There is a lock I see on the Queensboro Bridge any time I walk over. On that lock someone wrote “LOVE YOURSELF”. For as much progress as I think I have made with this therapist I see that lock and ask “How is that possible?” I think of it for several minutes every time I see it. Today it almost made sense. I no longer revile myself, though occasional glances at my face in the mirror produce familiar disgust. I am not ready to let myself off the hook for my character pot holes and integrity flaws. But I can see myself better than I could a year ago, or three years ago, or 6 years ago. So I imagine the mental and intellectual joy I might know if I didn’t just like myself but actually loved this sodden bag of bones. How does one love themself without being an asshole? I think of people I know who seem to love themselves, to be happy and satisfied with what they are. Most of those people are assholes. As I explained to the therapist, depressed people are not stupid. We see the world for what it is, for what it gives us. It’s a shit pool of misery and unfairness. If you don’t see the world for that then you are on happy gas. She seemed skeptical of my thoughts at first but had to admit I had a point.

Today I walked the bridge and back, to see the therapist. Just when I was thinking I might want to graduate to a more sophisticated psychiatrist (who can prescribe drugs) she got stuff out of me that I forgot was in there. Some mother stuff. Some Catholic priest stuff. I suggested that others have experienced far worse traumas. She said “I rarely hear stuff like this. No, this is not common.” Then she echoed what certain others have said, that I am far too empathetic and forgiving of those who scummed up my mind. It doesn’t matter if they meant to or not, or what their intentions might have been. I almost wholly forgot the unhappy details of the encounters with that priest. I forgot that after a certain incident he just completely cut me off, or rather cut me off as well as he could while still being a teacher. Therapist was staring at me like I’d been gang raped by a bunch of Jesuits. That’s when I suggested others had been through far worse. That is true but it’s not a competition. She iterated that she does not hear this kind of thing very often. It took a couple of hearings and repeating to myself in my mind on the 5 mile walk home to understand that she would not say something like that without meaning it. I realized that I am what my mother would have called a “Vulnerable Person”. She used that term in her social worker paperwork. After she retired she had me read through piles of her papers detailing interviews with and evaluations of people reported to Tampa’s DCF (Department of Children and Families). It seemed like 8 out of 10 of the people she saw were cast as “Vulnerable”. If I could ask her one question today it would be what the fuck “Vulnerable” means.

Technically I was not allowed to read that stuff. But her secrets are safe with me. I don’t remember a single name or detail, aside from the assignment of “Vulnerable” to a significant percentage of her clients. Maybe that is enough of the social worker’s secret sauce to be dangerous. In later years she dismissed her mountain of paperwork as boring detritus. I might call it ephemera. There I go again, being charitable.

If I have learned nothing else about myself these past months it is that I am no misogynist. That’s a damn good feeling. I don’t hate women. I have barely a whiff of hatred anywhere in me. I don’t hate. I fear. Hate is strong. So is fear. Fear is the new Force. “The Fear” is strong with this one… haha, I’m not making any sense. Surrounded by millenials who look and sound like they are all 15 years old.