Two Truths: Trust Harvested

The moment I stepped into the therapist’s office, my skin prickled with an unnamable dread. The smell of lemongrass hung in the air, an overpowering mask for something far more insidious. The familiar chair, once a refuge, now felt like a cage with invisible bars.

My stomach churned, intuition pulsing through my veins like a toxin. I had almost cancelled, nearly retreated to the illusory safety of a virtual session. Visions of hostile officers at the hospital only four days prior seemed to be etched in my brain-fueling my fear. Yet hope, that fickle ember, rekindled in the days since, its warmth both comforting and dangerous.

Clutched in my sweaty palms-a carefully crafted plan, my tangible proof of resilience. Goals meticulously outlined in trembling ink, resources identified, a support system sketched out with desperate optimism. This was to be my lifeline, my path back to solid ground, a beacon in the darkness.

The air between us crackled with unspoken verdicts. I opened my mouth, words of progress poised on my tongue, when his voice sliced through the room, cold and precise as a blade: “I know about the ER visit.”

Five words. Five bullets shattering the fragile peace.

I scrambled to salvage the moment, to unfurl my blueprint for healing. But his eyes had already glazed over, judgment etched in the tight lines around his mouth.

“Will you agree to an inpatient stay?”

A question that wasn’t a question. I declined, words tumbling out in a desperate cascade of hope and determination. His response fell like a judge’s gavel:

“The decision has already been made. You’re being admitted involuntarily.”

Trust evaporated, leaving behind the acrid taste of betrayal.

I stood, legs trembling beneath me. “This isn’t why I came,” I asserted, my voice a mix of vulnerability and defiance in the face of overwhelming force.

His knuckles struck the door twice, a coded tap, a sound like a judge’s gavel. Security materialized in the hallway, a wall of flesh and protocol. No surprise in their eyes. No hesitation. Just the cold, practiced choreography of containment.