I don’t know what made this Wednesday any different than all the other Saturdays, Mondays, Thursdays, Sundays, and any other day of the week we had to schedule or reschedule to meet.

I suppose it had been a long time coming, but the bi-weekly occurrences are what ended things.

About three years ago, I came into Harold’s office, a blubbering, traumatized, kid.

I was 23, I had a goatee that was growing pretty long on my chinny-chin-chin, and one issue that was probably a bit unique even for him. I think the root of all our problems in life are some sexual hang up.

I remember him saying, the word, “intense” when I explained the story so far back then. I think we all need someone to listen to us talk about things we can’t make sense of yet. And then, there is some crap, better left unsaid.

I showed up at his third office for the tenth time in a row just not really feeling like talking about any of my “psychological shit.” Cause that’s all it is. It’s just shit. Shit that I don’t think has an answer, at least, not one that can be black, white, or proven…just theoreticized.

Even he started asking me if my beliefs were what I actually thought, or just speculation.

I don’t know, having too many beliefs can limit you. You should always be open to changing what you believe, because only a fool thinks he knows everything. But there are some things I know to be true. Like, what happens after we die. “After we die, the people who love us, will miss us.” – Keanu Reeves

I explained to him once that my father killed me; He “killed” my ego in relation the Oedipus complex. Which, was, true. But egos are interesting, rubbery things that can reborn.

Probably, a year or two in, I broke Harold’s ego. I was the doctor, and he was on my time. But I was too good of a person to let us admit that to ourselves, even though I told him.

And it’s an interesting thing. With my father and all. I called my dad about a month ago, to let him know that even though he doesn’t like sardines, I do. And we will just have to accept that there are things that I like that he doesn’t.

Watching films like Lost in Translation or Magnolia, I can finally admit that, my dad wouldn’t appreciate them the way I do. He wouldn’t get it. They weren’t for guys like him. They were made for guys like me.

My dad is secretly my itty bitty hero. But it has come to pass, that I have realized that we have had two, very, different, lives. I don’t think my father ever experienced divorce, gay parents, LSD, death of a parent as a teenager, hitchhiking, addiction, walking/biking across the country, and whatever else happened before I was 23. And those insignificant things, made me who I am. Someone different than some other people, and different than him.

Individuality isn’t always a blessing, kid. Sure isn’t rewarded the same way most people see think. He’s usually the first to get ostracized. Stands out, and we don’t like that.

Turns out my dad likes sardines. It’s anchovies that he doesn’t like. And here’s the moral. If at 28, I couldn’t like a shitty form of fish because I couldn’t sperate my ego from his, what other bigger things, do I have trouble distinguishing as my own truth.

Like what the fuck am I still thinking is true about myself if I couldn’t allow myself to like sardines!

I think that we unconsciously are overly attached to certain people in our lives, and have great difficulty differentiating ourselves from our overidentification with our mother, therapist, boyfriend, or friends. People get attached, even to their own detriment.

My father is a gay man. And I’ve identified with him my whole goddamn life about so many little things. I think that it is just difficult to acknowledge that at the end of the day, I’m not him. I look and sound like him, but that doesn’t mean I love like him. And the little boy in me wants to. Weird, huh? Never heard of the kid who wanted to be gay but wasn’t, have you?

My mom was a hell of a woman: It’s clear that my ex (or animas) are just a surrogate of that relationship.

And ya know what? Fine. I think that some relationships are better in our head, or from a distance than in real life.

I think that whatever arrangement Zelda and I have going on, is way better than whatever we were trying to do when we were actually together.

It is a symbiotic relationship rather than a parasitic one. I think it’s a win win. She gets affirmation and an artificial relationship on this blog, where she can create a hypnotical version of me that loves her theoretically.

While I get to utilize the muse narrative to motivate me to write, and dialogue in my head with the version of her that I actually like, rather than deal with the version of her that I don’t.

I broke her in my way, and she broke me in her’s. I mean, I was sick all week, and the version of her in my head was nurturing me and taking care of me the way I want, and love to be. It was nice. But I only really defer to her comfort when I’m weak.

Her is pretty accurate. More and more people prefer to be in love with a kind of artificial versions of “love” or people than real humans.

Because, at the end of the day, when I was done with my therapist – a business exchange for emotional support – I was able to expend him, and it didn’t hurt.

It was a rare reminder that when you are the one who breaks someone ego, and then their heart, you really don’t care about them the way they do. I know he wouldn’t admit it, but I saw a tear go down his eye. But all I was thinking about was my next therapist, hopefully a woman, instead of another gay man.