Birdhouse Essay

As I stare at the plain, boring, little wooden birdhouse, my therapist explains how good of an exercise this can be. A feeling of confusion overcomes me as I try to stay positive. I look up to the concerning eyes of my therapist, a young woman in her late 20’s. As she balances trying to read my expression, she explains the directions of the project, a little too positively might I add. What can a young woman like this know about how my brain works and what my problems are? I already resented my mother for bringing me here. “But how can decorating this birdhouse help my anxiety? I’m not a little girl anymore, and arts and crafts isn’t going to help my issues.” I said, annoyed. “Maria, this isn’t supposed to make you feel small or anything of the sort,” she explained, “It’s only to help relieve built up stress within you, kind of like taking a big weight off of your shoulders by expressing your creativity on something like this birdhouse.”

I sighed, knowing that my mom spends quite a bit of money on these therapy sessions. I might as well give it a shot. Inhaling deeply I manage to give her the fakest smile I’ve ever given, and take the birdhouse from her. She looked unsure, scribbled something in her notepad, stood up, and said that she wanted the birdhouse done by the next therapy session. She gave me a hug and told me the same thing she says after every session. “You really are progressing Maria.” I tried to give her another one of my fake smiles, as she led me out of the office into the waiting room where my mom sat skimming through a magazine. She looked up and smiled, as if everything was okay. As if these stupid therapy sessions would fix my panic attacks. Just another reason that made me feel a little pang of resentment towards her, even though she was just trying to help.
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I waited as long as I could and tried to push the little house out of my thoughts, but, as usual, leisure time filled my weekend and the little nagging in