—F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
I made a mess of my life and ended up losing my wife and family in the process. Now I’m desperate to make amends and see if I can put things back together.
My friend Leo suggested I consult a Psychology Prof who specializes in past lives therapy and hypnotic regression but frankly that stuff scares the hell right out of me.
Still, I needed to do something and I was desperate. So, I took a drive into the country and met the Prof and signed up for a month’s worth of correspondence lessons with the understanding that I was free to cancel at any time if I found the exercises unproductive.
But correspondence courses? Am I insane?
Maybe I’m just too damn desperate to have a redo in my life that I’ll try anything.
The next week I’m marking freshman term papers when my phone vibrates. It’s a message from Ken Blogett, my Psych guru.
He informs me he’s sent the first lesson to my gmail account and suggests I write a summary of events in the year preceding meeting my wife—what was happening in my life at the time and how that was influencing my thoughts and attitudes.
Hmm…sounds like rehashing ancient history, I muse but I’m game to try—after all, what have I got to lose?
I Google and download a calendar from 1993-94. I was born in 1973 and met Clare when I was 21 in 1994. We have two children - Adam born in 1997 (22) and Sarah 1999 (20)
I then download a summary of the year’s events for the two year time period—that should help jog my memory because I don’t keep a diary or journal.
I suddenly feel guilty about that. Who was the philosopher who said, the unreflective life is not worth living? Probably Socrates. I doubt he had marriage or family problems.
The mere act of taking this first baby step triggers a memory and I flashback to my last argument with Clare.
“What were you thinking, Lucas, when you had the affair?” She asks, her eyes tear-filled and pleading.
“I have no idea—I was drunk,” I mutter morosely.
“Didn’t you recognize the warning signs leading up to this? There must have been countless red lights flashing.”
“I guess,” I reply lamely.
“What do you mean—you guess? Don’t you know?
I throw up my hands in surrender. “I don’t know, Clare—I don’t remember,”
She grows silent and studies my face for what seems an eternity and then whispers, “You did forget, Lucas—You forgot to remember me.”
I come back to the present with a thud—it’s not Clare’s tear-stained face before me—it’s mine and I’m staring at my pale reflection in the bathroom mirror after having thrown up in the toilet.
I don’t know if I can do this, I muse, it’s too much like what I envision hell to be—an eternity of reliving past misdeeds with no hope of ever changing anything.
And I haven’t begun the first lesson.