Igor on June 4, 2009

As I can't keep a secret from Igor I told him everything I told you yesterday about last week and how I mad I was. I told him how I had wanted to get in my car and drive and runaway and leave L.A. and never come back.

"What about He-weasel?" he asked trying to assess the seriousness of my plan.

"Now you are implying that my plan was logical and well though out and that is a big mistake."
I explained how my reaction was adolescent and angry and not at all logical. "I was just angry."

"What about?" he asked.

As soon as he asked I couldn't remember why I was so mad. That happens to me all the time, I will be in the middle of a fight with He-weasel and I will all of a sudden completely forget why I am mad but I know I am mad and so I move into a mild attack of vague generalities that could be true if I was mad at him if he had forgot to go to the grocery store on his way home or if his crime had been of a more serious nature like turning the channel when I was watching something. I am not mature enough to admit my memory lapse and use that moment to drop my anger and make nice.

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply and hoped that the specifics of my anger would return to me given enough time. "Um, uh, I, uh.......that you couldn't see that it could be just that I hate this place."

"I can understand you not liking L.A." he adjusted his posture so as to get a better sense of my position "but hating it is pretty strong. It seems likely some personal stuff is mixed in with your antipathy.What exactly is it you hate about L.A.?"

I shot my answers back at him like bullets. I was and always armed and ready to explain my L.A. loathing.
* The weather
* The traffic
* The narcissism
* The lack of emphasis on intellect
* The values of appearance over content
* The architecture or lack of architecture
* The lack of trees
* My mother is here
* The cost of housing
* The emphasis on new and improved over historical and enduring
* The lack of beauty

"I mean, here we are in Beverly Hills and people all over the world idealize this place as this glamorous and beautiful ideal and truthfully it is shockingly blah."
"Aesthetically?" he asked.
"Yes." I said feeling a wee bit bad about insulting the city in which he works.
"I agree with you and I think anyone who works here would agree with you that Beverly Hills is not aesthetically beautiful. Neither is Los Angeles. You just have to land at LAX to see this town is gray, bland, and not beautiful."
I was shocked by his admission and it made me like him and trust him even more.
He continued, "It is not the aesthetics of L.A. that people love, it is the weather. That is why people come here."
I moaned. I hate the weather here almost as much as I hate the lack of trees.

I told him my theory why people love L.A. weather. "I believe people who love this endless sunshine are people who can't tolerate suffering. I believe that it takes character to endure bad weather. People who need it to always be 72 degrees and sunny are in a manic defense against depression."
Igor laughed, " I don't know anyone who wants to suffer."
"Seriously? And you call yourself a therapist?" I said only half jokingly, "Have you heard of masochism?"

When Igor failed to respond to my non-rhetorical question I continued my diatribe of dissatisfaction, "And, really, the lack of valuing of intellect really irks me."

Igor once again surprised me, "Yes, this is not an intellectual center. But, New York suffers from an intellectualizing narcissism and London can feel cold and distant and it can be very difficult to connect with people and Chicago...what does Chicago suffer from?"

This time I chose to ignore his non-rhetorical question as I had no answer.

"I agree, each city has its shadow side. It is just a matter of which shadow bothers you the least. L.A.'s bothers me the most," I explained.

"I'll see you next week" which is the way he ends each session.
I got up to walk out the door and I heard him say to my back "don't run away this week."
" I won't" and as soon as I said it I realized it was more of a reflexive response than a promise.

As I shut his office door behind me I saw a gal, maybe 25, in jeans, a sweater, a hoodie and tall Ugg boots walk into his lobby door. I don't remember the specifics of her face. I think she had brown hair and was likely pretty enough but I couldn't see any of that.

I knew she was going to sit in the chair that I wait for Igor in and she would sit there and read the magazines that I read and she would turn off her cell phone. Igor would come out for her and bring her into his office. She would sit on the couch where I sit. But I feel sure that is where our similarities ended. I felt confident that she wouldn't make him laugh the way I do and that she wasn't as smart as I am. There was something about her... I could tell in seeing her for just a moment that he didn't enjoy his hour with her as much as he enjoys his sessions with me. I bet she never threatened to throw a pillow at him like I have. I found myself hating myself for being a cliche only-child and being unable to share.

I took the elevator down to the lobby and began to feel a sinking feeling as the flatness that had been with me all week started to fade. It wasn't the anger that had followed me home last week. No, this was different. I turned to look at myself in the mirror and that is when I saw it. It was a sadness and it was not only in my face but in my chest, my arms, and even on my clothes. I don't think I would have recognized the sadness unless I had seen it with my own eyes. It was the kind of sadness that came not from hurt or pain or even grief. Rather it was the sadness of futility and that meant there was nothing I could do but feel it. I emerged from the elevator with sadness continuing to push the down button.

As I walked towards the parking lot and saw the women with their shopping bags, the tourists with their cameras and the men in their suits and their cell phones I felt even more an outsider than I did on the way in. I tried to ignore my surroundings and instead sift for insights from the session. The weight of the sadness made insights seem as far away as my old life in Chicago.

Since Igor said my attempt to get us kicked out of L.A. by trying to find things to like about it wasn't going to work I stopped looking for the good and instead I began to track all that I didn't like: I don't like the way I feel in this place.....and the lack of trees and the buildings, okay, I like that one building. Or the man screaming on his cell phone as I wait for the stoplight. I don't want to hear about his deal or how much money he made. I don't like the woman who gave me the up and down,who is silently judging me and deciding how she is better than me. I don't like that I have walked two blocks and I see no beauty except things that can be bought. I don't like the way I feel. I drove for 20 miles naming all that I didn't like and then I got it, maybe if I really hate this place, throw myself into it fully and give it my all, maybe then I can make the death cycle come more quickly and then we can get out of here and life can begin again.