It is very unsettled.

Trouble is brewing and I’m caustic with
questions.

I don’t know who I am.

I never did.

I just knew what had to be done, what
had to be preserved and what had to be let go.

I guess I am a casualty of my own
purpose.

It’s hard to tell how we are.

We are too well to be sick, and too
sick to be well.

We are in a category of our own.

Sshhh.

There is pain inside. A quiet,
accustomed, expected sadness.

I think the sadness is that I have
integrated with the others and am left unsatisfied. There really is
only me left and I’m devoid of all emotion. And if I’m all that is
left, why do I need therapy? I think it is my own silence I hear. I
am new. I have no childhood. I was born into my thirties, a full
adult. There are no ties to me and what might have been endured in
someone else’s childhood.

I feel therapy is failing us. I only
keep appointments just in case I need them. But I haven’t needed one
in a while. I’m getting by on my own. I no longer feel a therapeutic bond with Therapist. There
is nothing productive that comes out of our meetings. And
being self-sufficient, there is nothing for me to work on in therapy.

Maybe feeling this independent and
grown-up is just another faction of my imagination. Maybe I exist
because the others are still around but too broken and damaged from
the stress they incurred at the beginning of the year. And maybe I
was created purposefully without emotion if simply to get through the
day without incidence. Maybe just because I deny them doesn’t mean
they don’t exist. Maybe when things settle down this summer, they
will reemerge.

But, maybe and really, I did kill them
off and am here all by myself.

I’ve never felt so simple, basic,
empty, and needless in all my existence.

There is no help for this, but, oh how I
wish there was.

Silence . . .