I used to dread the rain when I lived in London. But in a town like L.A. where you rarely get a season change, you kinda embrace the moment. The only problem is, unlike the famously written pavement sign in this photo, neither of us looked right after that day.

Dear Ether,

It rained yesterday in L.A.  The temperature and the wet puddles in the pavement reminded me so much of London.  English gent and I decided to celebrate by taking a walk along Melrose and Robertson (people probably thought we were mad—who celebrates rain, right?).  These famous roads felt like the closest thing to High Streets that we could conjure up.  Melrose was like a pathetic Camden—the punks in L.A. would have been beaten up by the kilt wearing ones in London.  Robertson was a bit like South Molton Street but a bit trendier.  Paparazzi got soaked trying to grab a picture of some celeb leaving The Ivy, their famous head blocked by a big black brolly.  We loved the sound of water rushing into the gutters and cars splashing the sidewalks.  It was a laugh to see the girls who were so L.A. wearing flip-flops and skirts shimmying about screaming in the rain unprepared for this seasonal change. 

English gent and I found a small café run by a Frenchman who embraced us smoking (he complained that he had no one to enjoy a good fag with in this city) and we ordered lattes and pastries and watched the world go by.  We were on a small side street and we played a game with ourselves that we were actually IN London.  We planned the rest of our day.  We were going to go to the National Portrait Gallery (I needed some new postcards to add to the fridge in the flat) and then off to the South Bank for a stroll leading us to the Tate where English gent would buy an overpriced art magazine.  If we had time, and the shops weren’t shut, I begged him if we could go to Liberty.  I wanted to see their bag collection for fall.  Finally, we’d watch the lights go on in Carnaby Street and stroll as shopkeepers shut their metal gates locking them until tomorrow’s punters made them come alive again.  Tired from our day, we’d grab the Number 54 bus and take it all the way to Golders Green where we’d grab food at the amazing kosher wrap restaurant where we’d dine with Orthodox Jews and Arabs and chew to the beat of Hebrew rap.  Finally, smoking an after dinner cigarette and sipping espressos, we’d head back towards Hampstead to our little flat and crash—me putting up my postcards and gent reading his overpriced art mag. 

After we played our imaginary game, I looked at English gent.  He was smoking his cigarette very slowly and staring at nothing. “What’s on your mind?” I asked.  He slowly turned to look at me and I saw his eyes were glassy.  “I’m so homesick.  I miss our routine.  I miss the hustle and bustle.  I really miss MY culture.  But really, I miss us.  This place has destroyed us.”  My throat closed and I began to cry.  I grabbed his hand—the same hand I held 8 years ago—when it was 19 and stained with nicotine from rollies and being a poor student—and I told him that I loved him so much.  That nothing could take away OUR London.  He stared at me and said, “It’s too late.  Look at what’s happened.  Look at what we are now.” The whole time he was gripping my hand it was so tight that his knuckles went white and my skin went red.  I knew that things HAD changed forever–even if we moved back to the UK.  

Ethers.  I had nothing to say.  He held on to my hand for dear life for a good minute and let it go.  We paid the bill.  Then, we got into my car and our London disappeared.  The concrete jungle that is L.A. reared its ugly head again and we sat in silence in traffic both our hearts aching knowing that in the past we were each other’s remedy, not sickness.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

This is Freud's room recreated in his home on Hampstead, North London. You can clearly see the famous couch many heads perched on during sessions. Though I do not lie on a couch when I go to therapy, the couch represents the center of the room. The most important piece of furniture. It is where the patient collects their thoughts, discusses and learns. I have always held my sessions as a special place for me to escape. A womb-like arena (not as beautiful as Freud's) that allows me to be open and honest without any judgement. On Thursday, my womb will be invaded by English gent. My name will be spoken many times. But I shall not be there. I have many mixed emotions--loss of trust, fear, anger--even hope. And I know that this womb is not just mine---many bodies enter it. But, none of them have ever spoken my name without me being present. I wonder how many "Freudian Slips" will occur on Thursday?

Dear Ether,

English gent has stolen Dr. W. Yep, it is official.  MY therapist and MY partner have now booted me out of the loop. Okay.  I’ll tell you the whole story, but here’s the irony. YOU GUYS are now my only source of therapy for the moment (well, at least until next Tuesday) and what’s even worse:  I’M footing the bill!!!!  

English gent and I have been going to therapy together for about 6 sessions now because our relationship has been in a really terrible rut of late.  He blames me for bringing him to Los Angeles and to this concrete grave of misery and I am angry at him for so many reasons, all you have to do is hit the sidebar under “English gent” or “Love” and you can read why.  It was my idea we start therapy because I felt that we needed a mediator–someone who could be in the middle and help us through our discussions (which normally end  in him walking out of a room needing a cigarette or me diving under the duvet crying and dreaming of the life I thought I should have had).  Dr. W took to the English gent (and to be fair, the old therapist has a soft spot for me too) and really wanted to help us.  So one session turned into many and we started to really open up.  But English gent was getting angry.  He felt that it was well and good that we spoke about our feelings in our sessions, but that nothing happened outside the 45 minutes that changed anything in reality.  He said today was his LAST session with Dr. W.  Now of course I was infuriated.  I felt really trapped and frustrated.  If English gent stopped going to see Dr. W, then what?  I mean, we obviously couldn’t handle this relationship problem on our own and we don’t have any other confidants, so what were we going to do?  

I slept until 2pm today, that’s how gutted I was.

3pm rolls around and with my face sullen and sombre we take our seats on the couch in Dr. W’s office.  English gent talks about how angry he is with me.  That I don’t act as a woman should when I expect him to act as a man should (this might be a good point—but his version of acting like a “woman should” is doing laundry, cooking, cleaning….you get my drift…..and as long as he has known me…..that just IS NOT me…….so I was really fucked off…….and my idea of what a “MAN” should be is having money to support himself, having good enough credit to have a fucking credit card for Christ’s sake, being able to drive and not have me chauffeur him around, buy me a thing or two every so often…….but no…….he is  a stinking baby who still calls his mother “Mumma” in Russian.  Kill me).  Then he goes on to say that I’m unsupportive of his work.  Ethers, he sits in the office all day doing work for his business abroad as a freelancer and makes it very clear he doesn’t want to be disturbed.  He is on English time so he drinks Red Bull’s 5 times a day (which are like $2 a pop, chugs coffee after coffee like it’s water and smokes at least a pack a day…have I mentioned he is up until 5am most nights?)  We never go anywhere together because I can’t pay for both of us.  We are stuck in this house and are ironically so far apart is is pathetic.  I’ll leave it up to your imagination to wonder what our sex life is like (he is 27–you’d think he’d be rearing to go—and truthfully, I haven’t been less interested since before puberty, anyway).  It’s dire straits.  It’s always a threat of, “I have a return ticket back to England, why don’t I just go?” Or I say, “This isn’t working anymore, but I don’t know what to do because I don’t want to lose you in my life and I know if we end like this and you fly back to London, I’ll never see you again.”  Ethers, am I bound to grow old with a man who I bicker with?  Where we’re just angry companions, but stuck together because we care for each other from memories and a feeling of family?  And if he goes, I know I will always wonder if I lost the great love of my life because we went through a bad patch and maybe couldn’t work through it.  I mean, no one is gonna be happy in their late 20’s living with parents with no money, no license, no visa, no job (the list can go on).  And me!  You guys know I am dying for that golden ticket.  And soon, that will fade and stop shining and I’ll just be and ugly old hag that no one will want—then that will be the final nail in my coffin.  

So why do we stay together?  Why is the question he and I have been asking for almost a decade.  And we come up with so many pros and so many cons.  Our great times and our hideous times toughing it out.  No one knows either of us better than we know each other.  We are too afraid to let go.  I know many of you would say it’s like a plaster/Band-Aid.  Rip it off fast and it hurts less.  No. No.  I can’t even imagine the idea of unveiling the wound that the bandage shows underneath.  The last look in his eyes before he boarded the plane with no return ticket.  The last time I’d smell his neck.  The smell of his body on the sheets when I returned home from that agonizing drive.  The few gifts he gave me.  The albums full of memories.  8 YEARS OF MY LIFE SHARED WITH HIM.  Every reference of my 20’s with HIM.  Help me Ethers.  But please, don’t tell me yet to leave him.  Please?  Can you try to be constructive?  Can we go into salvation mode 1st?  I beg you out of desperation.

I’ve lost track of where I was.  Right. So. I cannot make it to our twice weekly session the second time being this Thursday, because I have a meeting and then an event to cover.  So what did Dr. W suggest?  That English get come sans me.  I was shocked.  He is MY therapist. The guy I pay.  The man I introduced English gent to.  And now THEY are going to have a pow-wow about ME behind my back?  Yes, yes, yes.  I know.  This will be all fine and dandy.  He’ll get to say his piece and Dr. W might coach him and this is only to help.  But I feel so vulnerable.  As I chauffeur him to that session, I wonder, how many times will my name be mentioned and what will be said?  And the truth is I have NO right to ask.

I wish I was free.  That I could be 21, just out of school and fresh.  I wish this was the beginning.  That I had more time.  That I hadn’t made so many mistakes and hadn’t given into love so fast and hard.  Some of us do it easier than others.  I’m a sucker.  I’ll keep you updated, as you guys are now my clearest and cleanest form of therapy.  Thank you for listening.  I just wish I wasn’t sitting here with my face full of tears and the tops of my hand wet with the drippings of the falling droplets all over them.  What a mess—in so many way—what a giant mess.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365