Destiny Eleven Months Later

I almost didn’t write this sentence. Perhaps something meaningful will come of it. I’ve started to remember a phone conversation that happened eleven months ago, and I’m frustrated, which is a good reason to write a sentence about something else. It was probably the most important phone call I’ve had in years, and part of me wishes to forget it. I decided to give psychotherapy one last chance. I was about to embark on the most intensive of psychotherapeutic experiences, and I might not have been aware of what I was doing. The page that I wrote in my journal last July is alongside me here at my desk. How I could not have been aware that I was about to make a considerable commitment of time, effort, and money to a process, four times-a-week psychoanalysis, whose outcome would be unknown? There was fear in many of the sentences on that page of journal writing. I was afraid that I’d asked my potential psychoanalyst too many questions, and I feared that she would reject me. I’m uncomfortable as another sentence struggles to form itself in my mind. It’s difficult for me to admit that I’ve enjoyed studying a paragraph of my own personal writing from last summer. I might be afraid of rejection by you, the reader. The psychoanalysis started four days later. That’s not true. We had our initial interview four days later. The final several sentences of that journal entry were perhaps the hardest for me to read. In those sentences, I tried to convince myself that the phone call had ended well. Maybe part of me still wishes that I didn’t write the opening sentence.

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