13- Hector and Love

I estimate, around 56 years old, slightly gray-haired, doubtfully impartial and with very well-preserved hands that were only marked by delicate veins under her white skin. She had a strong and defined chin, surely inherited from her family tree, a slightly deep voice which I deduced was due to her close relationship with tobacco, and a gaze filled with kindness with a hint of latent understanding in the sparkle of her eyes that I found unsettling. Her demeanor conveyed security and an inherent confidence, her oration invited you to approach and converse. Her dialectic and the air of respect she inspired undoubtedly let you know that she was a recognized person. Even important, I perceived that as soon as I had her in front of me. Her office was filled with books, some organized in a column on the desk. There were two cardboard boxes on the floor, one of them covered to the top with books and papers. On a round table, there were empty ashtrays, and in front of the window, a black couch where her patients would surely lie down, wishing to be detoxified from their emotional and mental baggage. The entire office was filled with books, and the walls were decorated with a light blue wallpaper with bronze embroidery.

Now that you tell me all this, your behavior becomes more understandable, Anastasia. You're sick with melancholy, that's why you keep dreaming about Paola. Moments from the past, dreams that bring you back to her," she said. She looked at me through her reading glasses and extinguished her third cigarette in the ashtray while she listened to me talk about my latest dream with Paola. I liked that doctor, she smoked in front of her patients, she had studied in Mexico, and she had been the Minister of State for Women's Participation in Development in Venezuela. She was a student of Lacan and Jean-Paul Sartre when she pursued her postgraduate studies in psychology in Paris. If she couldn't help me, no one else could.

"Your laments are complaints, you see, you have the humility to not testify against Paola, but you appear extremely irritable and sensitive about the way you see yourself. And this is simply due to the oppressive state of melancholy in which you find yourself submerged, missing the loved object that has broken the bond. The bond of libido to your object arose from what is known in psychology as an object fixation. When you decided to shift your libido towards that loved object, there was a choice of object that established the bond, in this case, you created a bond with Paola that you have broken. Whether it was due to disappointment or for whatever reason it ended, there was a disruption of this connection, and the result was not normal."

"Okay, what would be the normal result?" I asked, sitting on the other side of her desk. The doctor had a face filled with joy, retaining the sparkle of a teenager in her gaze. Thin lips, abundant hair, and small eyes like two hazelnuts.

"The normal result is the displacement of libido, the love you felt for Paola, towards another object, that is, replacing the object and displacing the libido towards a new one. In this case, Melisa."

"Right - 'One nail removes another nail,' I thought. That's what's bothering me. All the nails that Paola placed on top of mine. - "Does it bother you if I smoke, doctor?"

"Go ahead… as I continue to tell you, the charge of the object showed little resistance energy, and it was abandoned, while you demonstrated to have very strong energy, which is why you couldn't completely displace it, and there was a rupture. The object, Paola, your loved one, broke. But the free libido was not displaced towards another object but withdrawn to the self. To you, Anastasia. So, you have an identity problem. The libido found a new task determined in you. And it feeds on your 'self,' establishing an identification in you with the abandoned object." I listened to the doctor attentively and watched the cigarette smoke rise to the ceiling, everything she said so far made a lot of sense. I liked that doctor, she smoked in front of her patients, she had studied in Mexico, and she had been the Minister of State for Women's Participation in Development in Venezuela. She was a student of Lacan and Jean-Paul Sartre when she pursued her postgraduate studies in psychology in Paris. If she couldn't help me, no one else could.

"Um… y-yes. Of course," I stammer.

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?" he smirks. I realize he's being mischievous. "Let's go. Please play some piano at home, okay? It will make me feel better."

"I'll do my best," I assure him.

I don't know where I found this determination or the ability to say so much. I only know that my heart and body feel lighter as I walk back with the Hope family.

"Why did you take so long in the bathroom?" Liry asks, with her characteristic sweetness.

"We are men. Stomachs weigh a lot and there is a lot to drain," Mr. Hope mentions as if it's nothing. Liry wrinkles her face in disgust. "I was also talking to Eron about the songs he will play when we get home. Right, Eron?"

His gaze tells me that I can't refuse even if I want to.

"Y-yes."

"Oh, I would love to know what you're going to play tonight!" Diana squeals.

"We decided that you all can choose, my love," he replies to his wife. I see him kiss her on the cheek. "We are all ears. Who suggests a song first? If you need an incentive to think, I can randomly choose. It will depend on you whether this will be a democracy or my dictatorship, group."

Ah, being persuasive and intense runs in the family…

I suppose I'll have to deal with that if I want to lighten my burden. I don't know how fair it is, but I must face my demons under the pressure of the Hope family. Although, for some strange reason, I prefer this to something else. It's better for me than the loneliness of my room and that piano gathering dust.