Shortly after Jack and I got married I began a two-year study of energy medicine with a woman named Clara who was a medical intuitive. Clara could look at a person’s energy field and tell whether or not they had cancer, among other things. She could also tell whether or not their prescribed treatment would work. During my course of study with her, I booked a session so I could learn more about how she worked with her clients, because I was planning to open a practice of my own.
The day of my appointment I arrived early and was met by her assistant. She handed me a simple intake form. It was the same type of paperwork you might complete for physical therapy or acupuncture. I was glad to have a few minutes to focus my thoughts because I was nervous, afraid she was going to tell me I had cancer or, more likely, that I had what constituted a drinking problem. Ever since she said she didn’t drink when she was seeing clients the next day—that, in fact, she barely drank at all—I had felt unbearably self-conscious any time the subject of alcohol came up in our classes. I’d noticed lately that I couldn’t seem to go very long without it. I never blacked out, or even got drunk (most of the time), but it seemed like I shouldn’t be so well organized around when and where I’d have my next drink. Like maybe it had become a preoccupation, which made it a thing. If it was a thing, I could no longer believe (in the place where I might admit such things), that it wasn’t a thing. That it was no thing, or nothing. Which seemed to make it something.
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