Morning Glory(2)

I nodded.

He swiveled around in his desk chair and patted his gray beard. “Never trust a therapist who makes his patients lie on a couch.”

“Oh,” I said, taking a seat. I recall reading an article about the great debate over the couch as a therapeutic mechanism. Freud had subscribed to the method of sitting behind his patients, while they reclined on a couch in front of him. Evidently, he despised eye contact. Still, others, including Dr. Evinson, found the whole couch scenario to be unproductive, even stifling. Others agreed, saying it put the therapist in a place of dominance over the patient, squashing any chance for real dialogue and meaningful feedback.

I wasn’t sure which side I was on, just that I felt awkward in his office. But I sat in that overstuffed chair anyway, sinking down into its deep cushions. The soft fabric felt like a great big hug, and I proceeded to tell him everything.

I lean my head back into the thick cushion.

“You’re still not sleeping well, are you?” he asks.

I shrug. He prescribed sleeping pills, which help . . . a little. But I still wake up at four each morning, eyes wide open, heart hurting no less than it did when I closed my eyes the night before. Nothing has helped. Antidepressants. Sedatives. The Valium they gave me in the hospital the day my world changed forever. None of it takes the pain away, the loneliness, the sense of being forever lost in my own life.

“You’re keeping something from me,” he says.

I look away.

“Ada, what is it?”

I nod. “You’re not going to like it.”

His silence, I’ve learned, is my cue to continue. I take a deep breath. “I’m thinking about leaving New York.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And why is that?”

I rub my forehead. “It’s the memories of them,” I say. “I can’t bear it anymore. I can’t . . .” Tears well up in my eyes, though I haven’t cried here in months. I’d reached a level of healing, a plateau, as Dr. Evinson called it, and had felt a little stronger—until now.

“If I leave,” I say with a trembling voice, “if I go away, maybe this pain won’t follow me. Maybe I . . .” I bury my face in my hands.

“Good,” Dr. Evinson says, always quick to find the positive. “Change can be beneficial.” He nods as I look up from my hands, but I can tell his skepticism mirrors my own. The fight-or-flight response has come up in our sessions, but I’ve never been one to act on the latter.

“Let’s talk about this,” he continues. “So you’d really want to leave your home, your work? I know how important both are to you.”

Last month, I was named deputy editor of Sunrise magazine, and at thirty-three, I’m the youngest person to hold the post. Just last week, as a spokesperson for the magazine, I shared travel tips for families with Matt Lauer on the Today show. My career is thriving, yes, but my personal life, well, it withered and died two years ago.

Everywhere, from the window seat in the apartment to the little café on Fifty-Sixth Street, memories linger and taunt me. “Remember when life was perfect?” they whisper. “Remember when you were happy?”

I grimace and look Dr. Evinson square in the eye. “I fill my days with work, so much work,” I say, shaking my head. “But I don’t work because I love it. I mean, I used to love it.” The tears well up in my eyes again. “Now none of it matters. I feel like a kid who works so hard on an art project at school, but when she brings it home, no one’s there to care.” I throw up my hands. “When there’s no one there to care, what does any of it matter? Does any of it even matter?” I rub my eyes. “I have to get out of this city, Dr. Evinson. I’ve known it for a long time. I can’t stay here.”

He nods thoughtfully. I can tell my words have registered. “Yes,” he says.

“So you think it’s a good idea?” I ask nervously.

“I think it could have value,” he says after a moment of thought. “But only if you’re leaving for the right reasons.” He looks at me intently, with those knowing eyes that seem to peer right into my psyche. “Are you running from your pain, Ada?”

I knew he’d ask me that. “Maybe,” I say honestly, wiping a tear from my cheek. “Really, all I know is that I don’t want to hurt anymore.” I shake my head. “I just don’t want to hurt anymore.”

“Ada,” he says, “you must come to terms with the fact that you may hurt for the rest of your life.” His words gouge me like a dull knife, but I know I must listen. “Part of what we’re doing here is helping you live with your sadness, helping you manage it. I worry that you’re compartmentalizing your pain, that you’ve made yourself believe that the hurt you feel exists only in New York, when it actually lives in here.” He points to his heart.