The Hardest Thing

I know what hard is, I’ve done some difficult things,
and admitting I have a problem certainly wasn’t easy. 

Getting myself in for the appointment was even less so,
but I did, finally, after walking around the block twice
and letting the elevator go three or four times.

And then there was having to sit for so long, freezing
in this blinding blue waiting room, robin’s egg,
I think they call this too sweet color of paint,
and everything felt hardwood and cold, sharp glass,
making me want to stand up and run out the door,
certainly I’d never be challenged like this again.

Then, finally, stepping into this stranger’s stark office,
and after much prodding telling him my problem,
that, surely, was the hardest thing I’d ever do.

But I was wrong again, since to listen to this man
read back my words to me, the ones I blurted out
to describe the problem I’ve been living with
seemed to be the very hardest thing imaginable.

You don’t really know what you think, how you think,
until you have someone, like a personal secretary,
reading back to you the words that came pouring out,
fueled by the pent up confusion of so many years,
as if your brain were suddenly talking out loud to you.

Listening to myself empty myself that way had to be
the toughest thing I’ve ever done, would ever do, I knew.

And then I was back out in the too blue and cold room
looking at my calendar to schedule my next appointment,
meaning, I saw, that I’d have to make myself do
all of this again, only to get to scheduling yet again
for the session after that one, and this, I’m feeling now,
may finally be the hardest task of any I’ll ever face.

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