The day of my therapist appointment I go to a talk about shame in the fifteenth century. On my way to the office I drink a second coffee and feel much anxiety through the workings of my liquid friend. There is a professor at the talk who I am supposed to have met. Gawain the knight is overcome by shame at his cowardice at concealing the girdle from the green knight. There are in fact several professors at the talk I should have met. In therapy I talk about wanting to feel engulfed: “I hate that I want that from a partner because I recognize it isn’t healthy.” Gawain’s friends are welcoming and understanding when he returns to them and tells the story of his trial, but there is a sense that he is disappointed by their reaction. But what more could he have wanted from them? I feel like crying or like I have cried—like I’ve spent the whole day crying. By meet I mean: I should have scheduled appointments which are long overdue. We exit the chamber talking about karate and violence. I say that I like running into walls. “You always talk about her, I want you to talk about you.” I am eager to take my anti-depressant, because when I do I know my head will clear.
