Diary of a Paranoid III

When I return from the bathroom, a trek which probably took longer than it should, I pull open the tent flap and step inside. My therapist Anna looks up from her book at me with that hopeful expression that must be glued on her face.
"So, how did it go?" (Sad, I know, that she has to ask me how my trip to the bathroom went, but Anna is always looking for little hints of improvement.)
"Um, okay I guess, nothing out of the ordinary," I reply casually. For any person, this might be a good response to hear, but for me, 'the ordinary' is the reason that Anna and I are here, the reason that we have had weekly sessions for the past year and a half. I feel bad for her, really. She tries so hard, and starts every little 'adventure' with the clear intentions that I will arrive back at home cured. But I feel the same as I did almost two years ago, scared, jumpy, and paranoid.