I was psychoanalyzed, years ago

An accidental poem from a stranger in a coffeeshop.

“I was psychoanalyzed, years ago,”
she said.

“Really?” I asked,
“What was that like?”

“Well, I met with a
psychiatrist two
times per week for
three years. And then,

when the report was ready
I dressed to the nines.

My hair was all done,
I wore a dress. I knew
it wasn’t going to be
an easy thing to hear.”

She paused, looking down
at the tiny dog in her lap,
“but you know it changed me.

It really did.

I had a tick in my neck, my
head would constantly spring
in one direction. I would
show you, but no, I don’t want
to even do it.

Anyway, my father died
when I was very young
and the psychiatrist
said the tick was from me

saying ‘no, I don’t accept this.’

And he was right. And you
know what, after that,

I didn’t have the tick anymore.”

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