Confessions of a therapist..

This week at work,

I was the first audience to a father’s eulogy,

And witness to the woman with a blue eye — the one that never got an apology.

I experienced the fear for a two-year-old of a mother fighting a custody battle,

And gathered myself together as an eighteen-year-old started to tattle.

I felt the judging eyes of those who commented on a woman’s weight,

And went through the physical agony of a man whom sleep almost always evades.

I sat with a mother mourning her old self,

And listened to another who, amidst the crowd, couldn’t find his own self.

“Why do you do it?” I am often asked.

“Does it not break your heart?”

“I wouldn’t be able to do it,” soon follows —

All the pain, tears, and empty hollows.

I nod, don’t say much, and move on,

As I sense the anxiety creeping within the veins of a girl long gone.

I try to cradle a motherless daughter and hold an aimless son,

And understand the shattered dreams of someone who once believed to be “the one.”

I discuss navigating family politics and the geopolitical situation in the world.

I savour the sweet love story unfolding as their hearts both twirled.

I navigate a woman’s emotions, not knowing what meaning her life holds,

And every single day, I thank my stars manyfold.

“How do you cope?” they say.

“Aren’t you personally affected?”

“Where do you draw that boundary where each emotion is reflected?”

Everyone cracks the same joke: “Are you analysing me right now?”

I don’t have all the answers, but I listen anyhow.

I do it for the mother, and the son in all of us. 

I do it for myself, like it was ever thus. 

I do it because I have witnessed a thousand times and more,

People finding pieces of themselves, deep within their core. 

It is beautiful to witness so much courage in a single day. 

Cause listening has more value than anything I can ever say.

-Mallika Bhatia