It might not have been an auspicious day, that third day in March last year. Was it the Year of the Rat? I do not remember. I recall my anger. I had just begun a regimen, embarking into a world of doctors and therapists and psychiatrists who wanted to know what I was thinking, feeling, trying to let me guide them through the deep of my mind.
That third day in March last year when I met you, you walked through the doors talking with an analyst. I recall your face was stern. I was thinking that running away and never returning was a pleasant option. Why could I not let the years of excuses and emotional blindness continue. I do not want to repeat every detail, confess my wild madness, and live through the fear again, talking and confiding to yet another person. Why couldn’t they let me be.
So I decided, let’s see what this very tall man with brown eyes and stern lips would say to me. Would he be inquisitive, hesitant to ask pointed questions, careful to be non-committal but yet adequately probing. And on that third day in March last year, you stopped at my chair in the lobby, where I sucked at a bottle of Orangina, flipping one leg over the arm of the seat, and challenged you with a rude belching expletive. My analyst laughed hesitantly. You offered your hand to me and said your name was John and you wanted to be my Lifestyle Coach and help me back to smiling again.
I did not know that on the third day of March last year, my hand was cold. And yours was warm and I liked the sinews in your palm, and the strength in your wrist and the softness of your handshake. And I felt a warm wave for just a brief moment, a tremulous sensation in my throat as I tried to answer but all that came out was, “Whatever!” And you laughed aloud, bent your head down to mine and whispered to me, “You will be a problem, I can see it in your eyes, but let’s try and have some fun along the way.”
It was that third day in March last year that opened the long narrow corridor in my head. And I wanted to keep walking down it with you.