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I could tell it was swollen, like many times I had seen it when he had been close to me at the project. I shifted my eyes back to him but it was already too late. He knew already it was calling my attention.Immediately, I turned to my right to open the door and without uttering a word, climbed down from the pick-up. I walked to my apartment as fast as my cold, stiff, mud-covered body allowed me.I heard him yell as I walked away: I replied. As soon as I reached the room, I went in and made sure the silly door was closed and locked this time. Then, I rested against the door I don’t know for how long. I felt sick. I was so embarrassed. Have I no discretion? Have I no control? How was I going to look Alfonso to his eyes again? How could I ever work with him again? I knew I had to get my shit together and get back to the project. And I had to ride back with him. What would he think of me now? No, what was he thinking already? But the worst part was that as I walked away. ‘I don’t need therapy! That guy was a complete ass and I just did what everyone else was thinking.’ ‘That may be true, Ray, but you pounced on him. I was watching you and while I think your anger was legitimate, it was a little out of skew for what was going on. I think you have some anger inside you that needs to be dealt with.’ ‘What do you mean? I am a mellow guy– just ask Alicia.’ ‘Well, Ray, it couldn’t hurt and it might help. Besides, you owe me. Three sessions is all I ask.’ And that is how I found myself in therapy, something I never would have planned. I came to learn that I had never properly grieved the loss of my mom, how I needed to forgive my dad, and how I had to find a way to express anger instead of keeping it inside and unloading with violence. Margaret had me take a look at some corny books about the stages of grief and one about loving someone who self-harms. Margaret asked for three sessions but I ended up going for five extra and it wasn’t bad at all. I think.
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