any of this. You haven’t been particularly irritable, you haven’t lost weight,and if you can control your feelings that well, then there must be a way out of this.”
Why did he mention losing weight?
“I can ask our doctor to prescribe some tranquilizers to help you sleep. I’ll say they’re for me. I think that if you could sleep properly, then you would gradually regain control of your thoughts. Perhaps we should exercise more. The children would love it. We’re far too caught up in work, and that’s not good.”
I’m not that caught up in my work. Despite what you think, the idiotic articles I write help me keep my mind occupied and drive away the wild thoughts that overwhelm me as soon as I have nothing to do.
“But we do need more exercise, more time outdoors. To run until we drop with exhaustion. And perhaps we should invite friends round more often.”
That would be a complete nightmare! Having to talk and entertain people with a fixed smile on my lips, listening to their views on opera and traffic. Then, to top it all, having to clean up afterward.
“Let’s go to the Jura National Park this weekend. We haven’t been there for ages.”
The elections are this weekend. I’ll be on duty at the newspaper.
We eat in silence. The waiter has already been to our table twice to see if we’ve finished, but we haven’t even touched our plates. We make short work of the second bottle of wine. I can imagine what my husband’s thinking: “How can I help my wife? What can I do to make her happy?” Nothing. Nothing more than he’s doing already. I would hate it if he arrived home bearing a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers.
We conclude that he’s had too much to drink to drivehome, so we’ll have to leave the car at the restaurant and fetch it tomorrow. I telephone my mother-in-law and ask if the children can sleep over. I’ll be there early tomorrow morning to take them to school.
“But what exactly is missing in your life?”
Please don’t ask me that. Because the answer is nothing. Nothing! If only I had some serious problem. I don’t know anyone who’s going through quite the same thing. Even a friend of mine, who spent years feeling depressed, is now getting treatment. I don’t think I need that, because I don’t have the symptoms she described. I don’t want to enter the dangerous territory of legal drugs. People might be angry, stressed, or grieving over a broken heart—and in the latter case, they might think they’re depressed and in need of medicines and drugs—but they’re not. They’re just suffering from a broken heart, and there have been broken hearts ever since the world began, ever since man discovered that mysterious thing called Love.
“If you don’t want to go and see a doctor, why don’t you do some research?”
I’ve tried. I’ve spent ages looking at psychology websites. I’ve devoted myself more seriously to yoga. Haven’t you noticed the books I’ve been bringing home lately? Did you think I’d suddenly become less literary and more spiritual?
No, I’m looking for an answer I can’t find. After reading about ten of those self-help books, I saw that they were leading nowhere. They have an immediate effect, but that effect stops as soon as I close the book. They’re just words, describing an ideal world that doesn’t exist, not even for the people who wrote them.
“But do you feel better now?”
Of course, but that isn’t the problem. I need to know who I’ve become, because I am that person. It’s not something external.
I can see that he’s trying desperately to help, but he’s as lost as I am. He keeps talking about symptoms, but that, I tell him, isn’t the problem. Everything is a symptom. Can you imagine a kind of spongy black hole?
“No.”
Well, that’s what it is.
He assures me that I will get out of this situation. I mustn’t judge myself. I mustn’t blame myself. He’s on my side.
“There’s light at the end of
Why did he mention losing weight?
“I can ask our doctor to prescribe some tranquilizers to help you sleep. I’ll say they’re for me. I think that if you could sleep properly, then you would gradually regain control of your thoughts. Perhaps we should exercise more. The children would love it. We’re far too caught up in work, and that’s not good.”
I’m not that caught up in my work. Despite what you think, the idiotic articles I write help me keep my mind occupied and drive away the wild thoughts that overwhelm me as soon as I have nothing to do.
“But we do need more exercise, more time outdoors. To run until we drop with exhaustion. And perhaps we should invite friends round more often.”
That would be a complete nightmare! Having to talk and entertain people with a fixed smile on my lips, listening to their views on opera and traffic. Then, to top it all, having to clean up afterward.
“Let’s go to the Jura National Park this weekend. We haven’t been there for ages.”
The elections are this weekend. I’ll be on duty at the newspaper.
We eat in silence. The waiter has already been to our table twice to see if we’ve finished, but we haven’t even touched our plates. We make short work of the second bottle of wine. I can imagine what my husband’s thinking: “How can I help my wife? What can I do to make her happy?” Nothing. Nothing more than he’s doing already. I would hate it if he arrived home bearing a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers.
We conclude that he’s had too much to drink to drivehome, so we’ll have to leave the car at the restaurant and fetch it tomorrow. I telephone my mother-in-law and ask if the children can sleep over. I’ll be there early tomorrow morning to take them to school.
“But what exactly is missing in your life?”
Please don’t ask me that. Because the answer is nothing. Nothing! If only I had some serious problem. I don’t know anyone who’s going through quite the same thing. Even a friend of mine, who spent years feeling depressed, is now getting treatment. I don’t think I need that, because I don’t have the symptoms she described. I don’t want to enter the dangerous territory of legal drugs. People might be angry, stressed, or grieving over a broken heart—and in the latter case, they might think they’re depressed and in need of medicines and drugs—but they’re not. They’re just suffering from a broken heart, and there have been broken hearts ever since the world began, ever since man discovered that mysterious thing called Love.
“If you don’t want to go and see a doctor, why don’t you do some research?”
I’ve tried. I’ve spent ages looking at psychology websites. I’ve devoted myself more seriously to yoga. Haven’t you noticed the books I’ve been bringing home lately? Did you think I’d suddenly become less literary and more spiritual?
No, I’m looking for an answer I can’t find. After reading about ten of those self-help books, I saw that they were leading nowhere. They have an immediate effect, but that effect stops as soon as I close the book. They’re just words, describing an ideal world that doesn’t exist, not even for the people who wrote them.
“But do you feel better now?”
Of course, but that isn’t the problem. I need to know who I’ve become, because I am that person. It’s not something external.
I can see that he’s trying desperately to help, but he’s as lost as I am. He keeps talking about symptoms, but that, I tell him, isn’t the problem. Everything is a symptom. Can you imagine a kind of spongy black hole?
“No.”
Well, that’s what it is.
He assures me that I will get out of this situation. I mustn’t judge myself. I mustn’t blame myself. He’s on my side.
“There’s light at the end of
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