I confess, I almost Quit grad school.
Perhaps a better confession here, or at least one more titillating, would be that I wanted to sleep with my therapist. Wait. Would that really be a more provocative revelation for this post? Or, is concocting a fantasy about fellating your shrink just par for the course in the emotionally fraught dynamic between handsome psychoanalyst and hedonist patient? You know, I bet it’s super common. Me wanting to strip off all my clothes and beg him to take me right there on that smartly upholstered sofa in his well-appointed office. I bet harboring a secret desire for a little curative carnality probably only seems unusual or salacious in my blandly vanilla with martyr sauce psyche.
Let’s see. “Hey Siri, is it unusual to want to have sex with my therapist?”
“No, it’s not unusual to have sexual feelings toward your therapist, such as fantasies about having sex or dreams about it,” says the stilted and slightly condescending AI lady living in my iPhone.
Apparently, this very ordinary desire even has a name. Erotic Transference it’s called. And, according to Wikipedia, learning about a client’s lustful impulses and how to deal with them is all part of a therapist’s training. So, there you have it. Clearly, a confession about wanting to ravage my therapist would be unremarkable. With that in mind, I’ll stick to my initial confession about why, early on in my post-graduate career, I contemplated giving up on grad school altogether and hightailing it back home. And I’ll just have to find some way to spice that up a bit.
After some research, I had applied to what I thought were the five top playwriting programs in the United States. Four of those five institutions just straight up rejected me based solely on my extensive application materials: transcripts, writing samples, personal essays, and recommendation letters. One, NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, granted me an interview and subsequent invitation to be part of their 21-member, Dramatic Writing MFA cohort. My eventual decision to accept the prestigious invitation was not an easy one to make. I had just ended a 12-year relationship with my partner Will. It would mean leaving behind a steady job that provided me with reliable health insurance. For relocation funds, I would need to cash in my meager retirement and sell my truck. In addition, I would be taking on a substantial amount of student loan debt. It would be an epic leap of faith. One like I had never taken before. Thankfully, it occurred to me that seeking some professional psychological guidance at this crucial crossroads might be a good idea.
Alan was a handsome, gay therapist around my age. He was recommended to me by my dear friend Tim. From our very first session, I found Alan to be sincere, understanding, easy to talk to, and yes, kinda hot. He provided an environment where I almost immediately felt safe to share my inmost doubts and fears. In fact, by the second or third week of seeing him, my body would begin to shake as I approached his office. It took a concerted effort to hold my emotions at bay until I was safely inside and settled. Perhaps one of the primary reasons I found Alan so helpful was his inability to be anything other than human. By that I mean he never came across as someone who had everything together or new all the answers. He cancelled several sessions for what he referred to as personal reasons, and once brought a golden retriever to one of our appointments because he couldn’t find a dog sitter. He was sometimes apologetic, occasionally flustered, and always honest. I felt a kinship.
During our final visit, Alan asked me to list the reasons why I might still be feeling anxious about grad school. Number three or four on my list was, “I don’t feel worthy.” He stopped me there and for the remainder of the session we worked to unearth where that particular feeling might be rooted. But the hour was soon up and within a few days I was on an eastbound plane headed off to begin writing the next chapter of my life.
I was forty-four years old when I walked in to NYU for the first time as an earnest but aging playwright in training. That’s the exact same age that Anton Chekhov was when he died. Of course, when Chekhov was felled by tuberculosis at forty-four he had already gifted the world with multiple theatrical masterpieces. Oh, and in addition to his writing he had worked as a medical doctor on the side. At forty-four, my contributions to both dramatic literature and humanity were far less impressive. I was a long-term survivor of HIV/AIDS, a perpetually out-of-work actor, and, after 28 years of trying, I had finally earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Theatre.
Anxiety churned by a sense of unworthiness is not uncommon when people are thrust into new and unfamiliar circumstances. And, like secretly harboring a desire to fuck your therapist, this neurotic feeling of inferiority also has a catchy name. Imposter Syndrome it’s called. In retrospect, NYU and all the haughty trappings of my new postgraduate surroundings were screaming to me that I didn’t belong. Warning me that I was tragically out of my depth.
It didn’t help that the majority of my classes were in the same building where Will had studied and earned his own MFA at NYU the year prior to my acceptance. In fact, he was one of my references when I applied. In spite of our breakup, he even wrote me a glowing letter of recommendation. The truth is, it wasn’t just the campus. Even though Will was already working in another state altogether when I arrived in New York, it still felt to me like the whole of Manhattan belonged to him. I was sure that it was only through some inexplicable, sadistic twist of fate that I had been mistakenly granted some kind of a temporary visa.
My first formal meeting as a grad student was a new student orientation held in a small theatre in the Dramatic Writing Department on the 7th floor at 721 Broadway. The intimate space felt full with only twenty-five or so people in attendance. There were a handful of professors and administrators sitting in chairs on the stage. Me and my fellow student writers sat in squeaky, well-worn theatre seats facing them. The bulk of the presentation was focused on school policy, general expectations, and program logistics. Later, the talk turned toward day-to-day life in the city. With most of my cohort being new to the Big Apple, the well-intended panel understandably wanted to provide some pointers regarding our welfare and safety. First there were warnings about the subway and traveling alone after dark to unfamiliar places. And then, near the end of the enlightening spiel, came a warning about the ever-present danger of sexually transmitted diseases. With a pointed emphasis on one disease in particular.
“HIV and AIDS is still out there,” one of the talking heads announced. “So, make smart choices.”
Suddenly, I felt again like some kind of toxic pariah. It was as if the young people around me, my colleagues for the next two years, were being told to beware of people like me. Wait. No. Not people like me. Actually me. I was a cloaked and deadly monster secretly lurking in their midst. Flooded with a familiar sense of fear and shame, I mentally checked out for the remainder of the orientation. Worse, I creatively checked out for much longer than that.
Looking back, I wish I had responded differently in that moment. Perhaps, if I had loved myself more, I might have been brave enough to blindly trust the strangers in my new circumstance. On my long list of life’s ‘what ifs’, I often wonder what might have been different. If, rather than withering, I stood up and proclaimed, “Just for the record, I have been HIV-positive for twenty years and I am definitely still out there. Please feel free to ask me anything there is you might want to know about not making smart choices.” Punctuated by a sassy Z-snap à la RuPaul. And in the stunned silence that followed, I’d added, “I’m looking forward to getting to know all of you better in the coming weeks and years, and reveling together in an uninhibited wonderland of passionate creative expression. Okurr?” Neck circle, pause, aaaand…sit. But back then, I simply stayed silent. I have to admit. It feels good even now. If only in my imagination. To finally speak up after all these years.
That initial gathering, and my inability to positively claim space for myself in my new surroundings, gave me pause. I was living again on a down low defensive. But I wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.
A few days after the orientation, I was sitting in my first class. It was early evening. I, along with six other emerging playwrights, were back in the same little theatre sitting on those black wooden boxes in a circle on the stage. As I recall, there was a round of introductions and a rundown from the professor about what his course had in store for us over the coming semester.
After about an hour or so, we were told to take a short break. I walked out into the lobby and pulled out my cellphone. There was a missed call and a message from my friend, Tim, asking me to call him back. As soon as he answered, I knew something was not right.
“Where are you?” he asked.
I told him I was in class and shared a little bit about how things were going.
“There is something I need to tell you,” he said.
“What?” I asked tentatively, my mind already reeling with a myriad of horrible possibilities.
He gently replied, “Alan died.”
Alan? I was having trouble making sense of what I was hearing. He died? My therapist, Alan? After all, that was the only Alan I knew and Tim was the one who had referred me to Alan months earlier. Tim went on to explain what he knew of the circumstances. Apparently, Alan overdosed in a bath house and couldn’t be revived. As he continued to speak, my thoughts went wild. Alan was the person who suggested that I was good enough. That I was worthy of a career and the future I was imagining for myself. He had planted in me the seeds of a new self-confidence. A confidence, that in many ways, I had modeled after the man I imagined Alan to be. Imperfect, sure. But happy. Healthy. Honest. Caring. Capable. And, yes. Hot. In all our hours together, his very presence had been an inspiration. A handsome man with a bright smile, sitting in a wingback chair with a friendly dog curled up on the floor at his feet. In many ways an idyllic portrait of what I someday aspired to be. Suddenly, I could only picture Alan unconscious and naked, in a dim light, on a well-worn bare mattress with a needle hanging out of his arm.
Tim asked if I was okay. I assured him I was fine before we said our goodbyes. I hung up the phone and slowly approached the professor who was calling us back into class. With an increasingly halting voice, I explained to him that I had just learned about the death of a friend. I didn’t share any other details, but I was clearly shaken. He kindly offered that I was free to stay or go. He then disappeared into the theatre with the others and I was torn. I so did not want to be that guy. My options were to leave my classmates halfway through our first official class meeting or push through the evening in a visibly brittle state. Either way, I was already that guy.
I decided to stay. Quietly, I returned to my place in the circle of black boxes on stage. I stared at the floor while my mind swirled and my heart raced. Had it all been a lie? Had Alan simply allowed me to fool myself into thinking I would be all right? I was sure that every other person in that circle was now looking right through me. My fear and self-doubt on full display. I wanted to get up and run 3000 miles nonstop. Home. Where who I had been was good enough. Maybe it wasn’t too late to try and piece my old life back together.
During orientation, I recalled that we were given information about a health center for students. I was there at the door as soon as they opened the following morning. I briefly explained my situation to the receptionist. Even with the limited details I provided, it was clear to her that I was in some kind of crisis. Almost immediately I found myself sitting in front of a young, friendly-faced, female therapist.
“What brings you in today?” she wanted to know.
I spoke as best I could through a constant flow of tears and snot. When the emotional deluge subsided, the kind young woman urged me not to make any rash decisions about my educational future. She also confessed that she felt ill-equipped to handle my care and referred me instead to a psychiatrist off campus.
I don’t recall the name of this new doctor. I will call him Frank. And, like his alias implies, his communication style was sharp and to the point. Unlike Alan, Frank had an air of aloofness. His office was dark and staid. Overflowing bookshelves lined every inch of wall space that wasn’t already allocated to the two heavily draped windows or the ornate wooden door. Frank immediately seemed less interested in my circumstance and more interested in a solution. He suggested a temporary prescription of some kind. A medication that might take the edge off while I was processing a myriad of complicated feelings in the aftermath of Alan’s overdose. The irony was almost funny. The idea of taking pills so I could more calmly address the concerns I had about basing my potential for emotional evolution, self-love, and future success on the advice of someone who clearly wrestled with substance abuse.
I decided with Frank to forgo the pharmaceutical assistance and in our meetings over the following weeks he was a great help. Succinct to be sure, but present and supportive. We agreed that seemingly antithetical characteristics in a person could be simultaneously true. He helped me recognize that Alan’s personal struggles did not negate any of the wonderful qualities that I had recognized in him. Nor did they undermine the presence of the potential he helped me to see in myself. Together we concluded that the best thing I could do for myself, and for Alan, was to stick it out. To stay in New York and nurture the self-confidence that he had planted in me. To become a success story. Not in spite of Alan, but because of Alan. I know that would make him smile.
Oh. And, if I may just take a final moment to check a box in the win column on my psychotherapeutic record. Not once did I fantasize fellating Frank. Come on now, that’s gotta count for something.
