In March 2017, I started my psychotherapy. In May I decided to finish the relationship that lasted for almost five years. I was drowned in guilt. Guilt before my ex-partner, before my gone close ones who never had a chance to hear the important words from me, before my friends who I foolishly burnt the bridges with. In search for explanation to that state, I took a tough burden. On every session, I burst with tears and sobbed non-stop. After the meetings, napkins of various shapes, soaked in tears, remained. 

Worn out, twisted flowers and butterflies. I have no idea why, but I started collecting them. When I thought the tears will never end up, I was looking at my collection. It helped to step back from my feelings and be simultaneously inside and outside. So with each day the collection got larger. Until the bottomless well has dried out completely.

They say psychoanalysis is a brand new religion for those who don’t believe in God. If you don’t trust church you may come for confession to psychoanalyst. Some of my friends joke that some time ago we were having midnight kitchen chats and now each of us has their own psychologist. After you experienced this method on yourself, such statements seem banal. Psychoanalysis to me is like a well on the bottom of which hides my other secret side. Sometimes I see there a monster from a Japanese horror capable of killing everyone in seven days. Yet more often an offended child who needs to be loved again peeps through this monster. This traveling without a compass or a flashlight can be daunting, but always exciting. Since I remember that someone upstairs is always waiting for me to turn back.