Excerpt: It's Lonely Up Here

When we were younger, we all had dreams about what we wanted to be when we grew up. Usually wild, fantastic dreams, dreams unlimited and unhindered by a sense of what we call the possible. You ask a kid out there what he wants to be and if he's got enough imagination, if the world hasn't gotten to him and stilted his free mind yet, he'll say he wants to be a fireman, or a rock star, or an astronaut, or a pilot…

Yeah, I wanted to be an astronaut. Not a pilot. Not a rock star. I couldn’t give a damn about being a rock star. I just wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to fly up to space in my rocket shuttle and have a whole space station all to myself. I would bounce along the corridors and look down at the earth far below and I could do anything I wanted. I wouldn’t have to worry about anything or anyone else. It was just me, the space cadet, floating through the void in my space station. I’d talk to all the admiring people down below over the phone and the camera and I’d be all brave, and then once that was over I’d be by myself again. There was something beautifully simple about the idea, something straightforward and appealing to my six year-old mind.

Then real life got to me and I ended up as a therapist. Pretty damn far from an astronaut, that. About a couple hundred kilometers too far. Hey, it's a living.

And that's the thing, you know – it's a living. Those of us who end up in a job we don't like, if we don't leave within the first few years, we almost never end up leaving at all. Not by choice, at any rate. Things get too familiar, too comfortable. We may lose the dream, but hey, it's a living. It's a steady job, it pays the bills. Most people figure hey, it pays the bills, and leave it at that. Then they work, heads down and something inside gone, until it's time to retire. And then they die.

Me, I stayed for the job. Because the job got me, after a while. Here all these people came with their wallets and their problems, and all most of them wanted was just someone to talk to. Not even to talk to; there are always plenty of people to talk to. Just someone to listen, really listen.

A lot of people, when they say they're listening, they don't really listen. It's not even in one ear and out the other. What you say goes in one ear and is never seen again. With some people, you even get the sense that when you're speaking, they aren't really listening; they're just planning what they'll say next. And if you manage to get past that pitfall, there are a whole bunch of other things to worry about. How will my listener take this? What will my listener think of me if I tell him something? Do I really dare to tell my listener my secret, or my secrets? Can I trust my listener to keep my confessions to himself? Because a lot of us who actually manage to listen, end up judging.

When you look for someone to listen, sometimes, that's all you really want. Maybe a little comfort and advice on the side, too, but other times, just getting it off your chest is all the therapy you need, whether you realize it or not.

And that's where I come in. For a small fee – not so small, but what the hell – I listen. I sit there and shut up and nod and smile and create a silence people feel welcome to fill. It's not personal, it's business. They feel no compunction about venting in front of me because that's all it is, and that's all it'll be.

And in return, I get money, and a few stories. Stories not many other people would ever know. And that's why I stayed, really: the stories. The little facets of humanity vented out by people so they can feel better about themselves.