Dear Vincent, Now we have passed my thirteenth Monday without you.

Dear Vincent,

Now we have passed my thirteenth Monday without you. I threw up the day several times. The crisis centre counsellor named Bernard said that meditation should really be giving me more benefits that I seemed to be experiencing that day. I told him that as crisis counsellor, he should know that most people come to yoga and meditation because their lives are a total disaster, and in the end, the results are not often all that revolutionary or spectacular. Then I asked if he had ever meditated, and he said yes, but that he had since stopped.

“Why,” I asked.

“Well, I have other things to do now,” Bernard replied. Everyone has other things and better things to do. Bernard’s English wasn’t excellent. I judged him on his appearance, which I will not describe.  When we had twenty minutes left, I went to dry heave in the bathroom next door.

“You don’t see me,” I wailed when I got back. “I miss Vincent.” One time a kid I was babysitting said she missed her old babysitter. I did not care enough to feel insulted.

That morning I’d woken up at 3:30 a.m. and meditated for forty-five minutes all through the Hour of God. Then I made coffee, drawing and colouring in six red moula bandha root chakras as it brewed.

moula bandha root chakra.
Courtesy of Crayola.

Since it was the Full Moon, I did not practice yoga. Instead I drank coffee and tried to complete the book I am working on about cleaning. It is called, “The Deep Cleans Life Cleanse: 99 Strategies for feeling smug and on type of life.” Strategies include cleaning the gunk underneath your light switches with a toothbrush, eradicating rubbermaids and bathroom baskets, and throwing out your fat pants. I only had 32 strategies left to go. Somehow, I listed them all in point form. When I was done, I masturbated, ovulated, ran out of the house to get a latte, and then totally crapped out. It seems I am no longer a two-coffee per-day sort of person.

I should have asked Bernard why he became a crisis counsellor. It’s possible he became a crisis counsellor due to the fact that his life was a total disaster. Just like people who write self-help books about being smug and on top of life do so due to the fact that their lives are a total disaster. Their lives if not their Tupperware drawers. As it happens, I own no Tupperware. I own very little.

“Call us if you’re not okay,” Bernard said as I left. Pretty sure I won’t.

Facebook keeps showing me memories of my happy Prozac face.
Back when I used to be on Prozaac, and it wasn't making me twitchy or suicidal, I told you I was ready to fall in love. You laughed and said, “Everyone loves apple pie.” I don’t love apple pie, but will eat it on occasion to be polite.

I hope your Full Moon was better than mine.

Love, Erica.

Happy Prozac Face

Vincent was my therapist from October of 2016, and May 2017. After we ran out of subsidized sessions, I began to write him daily imaginary emails. I called the project, "Mondays without Vincent," and it turned out to be quite healing. You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. In fact, if you'd like, you can send them to me, on any day of the week.

My secret address is: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail.com.

Let me know if you’d like a response. The correspondence can remain between us, or else we can share it here with others and maybe it could be healing for everyone. Love, Erica. 

Sad Face
Monday, August 8, 2017 (Full Moon)




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