Thursday, November 18, 2010

Visions of June (where are we now- parte tres)

Things were quiet these days and in the lobby of the small town therapists office I could feel that quiet completely wrap around me. Normally it is unsettling; the quiet is something to be broken. In the quiet I could see just how little of me, of June, their is left.

But today in the warmth of Jeff's office it was just comforting. A new sensation that I was not accustomed to feeling when silence held up its mirror. The last few weeks had been a tight rope walk over an alligator pit and so I slept much of the time. The candle on the dresser was down to just a nub of wax with the buried wick. My usual response letting everyone else deal with, fix and appease. The night when I lost myself and allowed Sam to walk through my door changed everything. She was something I could control only letting her in when I needed a release, when the nights grew longer, the words wouldn’t come and staring at the blank page left me with such frustration that a call for help to Sam always let the juices flow. She was what I always imagined I would be, I was so envious of her, she was beautiful, feminine and seductive with a brass set of balls. But on that night, she changed something in me and I lost control. So now I sat here listening to that familiar music Jeff always plays waiting and debating whether I should tell him. Not sure I have fully admitted it to myself yet, so how could I come clean to him, to anyone.

Jeff’s office always felt comforting; It was the warm embrace of an old friend. The low hum of Bob Dylan filled the antique decorated, oriental rug waiting room, with bits and pieces of it revealing little clues about the doc. His taste in music tipping his hand to hippie college days, no doubt pot smoking and philosophy talking. And the taste for old and expensive showed the educated man he had become, enjoying the fruits of his pricey education and PhD. All of this I took in, twisting it around and turning it over to form a complete and intimate picture of the man that sat across from me every week picking and pulling at my insides, gently though, always gently.

Sometimes sessions with Jeff were less satisfying than others, but there were times when they felt deeply satisfying like a soft game of cat and mouse, foreplay with words. His consistent boundaries lit up around himself. I could see through the barbed wire and every now and then caught him off guard, not standing erect at his post, that fence would drop, and a soft smile would cross his face. I was good at that better than most. Good at picking up those very subtle subconscious queues from people. The small smile that slips out at inappropriate times, or the insecurity that shows in someone’s eyes when they are unsure of themselves. Maybe it is the tone of your voice or the way you play with your ring toying it between your fingers when you are nervous, what ever it is I notice and this makes me very good at seeing people, really seeing people. It also makes me lonely. Today in his waiting room I know that Jason is the only one that really sees me and even he only sees bits and pieces putting me back together like a jigsaw puzzle in his mind.

1 comment:

  1. talented is the painter who needs no brush to paint a master piece... just the correct rhythm of strokes on a keyboard, attach colors to a canvas that makes the soul come alive... not saying this is a masterpiece, but more a comment about the painter...