Authors: Gina Elle
“Anything from the 70s would be fine,” I answer watching her thumb through her touch screen pad. Seconds later Leslie makes her way back to her chair as Neil’s voice echoes.
I close my eyes. Isn’t this my song of the day? Neil Young’s ‘Heart of Gold’. A man at the edge of despair . . . grappling with finding self-compassion. Eric Martin, miner for a heart of gold. I sit there and allow Neil’s lyrics to soak in. Leslie reaches over for her remote and lowers the volume on the iPod.
“So, you like 70s music?” She asks.
“Do I ever! I’m a pretty nostalgic guy and I like things that remind me of my childhood. Like that ashtray out in your waiting area,” I reply.
“What e
xactly does it remind you of?” she asks.
“It reminds me of . . .
growing up; of home . . . of my mother’s trinkets scattered throughout the many surfaces of our home. When I saw the ashtray out there . . . I just . . . I . . . found it . . . intriguing.”
“Di
d anything else intrigue you?” she asks.
“The J
aws
poster isn’t what I expected to see on the wall of a therapist’s waiting room . . . .” I smirk.
“Great point,” and she laughs.
“And just as I was expecting to catch up on some
Psychology Today
or
The Economist
magazines, I find comic books in your waiting room. And my favorite ones, too,” I add. I’m feeling more at ease in her presence. Leslie is guffawing.
“So, I note that everything that grabbed your attention out there comes from another decade. How old are you, Eric?” She asks.
“Thirty-two . . . an old soul in a youngish body. But, like Neil says, I’m getting old.”
“So, what makes you feel old?” Leslie asks. She has tucked the smiles away and a look of curiosity comes over her face instead.
“Loneliness,” I murmur. The conversation has taken a 360-degree turn. Leslie nods her head in understanding. Neil has stopped singing and the room is now silent. I look around me and like what I see. Books of all kinds: hard covers, soft covers, psychology manuals, and vintage books. One title in particular catches my eye. “
Les Miserables
,
”
by Victor Hugo
.
“Les Miserables”? Really?
“May I ask why you have a copy of
Les Miserables
?” Quite the number of synchronicities I’ve encountered here tonight. Fascinating.
“Eric, I’m a therapist for couples and individuals. One of my greatest resources for my couples’ therapy is Victor Hugo. He is
the
source, my man.”
Interesting.
“Okay, tell me a story about something that has happened to you recently,” Leslie says shifting positions in her seat. Her pen is poised. As much as I’m taken aback by the question, I’m excited to answer, curious to see where this is going.
“How recently? Like a month ago, a week ago, this morning?” I seek to clarify.
“Whatever you want. I’m easy,” she replies, shrugging her shoulders. I scan the room looking upwards at the crown molding. Several images come to mind; watching Mr. Callahan on his palliative bed, receiving that white hand towel, redheaded and fiery Amber, David asking me if he could drive my car when he’s older, Dr. Leung calling me, Amy asking me to attend her thesis defense. W
hat to choose . . . .
“I laid eyes on a stranger in an airport and haven’t been the same since.” I take a deep breath.
“Sounds like the beginnings of a foreign film to me. I’m hearing dark music playing in the background, low lighting and a sinister looking stalker in the midst. Ooohhh,” she croons in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Stalker?
“No . . .
it was nothing like that. It was a woman . . . who was on my flight back to Toronto. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She . . . just . . . did something to me. A part of me that was a long time asleep . . . was awakened. That’s the only way I can explain it.”
“And what part of you was that?” she asks. I see Leslie’s pen twirling around the page, drawing large circles and loops
. Is she doodling?
“Can I ask you what you’re drawing?” I ask instead of answering her question. Leslie looks up surprised.
“Sure you can. Nothing in particular. It’s just something I do while I’m listening. Let’s get back to this story. This stranger that you were watching . . . do you think she noticed you were staring?”
“Staring at her? Try stalking her! I followed her around the airport like a puppy dog. I watched her so closely I practically memorized
every pore on her face. I even . . . .” My voice trails off.
Can I admit it? Should I?
Leslie doesn’t press me to finish my sentence.
“I even took a picture of her with my
iPad when she wasn’t looking,” I say shamefully.
“You did?” Leslie is howling with laughter. Loudly. Her laugh is contagious and I too start to laugh. I can’t remember the last time I had a good laugh.
But why is she finding this funny?
“Eric, you have balls! This reminds me of Marius and
Cosette in “
Les Miserables
.
”
Marius stares at and ‘stalks,’ as you put it, Cosette from afar.” Leslie scribbles down some notes. I think about her comparing me to Marius.
“Didn’t Hugo believe that the moment two people fall in love is at the first glance?” I ask, looking to Leslie for confirmation.
“Do you think you fell in love with this woman from that first look?” Leslie’s pen is propped to her lip. Her eyes are on me.
“I think it’s crazy to even admit it,” I pause. “But it’s possible, I guess.”
“So, did you lose sight of her after the flight?” Leslie asks.
“Yeah, I lost her all right,” I admit as if I’m in defeat. Silence fills the room. Leslie is jotting down something on her yellow pad.
Of course it’s yellow.
“Have you ever lost anyone else in your life?”
Holy Shit. Here we go.
“My best friend Danny, three years ago,” I say. I look over my right shoulder and out the window. The bright sun beams down. I look across at the concrete of the building that’s blocking the city line view.
Hard and grey. Like me.
“I’m curious . . .
is the experience of losing Mystery Woman at the airport in any way similar to how you felt when you in lost Danny?” Her eyebrows are turned inward, as if she is in deep thought.
“Yes,” I say without a moment’s hesitation. Leslie looks straight into my eyes.
“When I lost them . . . I lost . . . hope,” I said it. The words have fallen right off my lips. That’s exactly where I’ve been: in a hopeless state of wander.
Leslie nods her head compassionately. Silence.
“When Danny died, I lost a hope for the future, a sense of a future . . . of a life without him . . . I guess is what I’m trying to say.”
“And with Mystery Woman?” She asks.
“I . . . I . . . lost hope of a future . . . of living a life with someone
special
.”
“And that brings us back to the loneliness.” Leslie reaches over to the coffee table
in front of us and picks up the iPod remote.
“Before you play another song,” I interrupt, “I have to tell you there is a lot more to my being here than my loneliness. I have a truckload of issues.”
“Grief has a way of seeping into the many crevices of our lives. If you will allow me to help you explore your grieving, Eric, the honor would be all mine. But what I hope you can walk away with from here tonight is a sense of hope. There’s always hope. We will work through your truckload of issues together. You’re not alone.” Leslie presses a few buttons on the remote.
“Add this song on your playlist this week. Listen to it often. Let’s talk about i
t next time we’re together. And . . . yes . . . it’s from the 70s.” She winks. The familiar sounds of Fleetwood Mac fill the air.
“Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow,” Leslie says with a wink and a pat on my back as I make my way out of her office. And, in that small gesture she made me feel that maybe,
just maybe
, I’m going to be okay.
__________________
It’s PostSecret.com time on Sunday night. I reach for the iPad and like I always do, before anything else, I scroll through the pictures of Caroline. Secrets. I stare at her gorgeous face in the photo and wonder about what secrets of her own she might be carrying. The more I think about it, the more I believe that no matter how many people we surround ourselves with or how many distractions we busy ourselves with, that deep down inside we’re all alone. And it is in this private space where we store our secrets. Secret desires, regrets, dreams, lives, beliefs . . . secrets that are all our own. We all have them.
I tap on the
Postsecret icon and glide my hand across the screen reading this week’s posted secrets. One of the appeals of this website for me is that I love to relate to total strangers and know that I’m not alone. I think about the revealing postcard I sent, in anonymity, to my Postsecret community. The postcard allowed me to both share something with others, and still keep it a secret. Leslie’s words come to me:
You are not alone.
And that’s how Postsecret makes me feel. Not alone. Even though I believe that ultimately, we are all alone.
It’s almost midnight and tomorrow will be a busy day.
Amy’s defense. I pull the covers over me and close my eyes. I drift off to sleep listening to the words
Yesterday’s gone, yesterday’s. . . . Don’t stop thinking about. . . .
9 “With A Little Help From My Friends”
It’s very early on a Monday morning and I already have two texts waiting for me to read.
Hey
eric—looking forward to seeing you at my defense today. 4:30 P.M.—don’t be late.
Amy and her reminders. I haven’t forgotten about the defense this afternoon. In fact, I’m actually looking forward to it. I spent an hour or so yesterday afternoon doing some further reading on Victor Hugo and
Les Miserables.
I even jotted down some questions into my iPhone in case I have the opportunity to ask questions later today. Wouldn’t that catch Amy off guard . . . me actually prepared with questions?
Hi Eric—Call me when u get a chance. I have a strange story to share with u. Lara
Oh shit.
I completely forgot to call Lara back while I was in Ottawa. I quickly tap in a reply.
Sorry about not calling u back last week. Another busy week ahead. Flying out to Vancouver tomorrow for 3 days. Will call u on the weekend. How’s Rob?
I glance at my computer on my desk. It’s 9:04 A.M. and I’m already at my desk answering emails. My morning jog, shower and short commute in took a lot less time than usual today. I have lots to do before I leave for Vancouver tomorrow. Good thing I got a decent night’s sleep for a change and have lots of energy for the day ahead.
“Good morning. I brought you an espresso.” I look up from my computer as Cate hands me a small Styrofoam cup.
“Thanks. You didn’t have to but I can certainly use it. I have a full schedule today.” Slowly, I take the lid off the cup and bring it up to my lips. Perfect . . . she didn’t add sugar, just the way I like it.
“How are you doing? I know last week wasn’t the greatest for you.” The image of the black roses on top of my desk blotter comes back to haunt me. I take a deep breath and look out the window as I take another sip of coffee.
“No, it wasn’t,” I reply “but better days ahead,” I add optimistically.
Is that Fleetwood Mac song really sinking in?
“If there is anything you need, just ask,” Cate says as she makes her way out of my office. Suddenly, I remember something that she could actually help me with.
“Actually, there is . . . if you don’t mind?” Cate stops in her tracks. I stand up and pull Leslie’s pink business card out of my wallet and hand it to her.
“Would you mind booking an appointment for me with this woman for early next week? Monday or Tuesday would be great. Even if she has an opening during the workday, I’ll take it. When the appointment is confirmed, could you text me? Don’t email me please on this one.” I notice Cate’s eyes light up as she reads the business card.
“A friend of mine went to this woman. I recognize her name. She did wonders for Jess after her divorce.” Cate smiles and leaves my office. Good to hear. There’s hope for me yet.
For the next half hour I work on clearing my inbox from the dozens of emails I left sitting there last week when I was feeling too disturbed to do anything productive. There is an email from Claudia telling me that she and Ryan booked a cottage in
Muskoka for a couple of weeks in July and invited me to go up with them for a few days. I’ve booked ten days off at the end of July for vacation with no plans in mind so maybe I’ll join them. I quickly reply and thank her for the invite.