I saw a friend the other day. Two kisses on the cheek in front of her office, coffee/coke and confessions to go. Laughter, regrets, (dis)satisfactions, moments of happiness, plans, work, you know, the usual stuff friends share when they meet.
We’ve known each other for almost three years now. Up to now, we’ve considered the pros and cons of dozens of issues, exchanging views on the people we hold dear, regard highly, think the world of or look up to, as well as the ones we’ve disrespected, ignored, neglected, insulted, even ridiculed one way or another. We’ve discussed the memories we cherish, places we’re attached to or fascinated by, food we delight in, music, movies, museums and books we’re enchanted by, trips which took our breath away, challenges we thrill on, and things we find less or not at all challenging. We’ve explored injustices and wrongdoings done to us and by us. We tackled our beliefs, our doubts, fears, and conflicts. We’ve touched upon accidents, deaths, terrorist attacks, anniversaries, celebrations, commemorations and politics (even though she’s not much of a fan). We’ve addressed the righteousness of our behavior, and our professional and personal successes and failures (as working gals, wives, sisters, daughters and friends), our judgments and misjudgments. I. is a psychotherapist by the way, not mine though (although I wouldn’t object), an ex-student of mine who has with time become a very dear friend. I recall a friend’s reaction when I told her what I. does. Oh, lucky you! But she’s not my therapist, I teach her English. Yeah, right. She’s still a shrink, you know. I couldn’t help laughing.
I. told me once she found it hard to resist the urge to psychoanalyze those who weren’t her patients and how she would many a time have to refrain from doing it. No, you’re so not doing this. Stop right now.
So despite the fact that I know you find me eloquent, witty, charming and frank (do you “hold these truths to be self-evident?”), I can’t help but wonder:
Have you ever psychoanalyzed me?