“Tell me more about this family of yours.” The therapist tells me.
“I’d rather not talk about them.” I counter. The mother and brother of my past only serve to anger me. It’s not what I need right now.
“Not them. Tell me about your family. Tell me the future you want to have with them.” A gentle smile breaks out over my lips at the thought. It’s not a story I haven’t seen before. Rather, there are too many stories of potential futures I haven’t seen before. It’s what makes me so afraid. It—
“It isn’t the fear I want to hear about.” The therapist says, hearing the thoughts in my head. “It’s the future you want I want to hear about. Tell me what you want a regular day to look like. The type of day most people would ignore as just another day.” A scene, a story comes to my mind instantly.
“My daughter wouldn’t be the type of girl to sleep in. There’s a time to wake up and she wakes up at it. She understands the reasons why she needs to wake up at that time. My wife isn’t good in the mornings.” I laugh. “And since I’m not any good at cooking, our little girl makes breakfast for us all.”
“She doesn’t do it out of obligation or because we’re her parents and she has to do this. She does it because she understands how important a good, home cooked breakfast is. She does it because she knows I would never eat breakfast if not for her.” I grin. “She knows her mother would feel frantic if she needed to cook breakfast.” I have to pause before I can say the next words.
“She does it because she loves us.”
“What else?” The therapist pushes.
“In the morning, as tired as we all are, we just talk with one another. We can talk to each other about our lives without feeling judged. Our daughter can tell us her misadventures without us shutting her down by being overprotective. It’s not just because we control ourselves; it’s because we know we can trust her.”
“She’s mature enough to listen to us talk to her about the real world. We can tell her about our work lives, our financial situation. She listens to it all and trusts us. We can have honest conversations about what’s happening in our lives as a family as well as individuals. And these conversations don’t phase her. They are just a part of life for her. They’re something for her to learn and grow from. If she’s worried, about it, she can talk to us. Just like any worries she has.”
“Do you mind if I interject?” The therapist asks.
“Please.”
“From the sounds of it, and knowing what I know about you previous family and your fears, it looks like you really want two things out of your family: understanding and communication.” I turn the therapist’s words over in my head. I think about the stories I haven’t told. The futures I imagine with my wife and my daughter. My mind drifts back to what was missing with my mother and my brother. The things that we could never resolve.
“Yes.” I answer. “And I’m afraid my daughter won’t be that way. I’m placing enormous pressure on her to be a certain way. To be a certain kind of daughter. A certain kind of woman. It’s not fair to her. It’s not—”
“There you go again.” The therapist shakes his head. “That’s not what you’re really afraid of. You’re not so ignorant of a person nor are you so incapable of loving whoever your daughter turns out to be. Be honest. What are you really afraid of?” I’ve said it before already. I already know it in the back of my mind. But I don’t want to say it again. Every time I say it, it becomes more real.
“Which is why you need to say it again.” He says. “So, you can confront it. So, you can conquer it. So, you can move on.” I feel the fear clutching my chest, bottling the emotions down in my stomach. I feel them rise, then fall. My mouth opens and closes. Finally.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to raise my daughter to be understanding and to communicate. I’m afraid I won’t teach her how to do those things. I’m afraid I was the one who couldn’t do those things with my family and I’m afraid I’ll pass that onto my daughter. I’m afraid I’ll screw up.” I repeat.
The therapist nods understandingly. Let’s the weight of my words sink back into my chest. I can feel the emotions, the admitting of the fear tugging at my eyes.
“But you’re forgetting something. You’re not alone.”
“Hah!” I laugh. Scoff. “Because of you? The voice inside my head?” He shakes his head. Sighs.
“Think.” He says simply. And then it hits me. Knocks the wind from my lungs as the feelings of guilt crush my stomach. How could I forget. “There it is. But before you do that, there’s one more thing you should do. One more thing we’ve always wanted to do.” He points at the keyboard and I know.
“A voice in his head. Is that what you are Fool? My therapist?” I ask her.
“Perhaps. Though did you ever stop to consider: what if I am not a voice in your head. What if you are a voice in my head? What if you are my therapist?” I look up into the darkness. The faint moonlight allows me to catch a glimpse of the world above for the first time. The sights reflecting in those mirrors are plentiful and amazing.
“I have to admit: I hadn’t thought of that.”
“A shame. It would have been interesting experiment.”
“Even if it were true, does it change what we have to do?”
“I suppose not. The stories continue along regardless.”
“You sound disappointed at that Fool.” I comment. Though I quickly remember. “You’ve already seen all these stories.”
“Indeed. Are you going to tell me another one I haven’t heard?” The Fool asks eagerly.
“No. Not today. I think you’re right Fool.” I realize. “Perhaps not in the way you thought or you wanted. But I believe I am another voice in your head. Just as you are another voice in my head.”
“Oh-ho? Interesting. Go on.” The Fool’s smile turns Cheshire. I raise the Moon card in my hand as high as I can. The faint light from the Moon illuminates the darkness. It’s faint. Far too faint for me to make out any other stories or even the world around me. Besides, I’m focused on the Fool.
“I’m here because of this. To bring new life, new light to your stories.”
To my daughter,
I’m writing this letter to you before you’re even born. Right now, you’re still just a tiny clump of cells inside your mother’s belly. She isn’t even showing yet! I’m writing this to you because I want you to understand me. I want you to know who I am and my fears around having you. To be honest, I hope you never read this. To be more accurate, I hope you never have to. I hope, and indeed one of my fears, I can communicate properly with you.
I’ve always had troubles communicating properly with people. It’s easy when we’re talking about silly, everyday things. But to be honest, even everyday conversations about work, about expectations or things that need to be done, can be difficult for me at times. I don’t want to place the blame at my mother and brother’s feet but I want you to understand who I am and why I am the way I am.
We, not just my mother and brother, but me as well, were never a family that communicated with one another. We isolated ourselves, day after day, month after month, year after year. We lived behind closed doors and kept our lives from one another. We shared it with each other only when there were others around. Even then, we weren’t really sharing our lives with each other, we were sharing them with the people around us.
When it comes down to it, my communication skills between the people I should have been closest to grew thinner and thinner until they outright snapped. The relationship between us grew toxic and I could no longer remain healthy around them. I cut the fraying cord between us and burned the tip to keep it from unraveling. But I’m starting to get off topic. I tell you this part of my past for one simple reason.
I don’t want it to repeat.
I don’t want the same thing to happen between you and me. I want us to be able to communicate. No. I want us to be able to talk about everything. About our lives. About our viewpoints on the world, even if they differ. I want you to be able to tell me about your misadventures and not worry that me or your mother will come down on you. (Although we might, you’re only a clump of cells in your mother and I already love you so much. We worry! We apologize in advance!) And if we do, we want you to be able to talk to us about what we’re doing wrong. About what you need form us.
I also want you to understand. I want you to understand who I am in a way I never understood my mother. I had to piece together who she was, what she wanted, what she believed, from the parts of her she allowed me to see. It was part of what frayed that cord. When my understanding of her clashed with her understanding of herself. She didn’t understand the effects her actions had on me.
I want you to understand me not just through bits and pieces but through everything. I don’t want to hide myself from you. I want you to see all of me. The good and the bad. And perhaps more than that, I hope you can help me understand myself in reference to you. And this comes back to talking. If I do something that affects you and I don’t realize it, I want you to tell me. Just as I hope if I do something that affects you and you don’t realize it, I hope I can tell you.
I want our family to be a place of warmth. I want you to feel the love we have for you and I want us to be able to love you the way you need to be loved. I don’t want the room you live in to be a gilded cage like it was for me. I don’t want the house you come back to everyday to be a building. I want it to be your home. I want us, me and your mother, to be your home.
I want us to be a family.
I love you. And I hope one day, those aren’t just words to you.
“I wonder what his daughter will turn out like.”
“You’ve already seen her.” The Fool points out.
“In shorts here and there but we have yet to see who she really is.” I point out.
“This is true.” The Fool taps his chin. “There is a reason for that.” A Cheshire smile appears on her face.
“The reason is wrong.” I state firmly, staring him straight in the face. His smile turns into a frown. He wasn’t expecting that. Was he?
“What makes you say that?” He looks almost sad.
“The reason is because the story isn’t about her right?” The Fool nods his head.
“But it is. It’s as much about her as it is about him.” I point out. I see the letter in the mirror. The words he put so earnestly down for her. The hope she would turn out better than he did. No. The hope she would be happier than he was. “Because she is his family. Because it’s as much about his story as it is the impact he has on others.”
“No story lives in isolation.” The Fool smiles wisely. We both look up into the darkness. The Moon glints faintly, shedding meager, silver white light through the darkness. The mirrors glint brightly in the light, proudly offering their stories. It still isn’t enough yet. The darkness isn’t dispelled and the fragments we see are merely fragments, but it is still there. Omnipresent in the darkness above.