The therapist asks about my first
memory of despair. This is too easy: a multiple-choice question with the
correct answer listed as a), b), c), and d). I reply with a wince—Sunday
afternoons of my youth spent in my parents’ living room, dust atoms arrested in
sunlight, newspaper strewn about, and the judgmental remnants of Sunday mass
percolating within me. This was my primer, my first lesson in vanishing hope.
What about my current state of
despair, the therapist asks. It’s true these emotions have matured from zygotes
into adults. They’ve lost teeth, outgrown their braids and mohawks, sat for
yearbook pictures, worked crap jobs, fought with lovers, and concocted plans to
end the flipbook of my life. Yet even when prompted, I am reluctant to measure
the depth of their reservoir—to acknowledge the sedimentary layers of their
helplessness.
The therapist invites me to
imagine my life free of despair. She is testing my loyalty, determining whether
I possess the fortitude to bury my own.
Within a month, I’ll forget the
therapist’s name, the waiting room couches, the wall art that hints at new
beginnings.
Ursula Villarreal-Moura
Twitter @ursulaofthebook
Tampa
Alissa Nutting