I used to make you a cup of a coffee
every morning when we woke up
after a long night of sleeping soundly.
I never wanted anything more from you,
like all those other people you stopped
giving your time to after you met me.
And I’d ask you every morning,
“How do you take it?”
And you’d make fun of me,
tell me that phrase was outdated,
and then say the same thing, every time:
“However you do; I don’t care.”
It was always the same, no matter what I asked.
“I don’t care. You decide.”
So I thought of you in therapy last week
when we talked about codependency
and one of the traits on the list of warning signs
was indecisiveness.
I think about you in therapy a lot, actually.
Much more than I wish I did.
I know it’s been over four months
since I made your morning coffee,
but just because a person is gone now
doesn’t mean the past is erased.
I wish it did.
I wish it did.
Because I sit in this room
and feel like this has to be a movie.
Hi, I’m Michelle. “Hi, Michelle.”
And I’m here because…
Why am I here again? Oh, right.
… I don’t want to hate people anymore.
I’m doing pretty well, by the way.
(Not that you cared.)
It’s been almost 10 weeks
of every form of therapy you can imagine
and constant meetings
with every type of psychiatrist you can imagine,
and I swear, the only time
I feel hatred inside of me anymore
is when the warning signs of our topic of the day
perfectly describe the girl I used to make coffee for.
I wish it didn’t happen
as often as it does.
I wish I didn’t look at the vacant chair
next to me, and wonder
how I ended up here,
when it’s you who really needs it.
I know it’s not my place to say,
but I’ll say it anyway.
And I knew it wasn’t my place to try,
but I tried anyway.
And for both of those things
I have paid a high price.
But don’t worry—I’m here for me, not for you.
And now that I’ve grabbed Responsibility by the hand
and pulled it over top of me like the cozy quilt
my Grandma made me for Christmas,
I feel peace.
I feel peace.
Believe me, I’ve learned.
Believe me, I’ve got it straight now:
It was never my responsibility to help you.
It was your responsibility to help you.
So the film can roll
and the circle-talks about our feelings
can continue
and the psychiatrists
making me do DSM-5 checklists
can keep handing them over like money
because I finally get it.
I finally know
I never should’ve been concerned
with how you take your coffee.
every morning when we woke up
after a long night of sleeping soundly.
I never wanted anything more from you,
like all those other people you stopped
giving your time to after you met me.
And I’d ask you every morning,
“How do you take it?”
And you’d make fun of me,
tell me that phrase was outdated,
and then say the same thing, every time:
“However you do; I don’t care.”
It was always the same, no matter what I asked.
“I don’t care. You decide.”
So I thought of you in therapy last week
when we talked about codependency
and one of the traits on the list of warning signs
was indecisiveness.
I think about you in therapy a lot, actually.
Much more than I wish I did.
I know it’s been over four months
since I made your morning coffee,
but just because a person is gone now
doesn’t mean the past is erased.
I wish it did.
I wish it did.
Because I sit in this room
and feel like this has to be a movie.
Hi, I’m Michelle. “Hi, Michelle.”
And I’m here because…
Why am I here again? Oh, right.
… I don’t want to hate people anymore.
I’m doing pretty well, by the way.
(Not that you cared.)
It’s been almost 10 weeks
of every form of therapy you can imagine
and constant meetings
with every type of psychiatrist you can imagine,
and I swear, the only time
I feel hatred inside of me anymore
is when the warning signs of our topic of the day
perfectly describe the girl I used to make coffee for.
I wish it didn’t happen
as often as it does.
I wish I didn’t look at the vacant chair
next to me, and wonder
how I ended up here,
when it’s you who really needs it.
I know it’s not my place to say,
but I’ll say it anyway.
And I knew it wasn’t my place to try,
but I tried anyway.
And for both of those things
I have paid a high price.
But don’t worry—I’m here for me, not for you.
And now that I’ve grabbed Responsibility by the hand
and pulled it over top of me like the cozy quilt
my Grandma made me for Christmas,
I feel peace.
I feel peace.
Believe me, I’ve learned.
Believe me, I’ve got it straight now:
It was never my responsibility to help you.
It was your responsibility to help you.
So the film can roll
and the circle-talks about our feelings
can continue
and the psychiatrists
making me do DSM-5 checklists
can keep handing them over like money
because I finally get it.
I finally know
I never should’ve been concerned
with how you take your coffee.