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I never gave up my belief in a secret, a truth lodged in the past, which if he could only experience and accept would release him. I had to give up my own need to cure if I was going to stand any chance of shepherding her toward acceptance of who she already was. Because if all I did was scour what a person said to me each week for clues, I wouldn't do her much good. I had to train myself to notice how it arose, and how to put it aside. It had taken me a long time to see how strong this desire for an answer was. They told themselves stories all the time, but the stories trailed off, got forgetting, and then repeated - distractions themselves, oftentimes, from the feelings they were somewhere taught would damn them or wreck them. But as time went on, I realized that my clients' lives weren't works of art. What good plot didn't offer that? A meaning sufficient to account for the events. That's why I used to do, press for more and more family history, excusing it to myself as interest and attention, when really it was a distraction from the suffering in front of me, a desire to find the passage of experience that would explain their pain away.

An old impatience returned, the kind I had experienced when I started as a therapist: the urge to search for the moments in their past that contained the key to liberating them in the present. To sit there quietly, hands folded in my lap, listening to them elaborate on their troubles. “I gave myself a few days back at home before going in to see my clients again. That one night the beast at my back would squeeze more tightly and I would cease breathing. I could smell the rot of myself, my armpits, my breath, my groin, as though the living part of death had already commenced, the preliminary decomposing, as the will fades. Weeks went by indistinguishable one from another. The children receded into noises grating on my ears. I couldn’t pretend anymore to Margaret that I was working. I felt its breath on my neck, its scaled stomach rising and falling against my back, its head and face invisible as always. “A few months ago, a fog blinded me, thicker than ever before.

Imagine me gone book