progress note
the inbox blooms while the death toll updates. i double-click silence. i open the portal, and brace for impact. someone is grieving a breakup. someone wants to disappear. i say mm-hmm, say yes, say tell me more. i do not say: the world is burning.
i scroll before sessions just to confirm that the grief is still real. it always is. congo, sudan, gaza flicker behind the scheduler. the platform asks: would you like to send a reminder?
i write: client was tearful, grounded in the session, able to reflect. i do not write: my chest is a locked file. my jaw clicks from clenching the names i cannot say aloud. the session ends. i bill.
my tea goes cold between autoplays. the footage plays muted, but i can hear it anyway. a child’s name trends— not for surviving. i check for land acknowledgements and evacuation orders in the same breath.
i do not scream. i do not post. i do not sob between sessions. i eat lunch like i’m supposed to. it tastes like anesthesia.
a client thanks me for holding space. i want to say: the space is breaking.
i am splintered between the rubble and the rubric, between my ethics and the endless wars. between holding the line and losing it completely.
i google how to stay human and close the tab. i light a candle and forget what it’s for. i try to write a post and delete the words: this is not okay.
but i say thank you. i say take care.
i write another note. i name the hour. i call it progress.