I looked carefully at Rosa, who seemed irritated. She was pretty but with such a hard edge. The lines engraved in her face told the world she had weathered a thousand storms. The tension in her jaw screamed that she had bitten even more bullets. Yet I was told she has barely spoken in groups or individual therapy. I was a new therapist at the prison, and she was just transferred to me against her will, yet in our first one-on-one session we kind of bonded, and she opened up more than she had with anyone (according to her).
I looked around at the Grief and Loss group -- the tension was crazy thick and my co-facilitator Pat-tay looked terrified (apparently challenging certain clients was a no-no). It was quiet but the smirks and contempt was piercing my eardrums. I couldn't hide my extremely large gulp. But I knew that ...
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