Friday was a day that felt like a muddled dream, with my shoulder bag heavy with four bottles of olive oil and the shiny new DSM-V-TR still in its plastic wrapper. I walked all along Coal Harbour wanting to stay outside even though the bag was hurting my shoulder, and at Waterfront I could not, of course, resist the guy singing Vincent outside the station. I had to sing with him, I think, by which I mean it didn’t feel like it was optional.
There were two women who talked to me after my presentation; both shared things that were too personal to talk to a stranger about. That kind of thing is odd, but really, it’s not just my profession, it’s my soul. It’s the way I have always moved through the world I think, wringing things out of people that they may not have meant to say. But I treasure those pieces. I do not take them for granted. Your emotional hangover is safe with me. I will make breakfast for you and rub your temples while I ask you about your heartbreak. I only want to know because I’m comparing it to mine, looking for a window through which I can see myself. We are all looking for ways to feel less alone.
