Another soggy day in New York City.
I saw my therapist the other day. She fussed about at first, irritated that she'd run out of Kleenex in her office. I said to her, "Maybe I won't need any today." Of course, I was wrong.
I do wonder why it is that I get to the heart of the matter towards the last 15 minutes of each session. What the hell were the first 30 minutes about? Wasted money? Warm-up?
My therapist's name is Laura. She is a lovely woman though sometimes I think that she is the wrong therapist for me. She's soft. Sometimes she is behind on retouching the gray hair at her temples and I find myself fixating on that quarter inch of white hair. She offers me so much sympathy that I sometimes hate her.
Sometimes I underestimate my desire and need for kindness. I like to pretend that I am tougher than I actually am.
After our session, I was walking to Union Square to meet two friends. I started remembering walking out of the abortion clinic. Ah, the relief of it all. And the first stirrings of this unnameable feeling. Then the nausea. Perhaps it was just a reaction to the big dose of antibiotics they give you right after the procedure. Or maybe the beginnings of grief. But I think I started grieving the minute I began to suspect I was pregnant. When I found out I was pregnant, I grieved/fantasized about all the possibilities.
It was a gray day and the cab driver drove erratically and the road was pot-holed. I was scared I would start bleeding. I was waiting for it to hurt. But nothing. A little cramping, maybe. My ex and I went to the drugstore before heading to my apartment. I picked up sanitary pads--the diaper-like sort because I think I was expecting to hemorrhage. We picked up donuts. He paid for everything.
It's stupid to say, but now donuts make me unaccountably sad. What the fuck, you're probably thinking. That's what I think too.
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