Crawling

Yes, she had told her entire family: she was single, and she always would be. Wasn't what they had always wished for her? She had imagined herself rich and successful as a girl, just like her mom, a saleslady turned local fashion icon and business mogul from a rural town in Southern Oregon.

She had thought that being married was a kind of weakness, because she remembered her parents. Their marriage had literally given her nightmares: she had woken up crying in her twenties when she had dreams of herself as a beautiful bride stuck in a coffin with her arms crossed over her chest.

But that was all, thankfully, behind her now. She had a great job in Portland, almost singlehandedly saving the city's growing homeless population by designing energy-efficient mini homes as a testament to Pacific Northwest's ingenuity and compassionate nature. She had resuscitated a city and set the standard for the entire nation. She had really felt a surge of joy and gratitude for being able to make changes for people who needed it.

But personally, there was a hollow side to success. The more popular she became, the lonelier she felt. Maybe having it all wasn't really what it was cracked up to be.

She remembered the time she had become homeless, willingly, as a kind of experiment. It was her psilocybin period. She had enjoyed wandering the streets with Mark, her musician turned junkie boyfriend, begging outside Starbucks and singing indie pop tunes in front of a cardboard sign reading "Share the light. "

She continued until her mom, wearing oversized sunglasses and a headscarf, grabbed her one afternoon before her version of an Evanescence song and dragged her up the Park Blocks to deliver a lecture on the value of discipline and hard work.

"You had to do an internship at the Art Museum. I begged Frank to take you on. You know it looks very bad for me now. He rescued my career, and now my derelict daughter has decided to throw it all away. Wise up! "

She thew a bag filled with smoking paraphernalia which she had found under my bed.

"You're going to rehab. Today. Otherwise I'm calling my favorite deputy to have him handcuff you for vagrancy should you dare show your face there again. I can't even enjoy my latte, you're off key! "

Mom was enraged, her usually perfect bob dishelved, her makeup smeared with tears for her wasted daughter. But they burst out laughing anyway. She came close for a hug, then stepped back.

"Dora, you smell like the Burnside Bridge Bride. Go! I'll meet you this evening at Jake's. At 8."

With a shooing motion, she encouraged Dora to scuttle off to her penthouse apartment on Morrison St. The shabbily dressed twenty-something grabbed the keys and headed out, spreading patchouli scent all around.

Mark had meant a lot to me, but he was always unavailable. He was one of the many guys who was low-key cannabis dependent, so frequently in other dimensions.

I am so done with that, because I was thoroughly lost in drugs at one point. They cancelled half of my youth with one chemical stroke of munchies and pills and lsd tabs.

Mark had a stroke of genius in him, but he was always high.

Dr. Shanely doesn't know I broke up with Mark. It's irrelevant now, because I've fallen for him. Mick. An absolutely gorgeous hunk of transplanted Irish guy. With freckles. And longish hair. And that kind of manliness that doesn't exist anymore.

I had even made a humorous chart to illustrate my tempestuous romantic life for the Doctor, who always tried to understand my attempts to get a laugh. He always thought there was something sinister lurking underneath: childhood trauma, lack of boundaries, people pleasing.

"Groping-doping-moping-hoping-coping"

I had put together a string of gerunds to explain the various phases of infatuation and disillusionment.

At the moment I am between the last two.

And curious about my Doctor. But he doesn't seem at all interested, and treats me as he would as other patient: as a challenge to be resolved, but only from a scientific perspective. How can I explain to him that I've already figured him out? I can tell, by the way he carefully questions me, that he would be a gentle lover.

He always smells like something faintly warm, like ginger, and his hair is a bit unruly, though he obviously tries his best to tame it with a bit of lotion. His eyes are a smokey grey, with flecks of emerald which remind me of the green Irish hills.

Once, I caught him talking to his ex while I was entering his office. His back was turned, and I could hear a palpable note of desperation in his voice, sadness even. But he never really shows it, is always concerned, calm, generous. When he asks me how I am, he listens. His body leans forward and he looks at me, carefully.

Dora would have entertained Freud. But she doesn't entertain me. She seems like a kite, always lifting herself up on the breeze of various passing enthusiasms, only to smash down to earth.

She is not such a tall woman, or should I say girl. She doesn't look a day over 25, even though she's in her mid thirties. She is quite thin, almost bony, with a wistful look in dark, long-lashed eyes. She has an old-fashioned look to her, always dressed in long pastel numbers which make her look like Laura Ingalls Wilder. Almost no makeup, only a bit of lip gloss. She doesn't show off her figure, rather she looks self-effacing. While she doesn't seem to have any major personality disorders, she tends towards OCD and an avoidance attachment mechanism. And severe guilt issues, even though her father left her mother while she was 6 and never seemed to worry enough to come back to say hello until she was 18.

The trauma has left its mark. She obviously doesn't dare to trust anyone, but tries to make up for it with a chirpy demeanor which doesn't fool anyone. It's a valiant attempt, anyway.

When she arrives, I always offer her coffee as I have an espresso machine straight from Italy. She smiles in a trusting way and accepts with genuine pleasure. I wish she would allow life to please her more.

But she is dry inside. And scared.

When I touch her hand, a formal handshake which we indulge in before every session, it's freezing. But the shockwaves which run down my neck to the base of my spine surprise me every time.