Words will heal you when you are broken.

Years ago, someone rather useless told me one, single useful thing.

You must write it all out, she had said, when I told her what initially brought me to her cold and sterile office.

You must write it all out to clear your head before bed, even if it's imperfect or doesn't make any sense or makes you angry or cry, or breaks your heart or makes you feel like a complete and utter fool.

Write it out. Read aloud what you've written. Then tear it up, throw it away, forget it. It won't solve the problem, but at least you will get to sleep a little more soundly that night.

And then, just maybe, you will find that things will be better in the morning.

She said something to that effect, all in one breath, in the most indifferent and nonchalant of ways, but of course not nearly as lengthy because we all know therapists of the traditional kind never really say much. Their job is to ask more from you than what you'd like or care to share or expose.

And so I was scared to talk to another one again recently. But that ship has since left the shore, and to my small surprise, this new one is letting me set my own sails, steer my own way. With this one I have complete control. The conversation flows easily, gently, without any judgment.

I don't know when I'll see land again, but for the moment I am content just floating along, working my way through the storms.