Margarita Wednesdays: Making a New Life by the Mexican Sea Read Online Free PDF

whatever this was, it was fixable. And I was determined to do it in one session. Who could afford to take more time than that?
    “You see,” I said once I was seated inside on a leather love seat, “my story is rather long, and a bit complicated. I spent the last five years in Afghanistan.”
    Steve Logan nodded his sandy-haired, balding head, clearly unimpressed, as if I’d just told him something he’d heard a million times before—like that I felt underappreciated by my spouse, or that I couldn’t sleep at night. That’s when I decided to amp it up and try to get my money’s worth. “I moved to Afghanistan after 9/11, started a beauty school, married an Afghan a few months after we’d met, learned he already had a wife and seven or eight kids living in Saudi Arabia. I wrote a book, opened up a coffee shop, went back to the States for a book tour, and somewhere in the middle of that my husband turned on me. I went back to Kabul, discovered there was a plot to kidnap my son, then fled the country in fear for my life. I’ve lost everything, miss my girls from Kabul, feel homeless in my new home, and am rapidly starting to lose my mind. Am I crazy? Is there a cure? You guys don’t use electric shock anymore, do you?”
    Dr. Steve was expressionless, not amused in the slightest by my attempt at levity. The guy should have been a poker player. He started to jot something down. I was sure there was total nut job scribbled somewhere in his notes.
    I waited for some sort of wisdom to come out of his mouth. Silence. Did he want me to say something else? Should I have added that my Afghan husband worked for a big warlord in Kabul? Perhaps the fifteen-minute abridged version hadn’t been the best approach. I wiped a rogue tear from my cheek. Then I remembered how much I was paying him. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Would I get creditfor the nontalking time? Talk, damn it! The hour was going to be done before he stopped with his stupid notes. Stop writing and just fix me!!! I screamed in my head.
    Finally he looked up and said, without an ounce of inflection in his voice, “You have really gone through a lot.”
    I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “I have, Doc, and frankly I’m not doing so well. Do you know what’s wrong with me? Can you fix it?”
    “Well”—he paused, drawing out his words—“it’s likely.”
    It was likely he knew what was wrong, or likely that he could fix me? I looked down at my watch. Ten minutes to go. He returned to his notes. Clearly he was not in a hurry. Then he looked up and asked, “Do you live in the area?”
    “Yes,” I replied. Really? Focus on me, man, not where I live. I need to know what to do. I’m on the edge of a cliff, buddy, and I need you to help me.
    He took out his calendar. “Let’s make an appointment for next week.”
    What, next week? You’re kidding me. He’s got to be kidding me. I barely made it through the past two days and you want me to wait until next week? Please, please, don’t do this to me!
    “In the meantime, I have some homework for you that should really help your healing.”
    I heaved a sigh of relief. Homework, thank God. Maybe some sort of writing or drawing exercises. I had heard about those. I rummaged in my purse for a pen and paper.
    “The area you live in has lots of glowworms,” he began, clasping his hands. “I want you to go into the fields at night and sit with the glowworms.”
    I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I waited for him to start laughing at his own joke. But his expression remained unchanged as he continued: “I also want you to mow the lawn in your bare feet and get in touch with Mother Nature.”
    And that’s when his little timer went off. Ding! My hour was up!
    I just sat there as he wrote up his bill and motioned me toward the door. I could barely utter a thank you. No meds, no workbook, no “things I need to be grateful for” list. Nothing. It would have felt better to burn my money than to