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Hopeless Melancholic
Did we meet beneath this sea of sorrow?
It’s another day where my carer is trying to get into my mind.
Literally.
The tech doesn’t help me out that much in this regard.
“You have to open up, Elena,” he says, gently, through the Etherlink. “How many sessions have we had? This is a safe space. I want to keep assuring you of that.”
I might have believed his words if I hadn’t been burned so often in the past. With the invention of Etherlinks, it had become all too easy for people — especially men — to become more predatory in their interactions with others. You might think a way to open up your mind to others would be a benefit, but it was becoming just another toxic practice to be wary of.
“I’m not ready,” I say, and he sighs as if I’ve disappointed him.
“We’ll try again in a few months,” he responds. I think he’ll cut off the link and leave me to mull over the fifteen-minute session, but he lets the feed stay open. I wonder what he’ll say to me. What psychological tactics will he try against me next?
He runs a hand through his hair, and a part of me wonders what would happen if the tables were reversed. What if I were sitting in his position of power? Would I be assured that I had the winning hand? Or was…
