I have never believed in therapy. I viewed people who paid others to listen to their problems as disgusting and weak.
Yet, there I was in a therapist’s office, wringing my hands together until my knuckles almost turned white. It smelled too clean, like a mix of disinfectant and lemon-scented lies.
The leather couch squeaked beneath me whenever I shifted, betraying every restless twitch of my body. Across from me, the therapist— a middle-aged woman with cropped hair and reversed tenderness in her eyes— leaned forward with a notepad.
"So, Miss Kimberly Woods,” she let out slowly like she thought I might break into pieces if she spoke too fast, "why don't you tell me what brought you here today?"
I stared at the framed degrees behind her head, focusing on the glass reflections so I wouldn
