"I'd like, once again, to feel what I know"
It is difficult, nowadays, to compose coherent updates about my inner life. I genuinely marvel at how systematically M records his thoughts/ feelings. Even when I was writing the memoir in beirut I just let the words flow, and order is fashioned in retrospect. I find myself incapable of writing otherwise.
M asked today, why made me decide to go for therapy? I could add a follow-up question, what have I made of my sessions? Funnily enough, I think they have disabused me of intentionality; slowly, I learn to recognise what comes to the surface, and to voice it, however much of a non sequitur it seems. I learn about my stubbornness, my pride, my sense of humour, my occasional eloquence, the areas where I do not wish to venture... I learn about the extent of my selves. (Again when M asked what my "key takeaways" from Club Med were, I thought of this. Imagine my selves as a kindergarten classful of students, each raring to speak. Me giving each student her/ his time and space.)
I've also experienced the tempests of my rage, the times when something catches in my heart and I cry discreetly when I know Jackie can't see me. When I wish she would speak but she doesn't and we just, breathe, over the patchy skype connection. Or when I see her in the flesh again, and she asks me if I'd like the window open, just like old times. I can't forget the time when I snuck up on her at the traffic junction opposite the Archway tube station, the moments before my approach when she struggled to zip up her winter coat.
I think I've learnt to observe my moods with more serenity than I previously possessed. I am twenty-five but I feel... like things could change (hat-tip G). I have to admit that I do not know what will happen next year, the year after that... Which desk will I be? Which friends will I spend my time with? What activities will occupy my days? Whom will I love, lust over?
Perhaps that will suffice for now, like Rilke said, living my questions.













