29- You are important

"You, Ania. Your family, your friends" She said with frustration – You are so beautiful and special! And you have so much to give. – I shrugged and lit another cigarette. – Precious, I’m going to help you, okay? I’ve set up an appointment for you with a friend of mine, an old professor from my college. She’s a psychologist and therapist, and she usually uses hypnosis to help people overcome traumatic moments, people who have hurt you… you’ll see, we’ll get through this. – He whispered while squeezing my left leg, his hand lightly burning my skin.

You want me to see a psychologist? – I questioned. My gaze faded as I saw how worried Mel was about me. She watched me in silence – I don’t need a psychologist… I just need time…

You need to forget about Paola. Just go; she’s really good. If you don’t like her, you don’t have to go back – she urged me, giving me a look that seemed to comfort me. Or at least the knot I felt in my throat. I sighed and met the blue of her eyes head-on. My eyes flared at the small sparks that seemed to shine in hers, even now as she watched me cry.

Okay – I agreed. Mel smiled, and I sensed a certain petulance in her expression. She ran her finger along the edge of my chin and brushed my lips. She had convinced me in less than two traffic light changes to dive headfirst into psychoanalysis. Me, who completely rejected the idea of opening my world and my secrets to any human being. I wasn’t quite sure it would work, at least not for me. If the patient didn’t tell the truth, they couldn’t help him, and I couldn’t say that Paola and I came from another galaxy unless I wanted to end up forever locked away in a straitjacket.

What movie do you want to see? – Mel asked as we entered the parking lot. She calmly chose a space to park.

Ayyy! Well, let’s go, and we’ll choose there, okay?Do you want me to see a psychologist? – I questioned her. My gaze faded as I saw how worried Mel was about me. She observed me in silence – I don't need a psychologist… I just need time…

You need to forget Paola. Just go, it's very good, if you don't like it don't go again - He asked me, giving me a look that seemed to comfort me. Or at least the lump I felt in my throat. I sighed and met the blue of his eyes. My eyes flared at the little sparks that seemed to shine in hers, even now as she watched me cry.

Okay – I accepted. Mel smiled and I sensed a certain petulance on her face. He ran his finger along the edge of my chin and caressed my lips. In less than two traffic lights he had convinced me to throw myself headlong into psychoanalysis. To me, who completely refused to open my world and my secrets with any human being. I wasn't quite sure it was going to work, at least not for me. If the patient didn't tell the truth they couldn't help him and I couldn't say that Paola and I came from another galaxy unless I wanted to end up locked up in a straitjacket forever.

What movie do you want to see? – Mel asked as we entered the parking lot. He calmly chose a parking space.

Ayyy! Well, let's go and choose there, okay? But it doesn't matter what happens in the next fifteen minutes. We'll end up watching Gravity.

It's okay – She agreed, giving me one of her oceanic looks.

Mel…

Tell me precious...

Thank you.

First session of psychoanalysis (Melancholy)

Mercedes Pulido de Briceño was a woman, I estimate, about 56 years old, slightly gray-haired, dubiously impartial and with very well-preserved hands that were only marked by her delicate veins under her white complexion. He had a strong and marked chin, surely inherited from his family tree, his voice was a little thick but I deduced that this was due to his close relationship with tobacco, and his eyes were full of kindness with a trace of understanding latent in the brightness of his eyes. eyes that I found disturbing. His bearing conveyed security and a confidence intrinsic to his oratory invited you to come and talk. His dialectic and the air of respect he inspired undoubtedly let you know that he was a recognized person. Even important, I perceived that as soon as I had it in front of me. His office was filled with books, some organized in a column on the desk. There were two cardboard boxes on the floor, one of them filled to the brim with books and papers. On a round table, empty ashtrays and in front of the window a black couch where his patients surely lay, wishing to be detoxified from their emotional and mental baggage. The entire office was filled with books and the walls were decorated with light blue wallpaper with bronze embroidery.

\- Now that you tell me all this, your behavior becomes more understandable Anastasia. You are sick with melancholy, that's why you continue dreaming about Paola. Moments from the past, dreams that return you to her. -Said. He looked at me through his reading glasses and put out his third cigarette in the ashtray while listening to me talk about my last dream with Paola. I liked that doctor, she smoked in front of her patients, she had studied in Mexico, and she had been Minister of State for Women's Participation in Development in Venezuela. She was a student of Lacan and Jean Paul Sartre when she studied her postgraduate psychology degree in Paris. If she couldn't help me, no one else could. 

\- Your regrets are complaints, you see, you have the humility not to testify against Paola, but you appear extremely irritable and susceptible to the way you see yourself. And this is simply because of the oppressive state of melancholy in which you find yourself immersed, missing the loved object that has broken the link.