Here I sit writing down my words. I know not what these words will say. I’m not some empathetic genius, I barely know what I feel, little still of how to give a stranger these emotions. So let me just take you on this journey of my own creation.

I’m sitting on this couch that has been provided for us patients’ convenience. The room is packed; strewn with minitables, bookshelves, lamps and more. My therapist sits across from me towards the right wall, on this delicate little chair. I hug a scratchy throw pillow lightly against my chest. I can’t get comfortable sitting down on this horrid couch. My shoulders reach above the back support. I let the pillow drop to my lap. I once again force my shoulders to lean against the wall that the back of the couch is pushed up against. This uncomfortably puffs my chest out. I’m not really trying to flex in front of my therapist. Besides, my head and neck are forced parallel with the wall, contorting my body into this jagged, stiff, branching position. I’m not made of wood, so I guess i’ll try sitting down differently.

I stare at the clock in the upper left corner of the room and I watch the passage of time. I cross my left leg over the right; I cross my right leg over the left; I stretch my legs out; I pull them back in; I take my shoes off and pull my feet up on the couch; I lean to the left, to the right; nothing seems to be working.

I can’t exactly lay down upon this dreaded couch. If I hung my legs off the left armrest they'd knock up against a little table. Then I would get to enjoy the sounds of the tissue box, fidget spinners and other little things spilling onto the carpeted floor. At least I could stare at the ceiling and not meet my therapist's eyes in the ensuing expensive silence. To the couch’s right is a single plant. It’s spindly little trunk arches high over the right side of the couch, dangling eerily long fingerlike leaves whose tips caress the couchs right armrest. I wouldn’t dare disturb this plant's slumber. My only option might be to lay on the floor.

Here I lay on the floor. My feet would be sticking out the door if it wasn’t closed. My left arm reaches into shadows underneath my couch. To all you spiders under there who see my arm as a tasty treat; go ahead, please, do me the favor. My therapist could probably reach out their sandled foot and tap me on the forehead. I suggested that it might be time to get a bigger room.

My tears soak into the carpet fibers beneath me. Words gently float down upon the air until they reach my ears. In this recollection at least, I imagine them to be words. Really, I could make them be anything. Strange animal noises perhaps. But at the time, I barely noticed what they were. Their meaning certainly was lost.

Anyway, I should probably get back to therapy. It was quite enjoyable and I loved our discussions.

So, I used to work as a line cook up on the mountain at Winter Park. I remember thinking that it would be a good way to leave things behind.

Yes, I lead all my problems right up there with me.

I’m driving two other line cooks and myself to a disc golf course about an hour away from Winter Park. One of the guys is playing rap music through his speaker. Otherwise, it remains silent within the car. I stare out the windshield watching peaks yield before my car. A massive plateau rises before us with dizzyingly tall cliffsides. the road winds and winds.

One disc golf hole ran dead straight for four hundred feet. It was bounded by a river on its right side. This river raged out of the mountains across the other side of the broad valley. We were not too far away that the river didn’t still surge forward.

The other two threw first. One disc hovered over the edge of the water, flying dead straight. It turned to the left and then turned back to the right. It landed comfortably away from the river. The other disc shot out above the river and quickly arched back to land, again, comfortably away from the river. Mine was lost to the water. Maybe as it flowed along the river it got dashed against the numerous rocks jutting above the water. It could have been trapped underneath to find itself in a violent and ceaseless onslaught of water. The unyielding under-current dragging the disc ever further away.

The same golfer who I had borrowed that first disc from handed me another.

“Try not to lose this one too. We’ll stand near the water. Just in case.”

They strode up the hill, towards the basket. I stood before a gravel runway. A circle of grass surrounded me. At the edge of the circle - to both my left and right - stood two trees. Their leaves flew high above, intermingling, and all swayed with the wind. The two golfers continued, moving further and further away. Each step of theirs cut short by the rising ground. The river rushed towards me. It had long ago carved through this hill, creating the gradual cliffside just beyond this clearing. I held the disc within my hands.