So long and not much noise here. My therapist may very well be dying of lung cancer. Not the type of lung cancer that builds and builds, but the little nefarious sonofabitch that gets right in there next to your aorta and tries to take it all out of you. The guy’s skin is turning gray and his hair is already gray and I feel like it’s any day now, and I ask why him and not me.
We’ve got two weeks left of this experiment that we started three years ago: three more weeks of therapy and then I got to do something else. He says he thinks it might be good to pursue a woman therapist since that’s where my problems lie, with women, and that she may teach me how to trust the universal her.
We talk lots of how I am feeling. I guess that’s what therapy is. We have been especially keying in on how I feel about the separation. He asks if I feel anger, and I guess I do. The adult part of me understands the state of things, the child feels abandoned – the worst and constant fear. I cannot talk to him about it until he tells me to talk to a third person in the room that is not him.
I tend to cry a lot during these recent sessions.
I guess I feel the whole bundle of emotions that are going on. I guess I am angry on a level. I guess I do feel abandoned just like I have so many times. I guess I want to scream on a certain level, but I guess there’s a certain level that I feel like I am worried about a friend. (I am worried about so many of them.)
It’s the most fucked up of friendships though. He knows everything about me, I know so little of him. He raises money for the Special Olympics and is from New York, but I learned that from my psychiatrist (not exactly a therapist – always a chemical solution – and my therapist’s friend for the last 30 years.)
If I knew he were just retiring, I would be fine, or at least okay. As much as I wonder what becomes of me after this all ends, I wonder what becomes of him. I know when one signs up for the psychology route you are signing up to eat everyone else’s cancer, but I wish I could eat his now. I am not sure what that means for me, and my therapy, and my relationship with Stephen (likely Yankees fan that gets the baseball references that I was not so sure of), but I wish tonight that I could eat his. Make it all go away. Make sure that he lives for tomorrow, and next year, and the next, and so forth. Please?
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