Sometimes during my two-mile walk, I find that certain troublesome moments in my life come to mind. I say to myself, “Oh, it’s that story again,” run it through, and then return to the August morning, noticing the haze of a forest fire somewhere north and hearing the distant yip of a coyote. One such fragment is simply a question, “What was I supposed to know?” He’s dead now, so it’s not like I could call him and ask.
He was my therapist during and after an unwanted pregnancy, being deserted by my young—and crazy—husband, and choosing to give up the baby for adoption. I was barely twenty-three and I needed help. By the way, this took place in Reno, Nevada in 1964 and 1965.
It’s like remembering an anxiety dream: if I could crack the code; if I could have one revelatory moment, no matter how awful it might be, I would say, “Aha! That’s why I did those things. That’s where everything I don’t like about myself comes from. At least that’s the way I remember our last few sessions.
I relied on him. Told him everything. Learned how difficult that is—telling everything--especially talking about sex. Now, when this moment comes up on my walk, I am angry with him, a slightly balding, forty-year old married man who chewed a single piece of Dentyne gum.
At our last session, he asked me if I wanted to go for a drive on Saturday, maybe up Mt. Rose Highway. Just to talk. I said "Sure," but I never showed up. I never saw him again. I was dating a young geologist. He wore plaid shirts and had a slide rule on his belt, loved hiking in the mountains, seemed to be in love with me.
What was the therapist trying to get me to understand? Something about my father? My mother? Why I had gotten myself into the mess I was getting myself out of? Maybe nothing. Nothing at all.
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