When she entered the room, she slightly bent her knees, which made her even smaller than she was, tiptoed lightly, as if she wanted to rise from her heels, make her invisible and settle in a corner, the farthest one.
Rita wears heels
One of the joys I have as a psychotherapist is reconnecting with former clients. Whether by chance or not, after months or even years since the therapy ended.
An unknown phone number. I answer.
– Daniela?
– Yes.
– Ah, I hoped you still had the same phone number. I’m Rita. Rita C. I was your client three years ago. I hope you remember me.
Yes, I remembered Rita and we arranged to meet the next day, at one of the terraces that summer light embraces more than others.
I arrived early and waited for her. I sat facing the street. I love to observe people. I love to feel. I was surrounded by whole or interrupted words, rustlings, shufflings, cadences of footsteps. I tried to guess who each sound belonged to. I was wrong twice.
I spotted Rita coming towards me. From all the appearance I remembered, only the stature, the long straight hair, and serene, almost childlike expression remained faithful. I didn’t recognize her posture, gait, or gestures. From her entire wardrobe, which was extremely sober and formal, she retained only the heeled shoes.
She told me about her life in the United States. We reminisced about things from our meetings. Among them, the reason for her coming to therapy.
Heels on the asphalt
– Do you know what I remember very clearly? The moment I decided to start therapy. One autumn morning. I was late and almost desperately searching for something to wear.
In all my haste, I realized what I was doing. And I had been doing it for years: choosing my clothes, outfits based on so many criteria that didn’t belong to me that my wardrobe could be divided and labeled: “Mother-in-law”, “Elena”, “Elena the CEO”, “Vlad”, “My parents”, etc.
I had nothing named “Rita”.
People check the weather forecast and dress accordingly. I had countless criteria: to please I don’t know who, to be in line with I don’t know who, not to say who knows what, not to appear in any way, not to, not to.
That morning I realized I had several meetings, professional and personal. According to the criteria by which I existed, I should have taken about four outfits with me and changed as many times. I was in a hurry and since I couldn’t decide, I understood why. I had your number from a friend and I called you.
What I remembered from working with Rita was the clarity with which she formulated her goals. The way she listened. The conscientiousness with which she followed her progress or setbacks. And tiptoeing. Not to disturb. Not to be heard walking.
– I’m glad you remember that. It’s the thing Vlad reproached during our marriage. That I tiptoed. I reproached him for bringing me to that state of eternal questioning: Am I “conforming”?
I realized I was wrong. We were already in the States. Alone, in a very difficult process of adaptation. I took all the notes I made during therapy about my confidence in who and what I am. And I applied, man.
It was hard for me, I can’t deny it and I don’t want to remember it. But just as that morning I knew therapy was the only way, I felt the moment I emerged from the chrysalis.
I was on one of the streets in New York and I was heading to a vernissage I organized for a Romanian artist. I was repeating a few phrases in my mind, imagining the unfolding. There was, however, a background that haunted me, something new, I couldn’t figure out what.
I saw myself in a shop window and suddenly I understood! That’s when I knew I had gained confidence in myself, the assurance that my choices were no less than others’:
I heard my heels on the asphalt and that no longer made me feel bad. I didn’t care if I might attract attention. I let them be heard. I walked without worrying that the noise of my heels might disturb. I didn’t bend my knees. I continued to step more firmly. Intentionally. To be heard. To be seen.
I am so free, Daniela. And I have a super cool wardrobe all to myself. “Rita”.
After Rita returned to her home across the ocean, we continued to talk from time to time. I asked for her permission to turn the metaphor of heels heard on the asphalt into a story that would inspire any effort of self-esteem. To be able to capture the moment of emergence from the chrysalis, as Rita called it, seems fantastic to me. However, for that, you need to realize that you are trapped there. Not to blame anyone for it and especially to want to free yourself.
