Dear Jim,
I feel invalidated.
Hey, yeah, that’s the truth.
If only you would listen
To what I have to say.
If only you would open up your eyes
And see the clues that I’ve been sending you.
But no, I feel invalidated.
I want to talk about my childhood.
I keep dropping little clues.
But you can’t see them—
Or won’t.
It’s so hard to tell which it is.
I want to tell you things that happened to me.
But no, you won’t listen.
I want to tell you how it all went wrong.
But no, you won’t listen to me.
I want to open up my soul to you.
Trust you, share with you my innermost details.
But no, you won’t listen.
Why won’t you listen?
I don’t know.
Maybe you hate me.
Maybe you’ve hated me all along.
Or maybe that’s my black-and-white thinking talking.
Maybe you’re scared.
I always sense a bit of worry in your voice
Whenever we talk about “hard” things.
But that’s not right.
You’re not supposed to be the scared one.
You’re my protector, you should have no fear of
Anything I say.
But something’s gone completely wrong
Since I started seeing you.
That act last time
Completely stole my trust.
Well, a lot of it anyway.
You were supposed to read word-for-word
From the exercise I wrote in my book.
Yeah, I said you could adjust it—
But you completely changed it,
And really fucked it up.
You made me feel angry and distrustful.
I shouldn’t feel that way about my therapist.
Especially not one I’ve loved for so long.
A trust- and respect-based love.
A love of my protector.
Not a romantic love.
But still, Jim,
I’m pissed now that you screwed up
And because you won’t acknowledge me.
You won’t admit I even had a childhood.
That, to me, is frightening.
How can I change my future
If you won’t even help me
Find the memories of my past?
Take this letter, Jim,
And read it well.
It is a milestone in my treatment.
I don’t stand up to therapists very often,
But when I do it means there’s something
That desperately needs a change.
And trust me, Jim,
Something here desperately needs to be changed.