Dear Bill,
I think we can both agree that we did not click. On paper, we should have. You: a soft, grandfather-aged man who favored cardigans in earth tones, studying to be a therapist. Me: also favors cardigans in earth tones, studying creative writing. We both have quiet voices and were a bit awkward on zoom. When I left for vacation, you said, see you when you get back. When I got back, I had seven emails cancelling the remainder of our scheduled sessions. I didn’t take it personally. I was surprised by my lack of emotion. I take almost everything personally, especially things that aren’t clearly explained, like my therapist ghosting me. But it seemed obvious that we were not a good fit. I didn’t talk about anything real during our appointments. When you asked questions, I softened the edges of my answers, tried to make my life sweeter than it was. I had this weird feeling that I was going to get someone in trouble if I told the truth, which was sad for me and unhelpful for you. And I didn’t want your gentle figure on the screen of my laptop to be surprised by what really happened. Or, more accurately, I lied. At the end of our second-to-last session, you told me to find a photo of my younger self, put it on a chair, and talk to it. Maybe, I said, lying again. What I meant was no fucking way. But (unbelievable that I’m admitting this) I did it. I found a photo, talked to it. I can’t remember what I said, and you didn’t follow up on the exercise or ask me how it went in our next and last session. I think I knew then that we probably wouldn’t see each other again, and I was relieved, to be honest, that the sessions were cancelled and you never got in touch. But it still feels like there is a circle that has never been closed so here I am, sending you a note, tying something together that barely existed in the first place.
I’m writing this note to recommend a book, but I can’t even remember what you look like. And now that I’m thinking about it, was your name Bill or was it Robert? I prefer Bill. When I think about you, I think about Billy Collins, and I like thinking of you as the poet of tuna fish sandwiches, picnic, lightning, the warm smile. I like imagining you sitting in a comfortable chair, smearing the pages of a chunky novel with egg salad fingers.
But back to books. I’ve been thinking all week about what book I should assign you. I haven’t gone back to therapy since you canceled our sessions. I took it as a sign from the universe that I was fine, I didn’t need to talk to anyone. But the days are so short and dark now, and everything is burning, and I haven’t been feeling blue, exactly, but I have been feeling a little, I don’t know, are we going to be okay? The air feels angry and sharp and I don’t know what to do about it.
Last night, I finished reading a book about a man who was borderless. He was given a suitcase and sent on a trip but he didn’t know why, and as the book progressed, I got the sense that something was very wrong. The man couldn’t diverge from the path he was on, or say no, I don’t like this, you’re making me uncomfortable to the people he encountered along the way. It made me feel so physically uncomfortable. I didn’t understand the book, or maybe I understood it too well, in the cells of my body. It was like a gray, angry piece of art in a museum that I knew was important but I couldn’t understand why, I could only feel eerily aware of the permeable outline of my body.
My body. I don’t think about the outline of my body much, how firm or movable its boundaries are. I think about how I wish it was smaller or taller or smoother, but I don’t think about the lines of it. Are they as defined as a stone or as permeable as the membranes of a green leaf? Bill, you recommended that I try meditation, taking deep breaths, sitting in the moment. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and try to remember to breathe before I get up. I feel annoyed. I feel too aware of it all, and I don’t like it. I feel like the color dark blue, or a boat with its sail down in a brown muddy sea, or a girl making a wish on a star that isn’t a star at all, but the top of a faraway building where many people sit on uncomfortable chairs and talk about money. The things that are good for us can be so hard to do.
That book started with a suitcase and my day started with one as well. A suitcase on a train, a suitcase on a bus, a suitcase on a plane, a suitcase in the trunk of my mom’s car. In the middle of this ribbon of suitcases, I was walking through an airport in Pennsylvania and talking to Mills on the phone. I called because a man was talking at me and I really hated the way he kept nudging my arm but I couldn’t or didn’t know how to say no, I don’t like this, you’re making me uncomfortable. I called Mills to escape and we talked as I walked away from the bad man who was somebody’s father and maybe could have even been you, Bill, when I realized I still didn’t seem to be close to my terminal. “Ask for help,” Mills said, when I finally realized I wasn’t getting any closer to where I was trying to go. I hung up and kept walking and didn’t ask for anything. I realized that there is no book, Bill. I have nothing for you. This month there is walking farther than it seems like you should and sitting on an empty train and missing your friend’s birthday and feeling somehow both shattered and obscenely hopeful. Find your own book, Bill.
You’re okay. You are just fine. I think that’s what I said to the photo of that little girl.
Love,
Stuart
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This turned me into a puddle ❤️
“But the days are so short and dark now, and everything is burning, and I haven’t been feeling blue, exactly, but I have been feeling a little, I don’t know, are we going to be okay?” aww 💘💘