At this moment, my job as a therapist is to be here, present

Y

ou sit across from me, hair bleached blonde with blue streaks, jeans, an emblazoned black tee, and a studded cuff bracelet.

“My parents never cared about me,” you choke. “They always chose themselves first and put their religion before me. I… I never was allowed to have any needs.”

The words swirl in the air of my light- green therapy office, the room that has held so many years of your pain.

As you sniffle, I see the hard I-don’t-care-about-anyone mask forming on your face, but the pain in your eyes can’t be masked so easily.

We’ve been through a journey together; I watched your Yiddishkeit deteriorate along with your family relationships. Then you plateaued, and finally, you came to a place where you could allow yourself to feel. It hasn’t been pretty for you. Experiencing the pain, remembering all the difficulties you grew up with, came as a raging storm.

“Why?” you scream angrily.

I think I have some answers.