Your new therapist matter-of-factly draws a horizontal line
across a blank 8″-by-10” sheet of paper and hands it to you:
“This is the timeline of your life from birth ‘til now.
I want you to fill it in with every traumatic event
you can remember.” You hesitantly reach out,
take the paper from her, your right hand trembling
in the air as you accept it on a clipboard, your left hand’s
fingers clenched tight across your restless thumb.
Always prepared, you choose to use your own pen,
because of the familiar way it contours to your hand
and flows across the paper. You’re looking down,
pen in hand, already starting to draw tick-marks
on the blank page because the top of your scalp
is already starting to prickle, the back of your neck
heating up and beginning to sweat just because
you can sense her awareness of you writing on the page.
A quick, darting glance across the cozy space confirms
that she’s taking her own notes on her own clipboard,
not looking over at you, but that doesn’t do much
to alleviate the sweat droplets that have begun
to drip down the back of your neck and shoulders.
You sense the telltale signs of a pink, flushed heat rash
forming at the base of your throat and collarbone,
above the v-neckline of your floral t-shirt.
You have only drawn three tick-marks.
It seems that you might run out of time in your session.
Your handwriting becomes slanted, hopelessly messy,
as your hand cramps up after only noting three events.
You have detailed birth until 2001. 
Twenty years remain uncharted.
Your breathing quickens as you realize you are
running out of room on the horizontal line she drew;
you start drawing arrows haphazardly above and below
what you’ve already managed to recount,
wondering what is worth including and what to leave out
for time’s sake.  You manage to ask how much time
remains in your session.  How have only five minutes
elapsed since you began? You’ve inhaled and exhaled
enough times in the past five minutes to have
enough breaths stored for at least fifteen minutes.
You have five minutes remaining.
You finish writing in three.
Those final two minutes give you just enough time
to second-guess each entry you have made
corresponding to each tick-mark on the timeline.
Doesn’t everyone go through distress in school,
grieve the sudden loss of loved ones?
Your eyes get stuck on 2001:
First known instances of psychosis
with auditory and visual hallucinations;
lasted several months & was deemed to be
a neurological reaction from medication.
You were 12 years old.  Maybe not everyone.
You carefully hand the timeline across the space
to your new therapist, this person you chose on the internet
who now has a copy of (some of) the darkest chunks of your life
almost-illegibly noted on a piece of paper.
She assures you that she will be able to read it,
you gather your water bottle and purse,
make sure you remember your keys.
This session will mark the fourth therapist
you’ve been supposed to trust.
As you splash cold water on your face and neck
in the bathroom, leaving your wrists
under the rushing cold water for what seems
an infinity, you can’t help but start to sense
the doubt that creeps up your spine as a shiver,
doubt that threatens to dissolve the tiny seed of hope
that has rooted at the base of your skull.
Hope that you’ll be able to tell this one the truth.
Hope that she’ll give you the needed wait time to speak your truth.
Hope that you can muster the bravery to keep going.