I started drama therapy a couple weeks ago. I have cried hot wet crocodile tears every session. Shimmers of salty water flood the landscape of my sight balls over an adult getting to play through their trauma. And no, it is not a privilege—it is in fact a birthright.
I pursued talk therapy five years ago after a former partner told me I needed to as I wailed watering their bedroom floor entirely and inconsolably coarse. Now in a more somatic therapy practice gathering all the versions of me, I humbly dance in the mud.
“There has to be another option,” I murmur fiddling with the colorful knit hat a top my head. Inherited binary thinking pit gratitude and autonomy against each other—as if we are unable to live multiple truths at once—as if to be human is to be naturally unsatisfiable. “What if our autonomy has space for other people?” my therapist offered.
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