Send a Tweet
Most Popular Choices
Poll Analyses
Share on Facebook 38 Share on Twitter 1 Printer Friendly Page More Sharing
Exclusive to OpEdNews:
Life Arts    H4'ed 7/7/19

An Unwilling Prophet

By       (Page 1 of 2 pages) (View How Many People Read This)   13 comments
Author 513220
Follow Me on Twitter     Message Michele Goddard

Crystal ball and hand
Crystal ball and hand
(Image by wuestenigel)
  Details   DMCA

I sat there in the small room, with its monochrome palette of tans and bisque, its bland wallpaper and unimaginative office furniture, all designed to calm me, but I was not calm. Numb perhaps, but not calm. An unassuming woman with an empathetic posture sat a safe distance from me, her dark blond hair and beige outfit even seemed a part of the decor.

As she spoke the fabrics of the room seemed to absorb and soften her already gentle tone and all the sound for that matter, giving the room an almost whispering quality" fitting for this place where painful secrets were undoubtedly revealed.

"So tell me why you've come here today." It was of course a rhetorical question. She knew why I was here. My mind was in a fog, yet in some ways still acutely aware, balanced precariously between this world and one of pure madness.

I sensed her tone was kind but could I trust her? I tried to answer as rhetorically, "I suppose to find out if I'm insane. Or, if maybe I'm fine and the rest of the world is insane."

She quickly and assuredly answered, "I don't think you are insane. But tell me what's going on. You have trouble sleeping and are having anxiety? What kinds of thoughts do you have?"

The pristine quiet gave the illusion the very room was listening, waiting breathlessly for the next secret. My eyes moved from staring at the floor to a meaningless floral print on the wall, but never to hers. From my peripheral vision I could tell she was looking at me, her eyes studying me for some clue as to how she might resolve my current state, but I avoided reciprocation for fear of pulling her into the abyss with me.

The room felt like a portal outside of time, where reality could be changed with the utterance of words. And in truth, it could be. Only the stale air of the room separated the two of us yet at that moment I knew that we did not exist in the same reality. As she prompted me to share my thoughts, I weighed in my mind that once spoken, I could never give her back any peace my words might steal.

But why was I here if not to try and resolve this? If I did not try to end this agitated isolation then I would remain, like a fly, trapped between two panes of glass, buzzing wildly and bouncing hysterically against his prison until he falls silent. Never escaping. Effecting nothing.

My eyes cast to the window. Outside the sun shown brightly on the street, still and free from traffic. As I began to speak, my heart felt like a giant hand was squeezing it with each beat as I dared to share my torment. Beginning to speak was like passing over the peak of a rollercoaster - terrifying but there was no way to stop.

"Do you ever look out the window at that street and imagine that there are tanks and soldiers walking up and down? That they could burst in at any time and drag you into the street? That in a minute you would be thinking of every way to get out of this building without being caught?

As I said this I felt numb but I felt a tear roll down my stoic face. My eyes never leaving the window for fear in even blinking the madness of my mind might materialize into the still sane reality.

The therapist voice was calm. "Do you fear these things? What makes you fear it?"

Finally I looked back at her, "Because it is happening. It happens all the time. We think it can't happen here. But none of those people, in those places where it did happen, thought it could happen there either. But it did."

"Do you feel like its happening right now?"

"I do."

Next Page  1  |  2

(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).

 

Must Read 2   Well Said 2   Valuable 1  
Rate It | View Ratings

Michele Goddard Social Media Pages: Facebook page url on login Profile not filled in       Twitter Page       Linkedin page url on login Profile not filled in       Instagram page url on login Profile not filled in

I was born in 1970 in Wheeling, WV and have lived here all my life. I come from mostly Irish Catholic coal miners and railroad workers. My original academic interest was in teaching foreign languages studying both French and Spanish in High (more...)
 

Go To Commenting
The views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of this website or its editors.
Follow Me on Twitter     Writers Guidelines
Contact AuthorContact Author Contact EditorContact Editor Author PageView Authors' Articles
Support OpEdNews

OpEdNews depends upon can't survive without your help.

If you value this article and the work of OpEdNews, please either Donate or Purchase a premium membership.

STAY IN THE KNOW
If you've enjoyed this, sign up for our daily or weekly newsletter to get lots of great progressive content.
Daily Weekly     OpEdNews Newsletter
Name
Email
   (Opens new browser window)
 

Most Popular Articles by this Author:     (View All Most Popular Articles by this Author)

Hillary's Worst Nightmare Just Came True: Lev Parnas Audio Shows Trump Fears Sanders, Laughs at Biden

9/11 Truth is Going Mainstream. Now what?

The Spring Break Boomers Can Never Forget - Boomer War on Millennials Rages On Through Pandemic

A Story of Self Destruction - Top-Down Democrats

War is Hell - For Some

True Populism VS Trumpulism

To View Comments or Join the Conversation: