A Room of Their Own

by Rakefet Yarden

  I woke up with tears of frustration and pain. Two heavy books had fallen on my legs. The shelf was placed in a dangerous location, an heirloom from the previous tenants, who’d used this room as their work space. I’d long planned to ask Omer to move the shelf away from there, lower it to the side of the bed. Even with all my feminism, I still can’t drill a hole in the wall, open a beer bottle, or change a tire − not that I excel at baking or embroidering. It’s a motor skill − unlike soccer players, with me the brain only stays up in my head. And since when is it wrong to ask for help? I’ll call Omer tonight, and while I’m at it, I’ll tell him about the trip to Emily. Maybe he’ll be relieved.

  Yochai had turned off all my warning indicators. I didn’t know if it was the breadth of his shoulders or his simple gaze. The gaze of a child who was sufficiently loved and still is, so I allowed myself to rest. I’ll lay my head down one more time, and that’ll be it. No more. I’ll never again allow anyone to nuzzle their faces onto me and allow me a repeat Sisyphean climb in order to save them, while their shadow wanders above me, and a stir of the leg or a nod of the head is enough to make me roll all the way down the steep slope.

  Why did I suddenly remember him, and where had I seen those shoes that appeared in my dream? Yochai never had shoes like that . . . Wait a minute! They were Dani’s heavy shoes.

  My first session was with her, first for that morning and first since she’d signed herself out of the hospital. I had climbed the mountain for both our sakes, carrying her along, as we fell and repeatedly crashed onto reality. No more. If Dani’s decided to leave the warm hospitalization womb, with all its hardships, and then decided to meet with me again, then this time I have to clearly establish the limitations of our relationship which, despite its constraints, still holds softness and sympathy and willingness within itself.

  Whenever a stray memory passed through Yochai, I’d put my hands on his temples and massage them with light round movements, which would then stop the trembling. When he disappeared under the weight of the awakening sensations, unable to find the strength to work, unable to handle steel, let alone talk to customers, my touch would reconnect him to himself. He’d then restart the buzz of life. I couldn’t leave him. What would he do if I wasn’t there to jump-start him? Like two batteries, one just emptied and the other driving life back into it. It was mutual during the first few years, but then I’d find myself on the recharging side, over and over again. Emptied out. We became very weak. He wanted a child. He thought that it would give us a reason to live, give us strength. A child isn’t a reason to live, I told him. Surely not before it even arrives. A child is out of necessity. You only bring a child if you absolutely must, because if not, the longing will never leave you.

  Nothing could have prepared Yochai for what I had to tell him that afternoon. “I don’t want to live anymore. Not with you.” Nothing but the silences that became longer and longer with each passing week, and the heavy awareness floating around the dining corner for ages after he’d asked, “Can you pass me the bread?” and a minute later, “Rotem? The bread. The cheese, too.”

  After Yochai killed himself, I realized that I did want a child. Only not with him. That I did want to live. Only not with him. I mourned the futile, exhausting years, when I had often been defeated by a weight much greater than me. The weight of my memories and yearnings, the weight of another person I had carried on my back, who had long become a separate entity. I mourned the belated realization, over and over again. And mourned him. And mourned us.

  I went to New Zealand. Many months passed. Green nature and vast endless spaces slightly healed my soul, at least enough for me to be able to return. When I came back, I broke into the dance of life. Yochai had always encouraged me to study, and he believed in me. He saw me from the inside. He knew me from within himself.

  Except I didn’t have the energy for anything back then. For anything else but this all-consuming love. The copious waters that couldn’t defeat it − simply because they had been trapped deep within me − suddenly erupted.

  Two academic degrees, a vocational qualification, and then another one and psychotherapy school and a writing course and a child . . .

  I’d suddenly wanted a child so badly − on my own, with no one else involved.

  “I live for you,” I whispered in Yotam’s ear. He turned to his side and hugged Snoopy, who had joined us.

  Thoughts

  I was walking around the streets of Shikun Dan in North Tel Aviv. A warm, humid breeze caressed my face, signalling the beginning of summer, drying the little bit of sweat that accumulated. I thought about the old apartment I’d left before the hospitalization in order to save money, thinking about the length of the long hospitalization when the apartment would be empty, wanting to ease some of the financial burden I put on my parents every month. After all, one can’t really make a living from part-time dog-sitting. There’s a whole world between my apartment in the Florentin neighborhood and Tal’s apartment in Tel Aviv’s old north. Sickness versus health, poverty versus wealth, darkness versus light. But I’d actually loved my little apartment in the old building. I’d loved my colorful neighbors and the beggar on the corner, the stray cats with no one to feed them regularly − who managed to survive nonetheless, just like the rest of the neighborhood’s residents. I loved the cramming, which had a sort of inner truth to it. No masks, no costumes.

  When I’d decided to sign myself out of the hospital ahead of schedule, without any plan or time for preparing, and after having consulted with Rotem, Tal and I thought that I should move in with her temporarily. I was glad for the opportunity to get closer to her, to be like real sisters who are there for each other no matter what.

  The day that I left the unit, I found out that Rotem was away on some kind of retreat, far away from central Israel, and had left Miko with a friend of hers. I went over to pick him up, and I encountered yet another private and human side of Rotem. Not another cold, inaccessible therapist who maintains distance from her patients. Miko got so excited that he couldn’t stop jumping and squirming, and he began knocking things over and sliding across Yulia’s floor. She invited me to come in and sit with her, but I politely declined and just thanked her again and again for having looked after him.

  I put his leash on and went back out to the street, utterly filled with the strongest conviction − the one that must have made me rush to discharge myself, I then realized. My reason for living. It wasn’t Miko, since I knew that one day he’d no longer be there and I’d still have to continue living. I’m not a little kid. But Miko represented something that I clearly understood during my time in the hospital: I realized that I found my destiny, that I actually had a destiny, and that the world would be a better place if I fulfill it − unlike everything I had previously believed.

  I turned towards the beach and thought about the stomach cramps I used to suffer from. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had them, and I became filled with hope. Ailments can be remedied.

  “That’s it, Miko. Let’s go home.” Unlike the endless nighttime walks we took until a month earlier, since I started living with Tal I tried not to disappear for too long late at night. I knew that it worried her, and anyway, maybe the feeling of having someone waiting for me at home, noticing if and when I returned, shortened my walks.

  Almost two weeks had passed since my release. I hadn’t yet decided what I wanted to do with myself, but I knew that it wasn’t going to include starvation. I knew that I wanted to do something with animals. Something different, something that would open up a whole new world for me. I knew that Dad wouldn’t like it, so I kept avoiding his questions about my future. “We’ll see,” I told him. Then I added to myself, first you need to hear about the memories that resurface within me, Dad.

  This time they were memories, not dreams. When the realization first hit me, I felt deceived, betrayed. As though I’d spent my entire life with someone who made me th
ink that these were dreams, or my imagination. But I no longer felt deceived. I felt that this was part of my story, that he had always made sure to say I had a vivid imagination, that he knew how to plant little seeds of guilt and self-flagellation within me from a very young age, and that this all must just be a part of the process. That now I’m sufficiently prepared to understand that these aren’t dreams, that I’m not crazy, but rather wounded, like Rotem said. Wounds can be healed. I was supposed to meet Rotem the next morning. She was back from her retreat. I decided that once I finished there, I’d start looking for a place where I could volunteer or work, or maybe study. Then we could start thinking about how to tell Dad.

  Back with You Again

  I’m walking around in a huge prison, trying to find someone who can help me get out, and trying to understand why I’m even there. I pace the long hallways, entering vast, empty spaces. Lots of women, thin and overweight, black and white, are sitting around chatting and not really doing anything but looking at me mockingly. I feel that I don’t belong there, that I’m not one of them, but I can’t make sense of it. I repeatedly approach people, but no one pays any attention to me.

  The alarm went off and I opened my eyes with a heavy sense of anguish. It was 8:00. I had almost an hour to get dressed and have breakfast, take Miko out for a walk and leave for Rotem’s clinic, which was only a few blocks away from Tal’s apartment. I knew that I’d be leaving Miko at home today instead of taking him with me to Rotem’s so I could better concentrate during the session. I had a lot that I wanted to discuss with her. We hadn’t had a session in nearly a month, except for a few short phone calls where she asked how I was doing and made sure I’d meet Mikki, my new dietician.

  I took my little backpack and left the apartment. The warm air of a springtime morning welcomed me as I left the building, and I tried to start organizing my thoughts in preparation for the meeting.

  I knocked on her door in my usual way − hesitantly, careful not to invade an unwanted space.

  “Dani,” Rotem opened the door with a big grin. It looked like she wanted to hug me, but she remained cautious. I smiled. I was glad to see her. “So? How does it feel to be free?”

  “I feel relieved. I’m so happy with this decision. I really am. It’s such a nightmare to be in a place where they constantly tell you what to do and invade your privacy during your most intimate moments. Besides, the way I see it, there’s nothing healthy or healing about spending the entire day dealing with what I ate, what I drank, and how much weight I gained. I know that I still need to gain some more, but I prefer to do it at the same time as living my life.”

  “And what was it that made the difference, compared to before the hospitalization, when you weren’t able to break your fasts?”

  “The time that I spent at the unit, and the physical symptoms, which are the same as rehab during the first two weeks. Intense stomach cramps, accelerated heart rate. Getting back to eating is very difficult on a physical level, too, but mainly on a mental level, and I know that I couldn’t have accomplished it at home on my own,” I answered, feeling sad, yet accepting of the situation. I wish I were strong enough to do it on my own, I thought to myself.

  “Great. I’m really pleased. We’ll work together on making sure that you keep gaining and growing, and that you don’t start regressing and wilting. We’ll keep a watchful eye, together. And now that we’ve added Mikki to our crew, the three of us will beat this.” She gave a mischievous smile and asked, “And how is it at Tal’s apartment?”

  “A little weird, but also nice. I suddenly realized that we also know how to be sisters who are close to each other, and I’ve also discovered that she knows how to share, that she has a whole world of emotions and depth, unlike the way I’d always thought of her: successful, cold, and disconnected from her inner world. Apparently I was wrong. You could say that I’m rediscovering her. And I keep thanking her for letting me into her home. I don’t take that for granted at all. I just hope she won’t get tired of me too quickly. I need to think about what I’ll do, because this isn’t a long-term solution, as nice as it is. I’m scared that it’ll suddenly blow up and anyway, I need to figure out what I want to do with my life.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “I don’t know. That we’ll argue or something. Or worse, that she’ll get tired of me but won’t know how to break the news to me. That she’ll feel uncomfortable, and then I’ll become this burdensome creature who isn’t aware of its place. That’s a pathetic state, and I can’t bear to imagine myself like that. It sends shivers down my spine.”

  “That bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you not allowed to be helped? Can’t people make an effort for your sake?”

  “Of course. I’m doing just that. But not to the point that I become a burden.”

  Just One Reason to Live

  “You’re right about finding a goal. However, appeasing your father or worrying about my being sued isn’t a reason for living. Nor is making sure your grandmother’s heart doesn’t break again. So you protest. You can protect people and minimize the harm done to them, but that can’t come at your expense. You don’t have to tell anyone, if that’s what’s right for you. There are no set rules for this. We’ll listen carefully to any faint desire arising from within you, and we’ll encourage it to slowly expand, until it becomes a strong enough stream, one that no one can stop.”

  “I haven’t wanted anything for so long that I’ve been cancelling out my needs and desires. I don’t really remember anymore.” Dani looked around her, searching for an answer in the pictures on one of the walls, or on the book shelves.

  “Tell me about your dreams,” I asked her. “What did you want to be when you were a child?”

  “When I experience deafening silence, or just before going to bed, I still imagine myself among a collection of animals. When I was young, they were crocodiles. A family of friendly crocodiles who cared for me, and mainly chatted with me. Later on, I’d picture myself like Mowgli, in a family of wolves, in the forest, in a cave. The mother wolf licked me and warmed me with her fur, and my cub siblings played with me. At another point, I’d imagine myself sprawled over a lion’s belly, and riding on the back of an elephant or a big black horse. I always imagined myself alone with the animals − one of them, but still human. A nature child. Dr. Doolittle, as Dad used to call me when I was young. I imagined that I understood the animals’ language, and I always seemed relaxed and happy. Nowadays these fantasies are shaped in a more realistic way. Now I imagine myself owning a big ranch, or a shelter for wounded and sick animals, or just a simple dog and cat shelter, like the place where I’d adopted Miko. I imagine a place of my own, full of animals, in nature, among mountains, and I’m in charge of everything there. My own little piece of heaven.” Dani spoke non-stop, without lifting her head. A flame was kindled within her. “Rotem, are you crying?”

  I was moved when she talked about the atrocities she’d endured. It hurt me to hear it, but there was no room for tears. They could only weaken. Crying together is possible with a close friend, but I believe there’s almost never any room in therapy for the therapist’s tears. But this time, her description of finding a place of her own in the world and using it to bandage others’ wounds had brought me to tears that I couldn’t stop. Nor did I want to stop.

  I also didn’t see any reason to. On the contrary, Dani deserved to see and know that she moved me. Throughout my years as a therapist, only one other patient had witnessed my crying. It was Jasmine, after her mother had suddenly passed away. She arrived at our session after the seven days of mourning with such pain that I couldn’t keep a safe distance from the vortex. I’d also found myself going down the pit with Dani in order to give her my hand and go back out together. I had lost sleep over that, but I’d never cried in front of her.

  “Yes, Dani. I’m crying because that really is moving. How can we make
it happen in reality?”

  “I don’t know anything about it yet. I need to study.”

  I’d embarrassed her a bit, but not overly. “Then what’s the first step? Where do we start?” I asked.

  “I guess I could start by volunteering at one of those places that I dream about, and maybe take a course on animals. But I have no idea where, or what I should even study in order to get to what I want to accomplish − and not just for an academic degree.”

  “Who can help you with that?”

  “Ummm, I’ll ask Tal. She used to have a friend, Enrique, whose family had a place like that. We used to call him “Encouraging Enrique.” We’ll see, maybe that’ll work for me too.”

  Rotem Golan Goes to the Golan

  I went on a trip by myself. After the corona quarantine, I drove to Kiryat Shemona to visit my parents, since I hadn’t managed to squeeze that in during the Vipassana retreat. After those intense 11 days, which were the biggest investment I’d ever made in Emily, I hurried straight back to Yotam.

  After the visit to my parents, I decided to go see Nahal Zavitan, a river I hadn’t been to since high school. On our school trip, Liran and Eliran, the class’s inseparable pot-heads, sat bunched up on the back seat of the bus with beer cans they’d snuck in, and throughout the entire ride they sang, “Rotem Golan goes to the Golan,” among other original hits such as “Our driver’s great, he’ll take us to Kuwait. Our driver’s a pal, he’ll take us to Senegal.”