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Don't knock at the wrong door
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2024-10-29 19:42:56It was my first visit to a therapist's office. I didn't know what to expect: diplomas all over the walls to show that he knew what he was talking about, plants to relax me, Kleenex for crying, a lovely couch to lie on. And the therapist himself, I don't know why, but I had imagined him bald and with a big belly. Before entering, I had heard his voice. I hadn't liked it. I had found it without warmth and emotion. As cold as a washcloth placed on the forehead to reduce fever.
I don't want to sound crazy, but I really wanted to run away when I heard him behind the door: What am I doing here? I am in a therapist's office because I left a breakup letter on a kitchen table? I thought I was wasting his time, that other more grieved patients would need his miracle recipe. But I am not sure, when I heard
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654B. A code that can lead to pleasure as well as to the worst affliction. I don't even know if I want to dial it anymore. I stare at it quizzically and wonder if it wouldn't be the worst mistake of my life. I thought I had made a big mistake living with Paul for eight years, but I tell myself that we can continually innovate, that nothing remains the same. Even pronounced on a poorly lit evening, love is allowed to think that the time to leave has come.It's awful when you think about it. But why does this deep feeling of guilt approach me and prevent me from breathing? Damn, I'm free! I have my suitcases, and I am in front of Agnès' building. I am ready to rebuild my life. I'm 38, and it's not over yet. My life is ready for a new beginning.And yet, there is a problem. I'm afraid, and I had not planned this nasty fear in my suitcases. I thought leaving Paul with a short note near his croissants would solve the matter, but I am back to square one. I
The obsessive fascination Enjoy your freedom
A glance at my watch shows me that it is 8:37 a.m. What precision! That is at least one thing I had in common with Paul. This consideration for detail and clarity. It is still early, and I feel good in the almost deserted streets. I believe in a possible second life for me. I want to believe in it, and I tell myself that at 38, everything can be rebuilt. We destroy houses to make them more beautiful. I, too, am entitled to it. I want to break with this old life. I end up making a long list of desires: dancing salsa half-naked, drinking hot chocolate in an Egyptian pyramid, making love in the ruins of a castle, sleeping in a field of flowers, bathing in a frozen Swedish lake … I love my freedom, and thanks to it, I start planning simple things. I begin to think about what I would like to do in the future now that I no longer feel doomed. I'm ashamed. It bothers me to speak like a former inmate. It's so unfair to Paul. He's probably asleep at this hour, or he's dreaming of bot
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Deep down, I was seething. It had nothing to do with love but regrets. I had the same dissatisfaction that one feels after swallowing a huge apple pie. When you do, it's sweet, fresh, tasty. But then? What's left? I blame my sorrows. I had sex with Paul while he was making love to me. He whispered words to me that I don't even want to repeat. Tender words, but I don't want them anymore. I felt he had changed his method. He tried to innovate. He switched position three times, probably trying to extort cries of excitement from me. I was not a good girl. That is the least you could say. I kept looking at the clock above the sofa and hoped it would go faster, much like when you are at sc
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No, I wasn't expecting it. Of course, I had noticed this slightly lost gaze of his. How else could it have been? He reminded me of a teenager who was after a girl's phone number at all costs. I had anticipated everything but that! When will I finally drop my hypocrisy? When will I realize that Paul and I have been together for more than 8 years and after such a long time spent together, we need something else than a plain 'good morning' each time we wake up. And last night, I can't help but shudder when I think about it. I really think I felt his hands caress my chest. With a soft and light hand, yes. But had I invited him to? Carole doesn't understand me. I have what she does not have and what she would like to have. Nocturnal caresses, little atte
The obsessive fascination Don't say anything
I folded up the letter and hesitated for a long time before wrapping it. This colorful envelope would have been a bit like giving a present with a friendly smile. A gift, even poorly chosen, gives pleasure, brings a little joy because we always tell ourselves that it is the intention that counts, that the person has thought of us. Yes, I thought of Paul, but this letter is not a present. This letter will undoubtedly give a taste of bitterness in his mouth as if he had a drunk whole salty ocean. He is going to choke on the bottle of wine. I can already feel it coming. And about me? I will remain like a tiny mouse, unaware of all my actions. The pen wrote, my hand just went with the flow—this perfect cowardice which characterizes me in all ingenuity. I reread my letter calmly. Shutters were closed. I didn't want any distraction from the outside, no noise, no smile that would taunt me when I have just crushed my heart on a pi
The obsessive fascination Deal with it
Forget me. Imagine you've never met me. Put me in the drawer of your memories—both the good and the bad. It doesn't matter the slightest. Ignore the existence of our story. You won't find anything extraordinary there anyway. See me as if I were a speck of dust. It's not very bad but what is it for? It ruins the landscape.In fact, no, why put me down in this mishap? Why should I still feel guilty for asking you to erase what connects us? You told me that the two of us " would be forever." I now remain deaf to this form of blackmail. Yes, that's blackmail, Paul. What the hell did you imagine? That you could continue to own my body and soul until the end of time? You are very selfish, let me tell you. Are you only aware of my own desires? No, I am correcting myself—my absence of lust. When you approach me, I see myself as a little girl on a merry-go-round. My mother insist
The obsessive fascination Don't live in our memories anymore
This morning Paul left the house early. He told me about a very urgent contract to sign. I let him run away, and a cruel thought came over me. It's embarrassing, but for a split second, I started wishing he didn't come back, that he was stuck for hours signing that damn piece of paper. I did not interview him as I might have done in the past. I didn't care if this great-looking apartment would be for a rentier or a young art history student. I didn't care. It was as if my tongue had disappeared overnight like my feelings. I shudder just at this admission. It almost slices my throat to tell myself that I do not feel any lack, that I feel relieved in his absence.Something is wrong, and it gets me confused. My friend Carole collects commitment-phobic, and I'm only good at wiping tears
