On a Thursday Afternoon in Late September in Upstate New York

A.

Autumn driving in misty showers, the day break brings steam.  

I am feeling alive and think of the moisture in the air. A steady rhythm on the stereo assures me of the bonfires still smoldering in my heart. Life and love crackle.  

These daily goals I aim to grasp are attainable. I read the Daily Stoic and Unfuck Yourself, and I know, I am okay.  

Well, that is until I see my therapist yawn in front of me while pour out my soul like Mount Etna. The molten lava flows like tears; trickle down and I am not okay again.  

B.

Roll on, Saturday comes and goes as quickly and as aloof as a postal worker. 

I play Miles Davis in the morning and Chuck Berry for dinner. They are tattooed on my arm. They play the music of a higher power and speak to me of teenage love and adult dissonance.

But the front tire has sprung a slow leak and before I know it, I’m riding on the rim again. This can’t be good for my anxiety. 

Silent screaming. Past and future dreaming. I am not okay. 

C.

Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing therapy reminds Kit from Knightrider, 

but it builds the neuropathways I so desperately need. Information super highways from the dark deep and dank depths of my mind to the front most reaches of my breathing. 

Fantastic, this and that thing from my horrid past sit with me here and now, though everyone swears by this therapy. 

I remember you vividly now failed suicide, I remember you abuse, I remember, and I am not okay.