Chapter 2
I watch as Ari takes this statement in.
She tries so hard to have no expression. I recognize the look because it’s one I try to employ with my own patients, although usually less effectively. I’d find it amusing if it wasn’t about me.
“Why did you phrase it as a question?” she finally asks, putting the onus back on me.
I blanch. “It should be a question, shouldn’t it? Like . . . is that even possible? How ridiculous is it to even think you’re in love with someone you don’t know?”
“I don’t think the word ‘ridiculous’ is particularly helpful here,” Ari says kindly, so very unlike her normal demeanor.
I must really be a basket case for Ari to go soft on me.
I sigh and put my head in my hands. I try to breathe in and out slowly, the way I always tell my patients to. “I think I’m really lonely,” I finally say, into my hands.
“Why do you think that?”
I look back up at her. “Isn’t it obvious I’d have to be lonely to think I’m in love with a fake person?”
“He’s hardly a fake person,” she points out, needling me on a technicality.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do.” She leans in toward me, looking at me with new eyes, like when you pull up your couch cushion and discover you’ve been living with lint and popcorn kernels underneath you the whole time.
“I should know better,” I sigh. “This is clearly some sort of projection that I’ve transferred onto an unavailable person so I don’t have to face the actual loneliness in my life and lack of a real relationship.”
She chuckles and looks at me the way you would a lost puppy. “Do you think being a therapist precludes you from having the same emotions everyone else does?”
“No,” I counter. “But I should be able to see it more clearly and stop myself from being destructive.”
“Maybe,” she says, looking around like she’s trying to decide something. “Maybe. But I’m not so sure we should expect that much of ourselves. If we could, every therapist you know wouldn’t also be in therapy.”
“Touché,” I reply softly.
“Can I ask what happened today that made it necessary for you to tell me?”
I nod. And then I stand up and pace around the room. Her office is pretty sparse, so it certainly makes for good pacing. Two chairs, a lot of ferns, and a big rug are all she has. No knickknacks to distract or bookshelves to fill the space.
“I’ve been thinking about loneliness because that’s what my column is about this week,” I explain. I’m still pacing, and I don’t look at Ari. Maybe this will be easier to explain if I’m in motion. “The person who wrote in asked about loneliness in relationships—if we can have a partner and still feel lonely. And if we do feel lonely in our relationship, is it necessarily the wrong one to be in. I got . . .” I pause. “I was a little personal in my response. Since I’m anonymous, I sometimes include details about myself because I think it can speak to the broader issue for more than just the person writing in.”
“I like that about your writing,” Ari says.
I appreciate the confidence, but I still don’t look at her as I keep talking, the explanation easier if I keep up the momentum. “I admitted, in my response, that I’ve always felt lonely in every relationship I’ve been in. And it’s been a major reason why I was always sure those relationships weren’t right.”
“Vulnerability is hard for you,” Ari says, years of our therapy work condensed into a single sentence.
“Yes, but that’s kind of the point. We don’t need to get everything from one person, but a true partnership shouldn’t ever feel lonely because you should naturally be yourself in it. Vulnerability is the antidote to loneliness. If you’re feeling disconnected from your partner, there’s some part of you that’s holding back. So my advice was to either try to open up to the partner or—if that feels impossible—to let the relationship go.”
“And then what happened with your copyeditor?” Ari’s not going to let me get bogged down in explaining my column when I’m avoiding the point.
But I keep pacing and take a moment to consider my answer, because frankly I don’t even know how to explain it to myself yet.
Even though Memorial Day was yesterday, since it’s not a holiday in the UK, this week isn’t different from a normal publishing schedule. I submit my column every Monday at the end of the day. Because of the time difference, I wake up to J’s edits on Tuesday mornings, and I answer his questions before I leave for work. We write comments back and forth throughout the day to make sure we’ve resolved everything before submitting the column for publication. It’s a rhythm now, our messages setting the cadence for my Tuesdays.
Maybe I also wake up on Tuesdays looking forward to seeing whatever he’s going to say. And so that’s how today started.
I must say (if my opinion on these things matters), I think this is among your best. Maybe I’m biased because this one in particular really resonates for me. Truthfully, I think you blew my mind a bit by somehow articulating how my last relationship felt, even though, until this moment, I hadn’t even realised it. I bet a lot of people will see themselves in what you’ve said. And maybe it’ll give them the strength to walk away when they should.
So . . . I’ve been pretty angry the last few months at my ex-girlfriend for leaving me. I’ve been stubbornly sticking with the script that she should’ve tried harder or should’ve let us both try harder. But reading what you wrote made me wonder if perhaps trying harder wouldn’t have solved the core issue, that neither of us ever really let the other one in. And if we weren’t going to do that after so much time together, well . . . it’s probably better this way.
To be honest (as though I’m ever capable of anything else, ha), I’ve been thinking lately about how lonely I’ve felt since she left; but reading what you wrote made me realise that it’s not recent—I was lonely before she left as well. I just hadn’t allowed myself to realise it.
And I think you’ve made me believe there’s a world where I should strive for more than that. So. If your goal is to help more than just the original writer, you’ve already succeeded this week, before even publishing. Thanks for that.
Enough of my sob stories. I don’t know how I always get there! This is what advice column work has done to us! At any rate, let me know your thoughts on the tracked changes. I’m sorry that my editing always modifies your Americanisms, but I’m really saving you from yourself. “Band-Aids,” by the way, wouldn’t work even if we were publishing this in the US. “Band-Aid” is apparently a trademarked term. The generic equivalent in the US is “bandage,” which sounds way worse than the generic British version of “plaster.” Sorry if that hurts your American sensibilities, but at least it’s a comfort you couldn’t use “Band-Aid” either way.
I’d stared at his words for a long time. Not because this kind of tangent was particularly unusual—this many years in, the nature of writing to each other about a relationship column had certainly produced its fair share of personal intimacies—but because it was the first time he’d mentioned his relationship ending.
Over the years, we’d both been in and out of a few, and we’d figured out pretty early on we were similar ages, so we were often at the same stage of trying to find a partner. But I knew this woman was the first he’d ever lived with, and it seemed more serious. I hadn’t realized it was over.
And it startled me how much that fact was sitting with me.
I accepted all his edits in our tracked changes (at this point he knows my writing well enough that I almost never argue with a change). But as to writing back . . . it took me a while to think of what to possibly say, my cursor blinking in the response box for far longer than it normally would.
Maybe the first step to fixing loneliness is admitting you’re lonely? Like alcoholics but with less interesting/destructive stories?
No, in all seriousness, I’m glad admitting mine helps you even a little with yours. For whatever it’s worth, you do deserve to strive for more. You absolutely deserve more than feeling lonely.
I typed and deleted a dozen different little quips to end with. He’s always ending our notes that way. He can never leave a personal story as a personal story; he has to write in some joke about his copyediting, as though I wouldn’t have already seen it in his tracked changes. I understand the impulse, though. That feeling of going out on a limb can be blunted by the extra cushion of wordsmithing.
But since he went out so far with his admission of loneliness, I left my own words without buffer.
I spent the next few hours with patients, but when I had my lunch break, I went back to see if he’d replied. And of course he had. He always did.
Thanks for being a brilliant writer but also a brilliant friend (Can you be friends with the person you copyedit? Or is that the height of lame? Like a primary school pen pal but nerdier. I’m not sorry, though!).
I do have to say . . . I don’t feel lonely when I’m writing to you.
That final sentence knocked the wind out of me. They were the words I’d known deep down for quite some time but never articulated. I don’t feel lonely when I’m writing to you.
And it was the first time I’d let myself really wonder if it’s possible to be in love with someone you’ve never met.
So, naturally, that impulse made me think I needed to talk to my therapist, stat.
I keep pacing, but I finally tell Ari the gist of the conversation. When I get to the end, I look over at her.
I’m surprised all my movement hasn’t left a dent in her carpet. But she’s still sitting calmly, watching me. That head tilt is back, her eyes moving over me like she’s waiting to be sure I’m done.
“What’s the problem, from your point of view?” she finally asks.
“The problem?” I scoff. “The problem is, I’m supposed to help people’s relationships function, while I’m out here with the textbook definition of an unavailable crush. That’s dysfunctional, to say the least.”
“Why do you believe he’s unavailable?”
I gawk at her. “That’s the tactic you want to take?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Aren’t you going to like . . . explore with me why I’m projecting onto a deliberately unattainable scenario?”
“I don’t see it as projecting.” She shrugs. “I think you want to believe it’s unattainable because that’s a safer option for you. You like safe options. It sounds like you want me to cosign your instinct to not explore this idea because it’s a little out of the norm. But I’d rather explore why not.”
“Why not what?”
“Why not find out?”
I sit back down and stare at her. This is absolutely not the direction I thought this conversation would go. She is, of course, absolutely correct that I wanted her to talk some sense into me, because surely it’s not only the safer option but also the only option.
“It’s not impossible for you to find out who he is,” she continues undeterred, ignoring my silence. “It’s not impossible for you to go to London and ask him out for a drink. It’s not impossible for you to suggest a phone call or some other way to have a conversation offline. I’m wondering why you believe it’s impossible. Why don’t you stand up for yourself and take more responsibility for your own life? If you think you’re in love with someone, don’t you owe it to yourself to at least ask the question?”
I stand up and pace again. Ari doesn’t say anything else. She’s played her move, and I can tell she’s fairly certain she has me in a checkmate anyway, no matter how long I try to think of a way out.
But as I pace around this sparse office, focused on the carpet, avoiding picking at my jacket again, my own words to J come back to me. You absolutely deserve more than feeling lonely. Why am I so quick to tell others to stand up for themselves but not myself?
“Okay,” I say slowly.
“‘Okay’?”
I’m amused by her surprise—she thought (or knew) her advice was right, but I don’t think she expected me to agree with her without pushback. On the contrary, Ari is always encouraging me to be braver, and I’m always giving her excuses for why it’s not practical right now.
But I can be braver. I need to be braver.
“Okay,” I reiterate, as though I need to say it again to make it stick. “I’ll really give that some thought.”
And after everything today, I think I’m going to have to. Maybe it’s time for me to stand up too.