It was as though part of my breast had been cut out by a skilled anatomist and replaced by an equal part of immaterial suffering . . . And however neatly the wound may have been stitched together, one lives rather uncomfortably when regret for the loss of another person is substituted for one’s entrails.
—Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time
She told me about the procedure the same way she was always telling me about her newest exercise regime or dietary restriction or partially prepared meal delivery service. With the zeal of a convert. Part of the pitch was her desire for a companion. She wanted me to join her. I would help her stay committed and the treatment would be more fun together, but honestly, she wanted this for me, too.
“The procedure is about clearing out space,” she explained, “instead of repressing. An exchange, part for place.” I was trying to keep my dog on the trail because I am afraid of rattlesnakes. I had never seen a rattlesnake on this path, but I felt as though I had. I transplanted my memory of a green snake from the garden onto this dusty terrain. I could still distinguish between the snake I had actually seen and the emptiness where I had never seen one. I could see my thoughts from the outside in this way, but that awareness did nothing to alleviate my anxiety. Because the rattlesnake’s capacity for camouflage is its threat, I doubled down. I altered the shade of snakeskin in my mind to match the dry dirt trail. Sometimes, the only way out is through. [ . . . ]
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