My therapist disintegrates me into smaller parts for an hour every week, she addresses them as different people in that room. One of us likes to write about the weather and the coming out of blankets, the other one writes of the pain that demands to be written off, one wants to go back home and be coddled, but the other really cares about her career. We often go to the terrace of my office to cry. N, my therapist, calls one of us Choti Prachi. She always unconsciously holds her right hand in the air near her knee to signify Choti’s height. It pains me to see how small she is.
