The Why Season

Everything has been falling apart.

I went to the Indian Buddhaman, otherwise known as the designated psychiatrist for the monthly pow wow. Maybe it was just that time of day, dusk, but he began nodding oddly as I came flooding at him with my woes. The pseudo-boyfriend dumped me and wants to be a friend, but I like him a lot. I wish we'd been on the same page. I wish I hadn't asked him for more and burst into tears—hindsight is 20/20.

I watch as the Buddhaman's head drops to his chin, his eyes bloodshot. It frustrates me even more, men—sorry shrinks, sorry men just don't listen. I told him how I've reached this date drought—there's no good men out there. I was whining about when I'd walk down the aisle, and once again, I watch as his head drops. I tell him about my ten-day window to find a new gig: What am I going to do, will I need to go out on the streets? He looks like one of those night owls perched on a branch. I burst into tears, perhaps as an subconscious last resort and way to get his attention.

His advice for the man problem is to move beyond the pseudo-boyfriend, the guy with intimacy problems. "He might be dating five other women," he says. "Yeah but I like him. I'm not going to find anyone else like him," I say. I tell him about the doctor who I've been having breakfast with for three months now; he pays each time, but he has yet to make any move. "So next time bring him up to your place, get him in bed," he says. I can't believe this Buddhaman, he's so crude. "If that doesn't work, go to your Rolodex." He is really crude.

Mostly though, lately things have been spinning out of control, I feel that the men have become islands that I hang on to. If I focus on the island, then I can lose track of the sea. It's nice that way, it's comfortable; focus on unavailable men, the Pope, the beta fish, shopping, rather than the real problems at hand: the stack of bills, papers, taxes, finding what one really wants in life and sticking with it. I am avoiding the issues. I left the Buddhaman's office with a bunched up Kleenex in hand.

There is even no respite in religion. The other day, my new friend from Catholic class and I went to mass. We jokingly call the 7:30 p.m. mass "ass mass," for the hope that we'll catch the eye of one of the young and dashing investment bankers who throw $20 bills into the offering basket.

The homily was about doubting Thomas, how there's a doubting Thomas in each of us, how we need to hang onto certainty in life, how we need to simply know when often there are no answers. ADHD and the mysteries of it all have no answers either. I thought about it for a while as I knelt down and fixated on the marble floor. Maybe I needed to not feel so bad about simply not knowing, and realizing that no one — certainly not a psychiatrist with a prescription in hand — can solve the many questions.