(Dear Therapist,)

In spite of the last email, I mean what I said on Wednesday about how I feel about you, it's just that love is not the only thing I feel. I guess the incident with the crisis line disturbed me more than I thought. I'm sorry the reaction spilled over onto you. I can't even begin to explain how terrible it is to live my life knowing that I might have a meltdown at any time and need someone like I did that night. It's terrible because it's not the same thing as other needs people might have. I seriously doubt that if my house caught fire and I called the fire department, that they would tell me not to let the fire bother me. I know that if I were bleeding and walked into an emergency room that no one would tell me to just ignore it. You see? Most other people have what they need for their emergencies, but mine is not important. It is generally seen as not even real. Even by those who are supposed to understand. I am in danger of being injured all over again every time things get too bad to deal with on my own. It's no wonder I don't feel like a real person. I feel like I belong to some alien race who lives secretly among the human majority and must constantly evade detection to avoid being harmed. Which leaves me in a mess if I have an emergency in a moment when there is no place to turn but to the humans. The thing that really gets me about the crisis line call? I'm betting I was speaking to one of my own kind. I'd put some serious money on it. Sadly, many of my fellow aliens make a hobby of diminishing the rest of us in their efforts to distance themselves from their origins. It's a rare alien who remains honest. Sadly, there is so little support for this and so much additional abuse doled out to those who do remain honest, that we are often not available to help each other because the sorrow moves in to crush us.



Where's Waldo? Can you spot the dishonest alien in the comments of this post?