Jack Gould: Untitled (man talking on telephone, looking down) (c. 1950)

"She was my guardian angel …"

Joinings and ChanceEncounters aside, I felt intensely lonely after we were Exiled. I became a resident alien who would never feel entirely at home in my indentured homeland. I'd lost more than my home. My career had imploded with the bankruptcy. I lost my business partner, who had necessarily moved on and into another career so that we might survive. I proved less adaptable. The Republicans had left the economy in another tailspin again, and jobs were scarce, but even if jobs had not been thin, I was uncertain if I would ever prove to be employable again. The segment of society I'd successfully serviced seemed to have evaporated, and I felt every bit the old dog considering new tricks. I had not just been Exiled but obsoleted. None of my formerly familiar employments seemed available. I felt cut loose and sinking.

My writing seemed like something I might successfully fall into again. At The Muse's insistence, I reconnected with my publisher’s writer's co-op. I attended their annual retreat in Connecticut, my first attempt at becoming independent again. While that gathering felt welcoming, it also reminded me that most of my colleagues were Westerners. I became more active in the co-op administration and renewed a few long-distance friendships. The drive back to Takoma Park in early November seemed to amplify the alienation I'd been feeling. My connection back into my community felt fleeting as I returned to face that first Exiled Thanksgiving and Christmas. We would be unable to return home for those holidays.

I had met a dandy behavioral therapist in the late eighties when my first wife and I were separating. She introduced me since the therapist had been her acquaintance. After our first visit, my soon-to-be ex-wife refused a second, insisting that Carole had taken my side on every issue. I continued seeing her. Once the divorce was done, I began a new career and then a second marriage. The nineties was an emotionally turbulent decade for me with a second divorce, a blown-up career, a start-up, and meeting The Muse. That therapist was my continuing traveling companion. She knew my history as well as I knew it, and I found her counseling essential. In all those tumultuous years, she never once dispensed an ounce of advice, even when I'd asked her to tell me what to do. She would listen intently and even seem interested, then patiently wait until I could hear myself and come to my own conclusions.

I took to ending our sessions, which often extended beyond the scheduled fifty minutes and into the following hour, if I was crazy yet. "Nope," she'd reply. "You're going to have to try harder next time."

I eventually came to genuinely feel crazy a few months into our Exile. The Muse was more than fully employed learning her new position and navigating ineptly staged political intrigues. The busier she became, the hollower my existence felt. I took to spending as much time as I could in the Library of Congress. While this choice allowed me to focus my attention and get out into the world, I could not have chosen a lonelier occupation. I was in my head. Whether researching or reading, the narrative remained between my ears.  It came to seem like an echo chamber in there. Even at lunchtime in that cafeteria, everyone observed library silence. In desperation one morning, I left a message for Carole, wondering if she might consent to restarting our conversations. I briefly explained my new context and how that would prevent me from visiting in person, but I wondered if it would be possible to continue our conversation via telephone.

I was leaving the Library when she called me back, so I took the call while standing in front of the Neptune Fountain along First Street SE. This was the most reassuring telephone call I'd ever received. She welcomed my inquiry and invited me to schedule appointments into the future. After listening to my introduction, she proposed an unusual condition. Though I was insured then, thanks to The Muse's employment, Carole proposed that we bypass the part where she billed me for her services. She insisted instead that we acknowledge that she might be getting more out of the therapy than I would be receiving. She found our conversations therapeutic and utterly unlike most others in which her profession called her to engage. Taken aback, I quickly and gratefully agreed. We scheduled the next encounter, and I continued on my way, about ten tons lighter than I'd felt earlier that day.

I had been suffering from what we came to label A Rather Severe Case Of The Normals. I continued to ask after each of our conversations if I was crazy yet, and she'd confirm that I'd just need to try harder if that was my goal. Under Carole's tutelage, I continued hearing my own story as it unfolded. For more than the next decade, we'd schedule a couple of conversations each month. These became an essential and warmly anticipated element of my Exiled existence. I would leave each chat lighter and more at ease, understanding again that I had been suffering from little more than that usual rather severe case of the normals again. She retired two months short of our Exiles end. She had been my constant and faithful companion through it all, helping me stand back up after every stumble and fall, reassuring me that I might still be capable after all. She was my guardian angel, and I wonder if I would have made it through my Exile without her companionship and wise counsel.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled, #PureSchmaltz