Common Factor

The first time I went to Jorge's office, I knew that I wasn't going to see a conventional psychotherapist. Claudia, who recommended him to me, warned that 'The Fat Man' as she called him, was "a little bit special."

I was already fed up with conventional therapy and above all with boring myself for months and months on the couch of some psychoanalyst. So, I called and scheduled an appointment.

My first impression exceeded all expectations. It was a warm November afternoon. I arrived five minutes early and waited in the foyer until the exact time.

At 4:30 on the dot I rang the door bell. The intercom buzzed and I pushed the door and ascended to the ninth floor.

I waited in the hallway.

I waited.

And waited.

And when I grew tired of waiting, I rang the doorbell of the apartment.

The man who opened the door for me was the type who at first sight seems like he's dressed for a picnic. He was wearing jeans and tennis shoes, and an obnoxiuos orange t-shirt.

-Hello -he said. His smile, I must confess, calmed me.

-Hello -I responded. -I'm Damian.

-Yes, of course. What happened to you? What took you so long to get up here? Did you get lost?

-No, it's not that I was delayed. I didn't want to ring the bell, so as not to bother you, in case you were attending to someone.

-"So as not to be a bother" -he repeated, worriedly shaking his head. And speaking as though he were making the logical conclusion, he continued,

This is how things must go for you...

I was flabbergasted.

It was the second sentence he had spoken to me, and without a doubt, what he was saying was true but...

That son of a bitch!

The place where Jorge attended to his patients, which I couldn't dare to call an 'office', was just like him: informal, disorganized, messy, warm, colorful, surprising and, to be honest, a little dirty. We sat in two armchairs facing eachother, and while I told him things he drank mate. Yes. He drank mate during our session!

He offered me one:

-Fine -I told him.

-Fine what?

-Fine, a mate...

-I don't understand.

-That I'm going to to accept a mate from you.

Jorge bowed to me comically and said:

-Thank you your majesty, for accepting a mate from me. Why don't you just tell me if you want a mate or not, instead of doing me favors?

This guy was going to drive me crazy.

Yes! -I said.

And so, indeed, he brought me a mate.

I decided to stay a little while longer.

Among a thousand other things. I told him that something must be wrong inside of me because I was having difficulties in my relationships.

Jorge asked me how I knew that it was my problem.

I replied that I was having difficulties at home with my father, my mother, my brother, and my partner... and that, inasmuch, obviously the problem must be me. Then for the first time Jorge told me 'something'.

In time, I would learn that The Fat Man liked fables, analogies, stories, intelligent sayings, and excellent metaphors. According to him the only way to understand something without living through it is having a clear internal symbolic representation of what happened.

-A fable, a story or an anecdote -Jorge claimed -could be remembered one hundred times more easily than a thousand theoretical explanations, psychoanalytical interpretations or formal expositions.

That day, Jorge told me that there could be something out of whack inside of me, but he added that my deduction was a dangerous one because my self-blaming conclusion was not supported by facts that confirmed it. Then he told me one of those stories using the first person, for which you could never determine whether they were part of his life or his fantasy.

My grandfather was a terrible drunk.

His favorite thing to drink was Turkish Anisette.

He drank Anisette and added water, to take the edge off,

but it got him drunk just the same.

So he drank whisky with water, and he got drunk.

And he drank wine with water, and he got drunk.

Until one day he decided to cure himself

and he quit... the water!