“It’s a hard story to tell isn’t it?” The Fool asks.
“What do you mean?” I stare at the turtle in my hand. It’s recoiled into its shell. Protected from the world outside. Surrounded by itself.
“Peering within oneself. The act of reflecting on your life. It’s inevitable such an act will lead you to see the heart of the other cards.” She sighs.
“Like with the star.” I comment.
“Just so.” She frowns. “She undertook a solitary journey. She withdrew from the world into nature and in doing so, learned much about herself. But these were the events of the star you argued. It brought her peace. But just as any other reflection, any other withdrawing within oneself will lead to the heart of another card.” She stroked her bare chin.
“Are you struggling to find us a story to tell?” I ask her. She glares at me.
“Well then, why don’t you find us a story to tell? One which embodies the heart of the Hermit card and no other?” I’m somewhat taken back. Of all the things I saw in the Fool, anger was never something I thought I would see.
“I can become angry just as anyone else when someone provokes me.” The Fool spits out angrily.
“I apologize. Honestly. You just surprised me is all.” I raise my hands in apology. She sighs, shakes her head, then shrugs.
“We’re still stuck regardless.”
“I don’t think we are. You said it yourself Fool. When we saw the story of the Star, she withdrew from the world. She embodied the heart of the Hermit as much as she found the Star. If that’s the case, why can’t we do the same? Why not the Hermit and another card?
I don’t know how many times in my life I’ve felt the need to communicate with myself. To step back from the world and just be with myself. I was alone often as a child. Both physically and mentally. I enjoyed the company of my own mind far more than the family around me. They were trying at the best of times. But the voices in my mind were kinder, gentler. When they needed to be, they were more forceful, angrier.
The voices in my head were what I always needed them to be. But lest you start to worry about them, they did not control my mind. They were like characters in a story, companions of the main character propelling the story forward. I knew who the voices were and I knew who I was.
I channeled their voice, their personalities into learning about myself. The intrepid interviewer, always curious to learn about me, would interview me about my beliefs or the reasons behind my actions. In answering her questions, I learned more about myself. I learned what truly guided me and the reasons behind my actions. This pattern repeated over and over with different characters. The friend, the nephew, the friends and family of friends, the person I’d just met. The voices in my head questioned me to allow me to learn more about myself.
Other times, after the voices clarified my world for me, I put my fingers to the keyboard. I would write and write. At times, I would write essays. They weren’t the kinds taught in school to convince someone of something. They were simple and personal. An explanation of the reasoning behind my beliefs. I cared little whether others would change their beliefs based on my essays. They weren’t for such purposes. They were for myself. They were fragments of time, crystallized and memorialized for a moment in time in writing. Far more valuable than a picture. My mind was a better representation of who I was than my face would ever be.
The other thing I would write are stories. The voices in my head embody not only different people questioning me. In these stories, the characters embody different people entirely. I get to truly give them their own personality, their own face, even their own names. It’s fun placing them in situations and imagining how they would act. When they are only voices in my head, they ask me about random situations we imagine. They allow me to imagine how I would act. Here, I not only get to imagine it, I get to write it.
My family never understood this. Writing was a creative endeavor where I would never be good enough. My English wasn’t good enough. What they really meant to say was: you’ll never make any money off it. They might have been right. I hope they aren’t, but I know they might be. The thing they never understood was: the money isn’t the point.
The point of the writing was to commune with myself. To put into writing what I feel. What I believe. They were mostly selfish endeavors. Monuments to myself. At best they were stories to share with others. At worst, they were stories I hoped I would have the courage to give to others. Stories I hoped someone else would understand. They were cries for help. For understanding. For someone to read and reassure me: you are not alone.
I was lucky, so incredibly blessed, to have met a woman who understands that. She is the reason I’m here. Sitting alone in our home while she visits her parents for a few days. It isn’t the type of visit that could become permanent. I’m free to bring her home as soon as I’m ready. Tonight, tomorrow, two days from now. I can call her whenever I want but she won’t call me. The trust she has in me, the understanding, so often makes me want to break down in tears.
I’m here because I have my doubts. Not about her. Never about her. I’m writing this, communing with myself, listening to the voices in my head, because I don’t know if I’m ready. Because I’m scared. Because I’m afraid of the blood pumping through my veins. Because I’m afraid to make the same mistakes they did. Because the only thing worse than living through my family, would be passing them down to my daughter.
I smile gently at the reel. The Fool standing over me does too. We’ve never seen it so clear until this one.
“We’re finally here. He’s about to have his daughter.” The Fool says.
“And he’s afraid. Terrified. So, to solve his fear, he turns into himself. He reflects on his life. He becomes—”
“A Hermit.” The Fool smiles. Cheshire. “Yes, yes. Well played my dear Fool.” She says.
“I can only imagine the other cards waiting for us at the end of this story.” I say, letting the string go and the story float back up into the darkness. The Fool pulls out a fan of cards from his hands. He holds them up to his face, covering the toothy Cheshire grin but it’s still there. It’s so wide I can still see it peeking out from behind the cards.
“Would you like to pick one and find out?”
“There’s no need.” I counter, walking forward to another string. “Today, I only need the Hermit.”
My finger taps against the key. I don’t actually press it, my thoughts haven’t cleared up enough for that. Instead, my finger taps incessantly against it, making a gentle clicking noise without actually clicking. I listen patiently to the voices in my head. I answer their questions as they come, hoping just like always, they will provide me the guidance I need.
“So, you’re afraid to have a daughter.” The therapist asks me. I’m sitting on the typical cushioned, seventy-five-degree inclined sofa.
“Yes.” I answer plainly.
“Why is that?” Not supposed to ask questions, I remind myself. The patient could feel interrogated. “Tell me more.” The therapist rephrases.
“I’m afraid to pass on the same toxic relationships I had with my family onto my daughter.” I answer. I’ve already had enough conversations with myself to know where my fear is coming from. What I need are solutions to it. Counters and answers.
“Tell me more about your family.” The therapist requests. But that isn’t what I’m here for.
“That’s not what’s important. My daughter is.” I say impatiently.
“I agree with you. But you said it yourself, you’re afraid to pass on the toxic relationships you have with your family. Like it or not, they are as important to this conversation as your daughter.” He has a point.
“You’re suggesting I have unresolved issues with my family.”
“I’m asking you to tell me more about your family.”
“They couldn’t give me what I needed. What I wanted from a family. They couldn’t give me the love I needed, and they didn’t understand me. They might have tried but it’s hard when you don’t really listen to the way people are talking.” I try to control my rage, my anger. It’s only there when I think of them. A burning coal that refuses to die out.
“It sounds to me like you already know what you need to do.”
“If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be here.” The anger is still there. I try not to be but I can’t help it. That fire won’t burn out.
“Easy or not, it sounds like you know. Why don’t you tell me what it is you think you need to do?” I sigh audibly. Angrily.
“Exactly what my family didn’t do.” I answer. I expand before he can tell me to. “I have to listen to what she needs and not what I need. I have to communicate with her on her level, not on mine.”
“You said you were afraid of passing on your family’s toxic relationships. I don’t think that’s true.” The therapist says. I eye him suspiciously.
“Then tell me doc. What am I afraid of?”
“Something much more basic. I think you already know what it is. You’re just afraid to admit it. I’m not going to tell you. You’re going to tell me.”
“What difference does it make?”
“The only difference that matters.” I sigh. I can feel it in my chest. The feeling you get when you know what you have to say but the words refuse to come out. The fear of telling someone you love them. The fear of being rejected. The fear of voicing your fear. The fear of being told it’s ridiculous. The fear. The fear. The fear.
“I’m afraid of screwing up.” I finally manage to spit out. The therapist starts to dissolve into the air, a smile on his lips.
“Aren’t we all?” He asks before he fades away completely.
“Conversing with himself. How nostalgic.” The Fool says. “I suppose if he speaks with himself, it still counts as being a Hermit.”
“What better way to question yourself than to literally question yourself?” I add. There’s a broad smile on my lips as I watch the film reel. Somewhere in the distance, there’s a gentle smile on the Fool’s lips.