I could think of.

What’s happening?

How many did you take?

Are you sure?

Anyways, my therapist, a really nice woman named Valerie, she tells me to write, and I don’t know.This particular piece, I’ve needed to write for a year now. Well, over a year, a couple weeks more. I know I need to write it because I’ve felt it tumbling and turning in my chest. They say a lot about the stories you do tell and not enough about the ones you don’t: they’re like ghosts that wail and howl begging, pleading, for just one, tiny glance. I read about phantom pain once, this pain of a limb that’s long gone, but you still feel it, like it’s right there. I felt a moment these past few years — no, moments — where the emotion was too much, the grief too heavy. And so, like a toy I was tired of playing with, I picked my emotions up and locked them in a drawer, away from where even I could reach. But I can still feel the hurt, and if you let me, I’ll show you. It’s right here.

I’m doing it again, deflecting. I’m good at that, I learnt. Not talking about my feelings directly. It feels weird most times — and especially when I need to. I learnt that in my first relationship a couple months ago. Another thing that was new. I think now, that maybe if I could string the words better, feel the words more, things would be different…I don’t know. Again, I’m deflecting. I’m sorry. The words don’t feel the same, though, I won’t lie to you. It’s been so long since I wrote anything true. I can’t hear the words anymore. I’m realising now, almost a year later when the storm began that my body seems to be remembering these moments, forcing a recollection. Forcing closure.

I’ve been fighting that wave–and winning–I’d like to add, but at what cost? I’m no longer in touch with myself as I used to, as I need to be.

What’s happening?

How many did you take?

Are you sure?

My therapist. Valerie. She tells me to write. There was a session we had after what had happened. She encouraged me to let the events play out on my head once more. Allow the memories and pain wash over me.

I did that.

I wept.

I thought I was done.

I was wrong.

I’ve been running for a while, away from there, away from me, away from you, who I’ve always been honest with, since I was a child. God, that was so long ago, wasn’t it? I was going to make this fun, make it interesting, do a thing where I told the story from different perspectives, turned it around, made it cool. But that isn’t true, and I don’t think I want to lie to you anymore, I don’t think I want to lie to me anymore.

What’s happening?

How many did you take?

Are you sure?

I got the call at night, it woke me up. My phone is on DND mostly, I don’t get nearly enough sleep so when I do, I need it to last. The first call was odd, something was wrong in his voice, I couldn’t place it, though, I was too tired. I work too much, I don’t rest enough.

The second call was sharper and the words tore a hole in my chest, but I had to be calm, I couldn’t panic. Don’t show, don’t cry, be strong. I called her, told her to stay there, be calm. I called the Uber, rushing, my clothes inside out. Those were when the first tears erupted as I called the hospitals, the ambulances, anything. I didn’t know.

I got there, and I asked the questions again.

What’s happening?

How many did you take?

Are you sure?

They were pleas. I was begging God, I think, that this couldn’t be real. Anything, anything, but this. It was my worst fears manifest. My heart in my hands. Frozen. Lost. We rush to the hospital and they ask the same questions.

What’s happening?

How many did you take?

Are you sure?

The following days were a blur. I can’t remember. I don’t know. Everything, my memory, is jagged, like I don’t want to peer too deep. I’m fighting the waves, and they’re fighting back.

Okay, no fighting.

No anger.

Just calm.

Let go.

What’s happening?

How many did you take?

Are you sure?

I’ve been grieving for a year and I haven’t noticed, but my heart has known, my friends have known, the tears on my keyboard have known. I lost something that day I know I can’t get back, but there’s a chance, a small one, to build something back up again, on those ashes. Something stronger, older. Something real. It’s crazy how time flies when you don’t notice, when you’re too busy laughing, thinking of yesterdays and tomorrows.

I’m not sure anything I’ve written here makes sense. I don’t think I needed it to. I just needed to write it, I think. I just needed to get it out of my system, purge it out, the only way I know how. Word by word. Page by page. I’m sorry I couldn’t make this better for you, I’m sorry I was gone for so long. I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t there that night. Please, forgive me. I’m sorry.

What’s happening?

How many did you take?

Are you sure?

I cried today, right now, for the first time in a while.

My therapist tells me to write. Processing emotions like I know how, writing them on a page, feeling them, she says it’ll make me feel better.

It feels like hell, but I think she’s right.

If you feel like you need to talk to someone, please do, a friend, a family member, your national suicide prevention hotline…anyone. Please do. We’re all in this together.