Uncertain Certainty

He didn’t say a word about where he was going. He would be gone for a week. The rest was left to my imagination. Editing business articles, which didn’t interest me, kept me occupied while he was away. I had more time in my own office when I didn’t have to walk to his consulting room and back multiple times. I recorded a few dreams in my journal, and I often found myself thinking about all of those fifty-minute hours I’d spent on his couch, the couch, where psychoanalysis allows the unconscious to speak. The reality that he was away must have frightened me. I imagine that I needed to know, or to think that I knew, where my psychoanalyst was spending his week instead of listening to me for fifty minutes at a time. I should be the center of his universe. The unconscious shouldn’t speak so much. These thoughts made me uncomfortable. An idea about where he might be came to me, and in an instant that possibility became reality, in my mind. I knew where he was, didn’t I?

 

 

 

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