The memory of my father lingered in my mind for days after that night. It was strange how vividly I could recall the sound of his laughter, the warmth of his presence. I hadn't thought about him in so long—not in a meaningful way. His absence had become a dull ache, buried under layers of more pressing chaos.
But now, it resurfaced, unbidden and persistent.
Dr. Price noticed something was different during our next session. "You seem distracted," she said, her voice gentle but probing. "Is there something on your mind?"
I hesitated, unsure whether I wanted to share the memory. It felt too personal, too vulnerable. But something about her gaze—the calm patience in her eyes—made me want to try.
"I've been thinking about my father," I admitted, my voice barely audible.
She nodded, giving me space to continue.
"I don't think about him much," I said. "But the other night, I remembered something—something good. We were at the park, and he was chasing me, pretending to be a monster. I could hear his laughter, feel his hand catching mine. It felt… real."
Dr. Price smiled softly. "That sounds like a beautiful memory. How did it make you feel to recall it?"
I shrugged, unsure of how to articulate the mix of emotions. "I don't know. It was nice, I guess. But also… strange. Like I didn't know what to do with it."
She leaned forward slightly. "Sometimes, positive memories can feel unfamiliar or even uncomfortable if we're not used to them. It's okay to sit with those feelings, even if they're confusing."
I frowned, her words stirring something deeper. "I think what bothers me is… I don't know if I deserved moments like that. Like, how could I have those memories and still turn out the way I am?"
Her expression softened. "Psychobi, the way you feel or act now doesn't erase the love and joy you experienced in the past. Those moments are part of you, just as much as the difficult ones. They remind us that connection and happiness are possible, even if they feel out of reach right now."
Her words hit me harder than I expected. I had spent so long convincing myself that I was incapable of feeling anything real, that I had buried any evidence to the contrary. This memory of my father didn't fit into that narrative, and it left me uneasy.
Later that night, I found myself back at my desk, staring at the notebook. For the first time, I didn't feel compelled to write about strategies or plans. Instead, I began sketching.
I hadn't drawn anything in years, but my hands moved instinctively, sketching the outline of a man and a boy in a park. The details were rough, but the essence was there—the father's exaggerated "monster" pose, the boy's outstretched hand, and the hint of a smile on both their faces.
When I finished, I stared at the drawing for a long time, unsure of what to make of it. It felt foreign yet familiar, like a glimpse into a part of myself I didn't fully understand.
The following week, I brought the sketch to my session with Dr. Price. I didn't know why—maybe to prove that the memory was real, or maybe to see if she could make sense of it.
She examined it carefully, her expression thoughtful. "This is beautiful," she said finally. "What made you decide to draw it?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I just… couldn't stop thinking about it."
She nodded, setting the sketch down gently. "Art can be a powerful way to process emotions. It's a way of giving shape to things we can't always put into words. What do you see when you look at this drawing?"
I stared at it, the lines blurring slightly. "I see… something I don't feel anymore," I said quietly. "Happiness. Connection. Like it belongs to someone else, not me."
Her gaze softened. "It does belong to you, Psychobi. That boy in the drawing—that's you. And those feelings, no matter how distant they seem, are still a part of you. They may be buried, but they're not gone."
Her words lingered with me long after the session ended. For the first time, I wondered if there might be more to me than the darkness I had come to accept as my identity.
It was a small thought, fragile and tentative. But it was there.
And for now, that was enough.
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