When I was senior in high school, my teacher wanted me to be published. ONe of my projects was a story called "Meredith Black" and the entire story was based in a therapy room.
Meredith was a tense, accomplished me with depression only (back then, I was depression and anxiety only), who was rather heartless at age thirty-five. NO marriage. NO long term boyfriends. She had no bad habits but smoking. Typical for a man, not so for a woman, she put all of her negative energy into her job. She was an economist (I after all at the time was an A econ student).
Except she fell in love with one of her male friends, and then promptly refuse to see him.
I sense the pain of make late night phone calls and hanging up.
I see a therapy sitting in a chair, doodling on a paper, completely unconcerned with Morpheus's position.
"This means he loves me," I want to say.
"Suffering is love?" is a witty answer, but not likely to be heard.
No one wants to suffer alone. People want to be remembered daily when they are in love and separated.
If I had to write a therapist again, I would write a therapist who is more along the lines of "try it and see if it bites you." IF it bites you repeatedly perhaps you should change your course.
What is forgotten is the fact that with the mood instability of an intense love high blinds you to the consequences of the bite felt weeks and months later. There's no moral argument to be made (who's soul could you save?).
I never grew up to be a Meredith mostly because I ended up being bipolar, and when manic, I experimented with sex and relationships.
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