“Those would be great things to do if you could,” she says with an earnest smile. “But there’s something else.” Leaning forward and watching me intently, she adds, “I’d like you to watch what you’re doing and saying, and if it’s something that doesn’t feel right and true to who you are, if it’s something that exhausts you or makes you unhappy, take a look at why you’re doing it. And if there isn’t a good reason … try not doing it.”
“What’s the point of this?” It feels like going backward, and it doesn’t have anything to do with my music, which is all I care about.
“Do you think there’s a chance that maybe your masking has spread to your violin playing?” she asks.
I open my mouth to speak, but it takes me a while before I say, “I don’t understand.” Something tells me I won’t like this, and I’m starting to sweat.
“I think you’ve figured out how to change yourself to make other people happy. I’ve seen you tailor your facial expressions, your actions, even what you say, to be what you think I prefer. And now, I suspect, you’re trying, unconsciously perhaps, to change your music to be what people like. But that’s impossible, Anna. Because it’s art. You can’t please everyone. The second you change it so one person likes it, you’ll lose someone who liked it the way it was before. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing as you go in circles? You have to learn how to listen to yourself again, to be yourself.”
Her words overwhelm me. Part of me wants to yell at her to stop spouting nonsense, to get angry. Another part of me wants to cry because how pitiful do I sound? I’m afraid she’s seen right through me. In the end, I neither yell nor cry. I sit there like a deer in headlights, which is my default reaction to most things—inaction. I don’t have a fight-or-flight instinct. I have a freeze instinct. When things get really bad, I can’t even talk. I fall mute.
“What if I don’t know how to stop?” I ask finally.
“Start with small things, and try it in a safe environment. How about with your family?” she suggests helpfully.
I nod, but that doesn’t really mean agreement. I’m still processing. My head is in a haze as we wrap up the session, and I’m not entirely aware of my surroundings until later, when I find myself outside, walking back home.
My phone is vibrating insistently from my purse, and I dig it out to see three missed calls from my boyfriend, Julian—no voice messages, he hates leaving voice messages. I sigh. He only calls like this on those rare occasions when he’s not traveling for work and wants to meet for a night out. I’m exhausted from therapy. All I want to do right now is curl up on my couch in my ugly fluffy bathrobe, get delivery, and watch BBC documentaries narrated by David Attenborough.
I don’t want to call him back.
But I do.
“Hey, babe,” Julian answers.
I’m walking down the sidewalk alone, but I force a smile onto my face and enthusiasm into my voice. “Hi, Jules.”
“I heard good things about that new burger place by Market Square, so I made us a reservation at seven. Gonna try to make it to the gym, so I gotta go. Miss you. See you there,” he says quickly.
“What new burger pla—” I begin to ask, but then I realize that he’s already hung up. I’m talking to myself.
I guess I’m going out tonight.
TWO
Anna
CONFESSION: I DON’T LIKE GIVING BLOW JOBS.
That’s probably not a good thing to be thinking while I have my boyfriend’s dick in my mouth, but here we are.
Some women enjoy this act, and I figure their enjoyment drives them to excel at their craft. For me, however, it’s tiring, monotonous work, and I doubt I’m great at it. My mind often wanders while I’m down here.
For example, right now, I’m going over what Jennifer said in therapy earlier today. I’d like you to watch what you’re doing and saying, and if it’s something that doesn’t feel right and true to who you are, if it’s something that exhausts you or makes you unhappy, take a look at why you’re doing it. And if there isn’t a good reason … try not doing it.
As Julian guides my head up and down, I think about how my jaw aches and I’m tired of sucking—is he even concentrating? It’s been a long day, and after smiling and being bubbly for him through out dinner, my endurance is shot. But I keep going. His pleasure is supposed to be my pleasure. It shouldn’t matter if it takes forever.