Therapy 3

I didn’t expect I’d see her again that day, but about fifteen minutes later she came back in and sat down.

“I’m a mystery unto myself,” she said. “I left here full of gloom and feeling this sort of rage towards everyone and everything – towards myself, really, my life, of course – but, you know what I mean, where you look around and think you just can’t stand anyone – and then I saw this woman struggling with some bags trying to make her way to the bus and – of course, I left myself behind, went up and helped her, insisted and made a joke and got her smiling. I do that all the time, and often when I’m feeling terrible. It makes me think I must be a nice person – so why do I feel like I’m not?”

I settled back into my own chair. I ruminated on the idea that, deep down, way down inside, all of us perhaps have that question: am I good? am I bad? And what does that mean? Maybe it means: am I loved? Am I worthy of love? And love from whom? From one’s parents? From those first few moments of life? Or from beyond even that, from past lives, from God?

“I,” she said. “I…”

She tailed off. She began to cry. She said “fuck” and clenched her fists and gritted her teeth.

She tried to speak again. Then stopped. Closed her eyes. Took a big sigh.

“I told a lie,” she said. “Lately. Recently. I told a bad lie; a big lie. It’s so not like me; I believe in honesty so much. But…I couldn’t help myself. I got in too deep. Things escalated and I guess I just went along with it, was sort of on automatic pilot, right until it ended. And then I felt like shit. Felt, even – and I’m no Catholic – like I wanted to go to church, talk to a priest, do the whole, ‘Forgive me father, for I have sinned’ business. I feel really yucky, like I’ve let myself down – and yet…I don’t know what else I could have done. It brought up all that childhood stuff I was talking about before: about getting into trouble and going into this mode where I would do just about anything to get out of it. But I’ve been better lately, for so long now – though I guess I don’t really get into trouble anymore, so perhaps I wouldn’t really know. Little white lies, you know – like when a guy says, when was the last time you slept with someone? and you think, well that’s kind of irrelevant, and saying, ‘four days ago’ isn’t going to go down so well, so I say six months or eight months or whatever they want to hear and we can move on – but…goddamn, I really let myself down. I feel like I polluted my soul.

“And then I got to thinking,” she said, “about Mark, the last guy I was in a relationship with, and how good it was, and how great he was – but how there was this one point where he told me this really stupid lie – stupid as in, he could have totally told me the truth, and I was always bound to find out anyway – and I just lost all trust in him. We broke up. We hung out and hooked up after that, and it was all still mostly really good – but whenever I thought about getting back with him in a real way – and I thought about it often – all I could think about was that damn lie, and I couldn’t get past it.

“You know what I think?” she said. “I think I maybe needed to cut him some slack. Understand that people fumble sometimes. That I fumble, and that I’d like to be cut some slack, and for it to be understood why I did what I did, and not be forever judged on that. But I just couldn’t do that for him – couldn’t do it with Graham either – and I think that makes me wrong, that I couldn’t live with their failings – same as it’s been with everyone. I mean, they’ve been wonderful, good people – but it always comes down to: oh, this one’s too chubby; this one’s not funny enough; this one has a few weird habits; this one talks too much; this one’s not as good looking as the others; this one has an annoying laugh – that sort of thing. And now, here I am: five years single, and pretty much getting past the age of so-and-so, and I guess I feel like I’ve more or less blown my chances.”

“I don’t think you’ve blown your chances. There’s always another chance.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but…I feel like I’m getting worse. Less tolerant, not more. More picky – almost writing them off immediately. One little disagreement and I’m outta there. I just can’t be bothered with it. I guess in a lot of ways I prefer being single – and yet, I can see how I like – and crave – and need – intimate company too. I love love. The physicality of it. The closeness. I just can’t handle the nuts and bolts of it – the boring bits; the friends and family stuff; obligations; and…when personalities arise, that sort of thing. I just wanna be held, and I just want someone to listen to me – which is, of course, massively unfair, when I say how bored I am of listening to other people, of hearing them go on and on.

“How do you tolerate this?” she said, gesturing to indicate the two of us, and looking at me, waiting – meaning it wasn’t just a rhetorical question, wasn’t just some thought out loud.

“I’m less invested,” I said. “It’s only for an hour and I know my place. You’re not really expecting me to speak, you’re expecting me to listen. It’s a different level of engagement. Plus, we don’t have the same emotional entanglement as people who are intimately, physically involved.”

“I feel like a part of me wants you to be invested,” she said, “but I suppose that’s just my ego – and, anyway, I understand what you’re saying, it makes perfect sense. Maybe whatever I might feel around is just another sign of wanting some sort of connection with another. I mean, it was nice that hug and all – but I wouldn’t want it to go further. I know your lifestyle, I know how you live – and I know there’s no real compatibility there, and I think compatible lifestyles are just about the most important thing in a relationship. Good sex, good conversation, fun – those things are possible with lots of people: but someone’s who’s truly on the same page when it comes to the day-to-day stuff…I really think that needs to be there; sheesh, I’m just waffling now.”

“Maybe you can go back to what you were saying before,” I said, “about your feelings about honesty.”

“Yeah, you know,” she said, “I think I feel better now, after letting it out to you. You’re not a priest but…it does feel better – and I was really beating myself up about it these past few days, and during that walk. Who knows? Maybe it’ll come back – but, right now, I feel like I’m somehow taking it easy on myself.

“I do feel bad for Mark, though – there was a guy who I felt was really living my kind of lifestyle, and I can’t say that about many people. I can understand why he did it – he didn’t want to get caught out; he didn’t think he would be; he probably didn’t think it mattered – just the same as me – but…he did get caught, and he made it worse through further denials, and it escalated into something that I just couldn’t tolerate or accept – something that I couldn’t put out of my mind. That’s a shame, that. To look at someone you think you might love – and then to have that niggling thought at the back of your brain. Ah well: what’s a girl to do? Just end up an old cat lady, I suppose. Only forty more years of living and loneliness.”

She laughed and grinned at me. If it had been a text, that last sentence would have ended with a wink.

“And what about the other things you were saying? About failure? About feeling mentally ill?

“Do you know what?” she said. “I feel like I want to dance. I feel like I want to get up from this chair and spin around and do something totally goofy. God knows where that’s come from! But that’s what I feel: I feel happy!”

Some sort of liberation, I thought: good for her. Nothing to do with me, I thought: really good for her.

“So dance, then,” I said. “Feel free. You want some music?”

“Nah,” she said, “feeling’s passed. I just wanna…maybe look out the window for a minute, watch the leaves and branches in the breeze.”

She stood up from her chair. She walked over to the window and pressed her hands against the pane, and leaned her forehead on the glass.

She breathed in deep and loud, and let it out. She sighed. She looked down to the street and watched the people passing by, the cars. Rain spattered the glass. Some of the people raised umbrellas.

“I don’t know what I feel anymore,” she said. “In this moment…everything feels fine. Is that weird? I don’t have a single thought in my goddamn brain.”