You're blue like the ocean

I woke up early that morning, aware of the weight this day carried, just like every year. I left the house at dawn, when the sky, which had been a deep blue, slowly began to fade into a dull gray. The cool, damp air characteristic of the Oregon coast, washed over me, the only greeting I would receive that morning. I set off toward the town center. The streets were deserted at that hour. A thick fog limited visibility. The air was acrid, the clouds threatening rain, and the wind blew relentlessly.

On my way, I noticed the small bookstore of the town. A cozy little place, known for hiding the most obscure treasures of psychological literature. The exterior window was thick and clear, allowing a view inside. The dark iron door, weathered by time, creaking and rusty. I paused on the threshold and decided to go inside. The bell above the door rang as soon as I stepped through. An elderly woman behind the counter greeted me mechanically, without much enthusiasm. After returning her greeting, I made my way toward the few dark wooden shelves, likely made of wengè. In every compartment of the bookcase, volumes of every kind and size were neatly arranged. There were no labels indicating their genre; they were all mixed together, uncategorized. Inside, you could smell the unmistakable scent of printed paper, dampness, and coffee grounds, brewed hours earlier by the shop’s owner. I began running my finger along the books, searching for one in particular.

I saw familiar titles, sitting on those shelves for so long they’d been forgotten. This bookstore wasn’t a very busy place. It has had the same customers for years, but now it’s almost empty. Whenever I’ve had a little free time, I’ve always tried to stop by and take a look.

When I was young, I remember entering this magical place many times, in search of reading material that was anything but light. From middle school onward, I was passionate about psychological fiction; I was always looking for something that would make me reflect on the meaning of life, something that would stimulate my mind to wander and not remain anchored to the reality closest to me.

So I became a psychologist, and opened my own psychological practice.

I loved my work. I loved guiding my patients into their own minds, encouraging them to observe themselves from an intrapersonal perspective.

In particular, I had a patient who once told me, “The books I like can only be appreciated by those who can be quiet enough to hear the voice of their own thoughts.”

I couldn’t agree more, as that is the literary genre I, too, appreciated the most.

She was a young woman who was 19 years old when she had her first therapy session with me. She was a woman of few words, who preferred the peace of silence over talking. She had long, curly black hair, dark circles under her blue ocean eyes, and a tired look. She didn’t open up, and she didn’t know how to put into words what she was feeling.

I sensed she had so much to say, if only she knew how, and I was there, ready to help her.

So I suggested we communicate through books.

Every time, before heading to my office, we’d stop at the small village bookstore to look for books for each other to read. Short books, under a hundred pages, but powerful in terms of content.

I looked for books that would help her understand how to express herself best, and how to transform vague thoughts into concrete words.

She was looking for books that captured the sense of oppression she felt whenever she found herself in the middle of a crowd, that described the emptiness and futility that plagued her, and that could express through metaphors what was impossible to explain in words. Every evening, after closing the office and returning home, I would sit in my armchair in the living room and continue reading the book she had selected. I paid close attention to every detail that might help me understand how to assist her. She did the same.

One evening, I picked up the book she had given me. It was slim, with a simple cover. I began to read it.

I was struck by one sentence in particular, though its meaning wasn’t entirely clear to me

“Now the sun had sunk. Sky and sea were indistinguishable”

This sentence had been delicately underlined with a line of graphite.

I wondered if it was meant for me, something that I had to understand.

I wouldn’t understand it until much later…

This exchange of books went on for quite some time, until one day, just as I was about to hand her a new book, she stopped me, telling me that she finally felt ready to talk to me. So she began to tell me how she felt, to tell me that she couldn’t bear this state of suffering and that she just wanted to be happy again, as she once was.

She improved, then collapsed again. Progress never lasted. Literature helped her more than I ever could. Our therapy lasted three years. Not long enough to say we’d completed the journey, but not too short to say I hadn’t tried to leave a mark on her. The only thing that truly helped her was literature.

She felt close to those authors; she felt understood, cared for by their synesthesia and figures of speech. I only wish I had been able to help her the way literature did. But after these three years of attempts that alternated between discouragement and joy, there was no more time to try.

The last time she was seen was one morning at 8 o’clock. When the fog was still thick and the sea in a raging storm. A sailor saw her as he was about to leave the harbor for the open sea, heading out for the day’s fishing.

He testified that he had seen a girl standing atop the highest rock, wearing a long white dress, crumpled and fluttering in the powerful gusts of wind that sweep through this coastal area. He said he could sense her silent tears and her labored breathing.

He claimed that the fog rolled in, blocking his view, and that when the view cleared, she had vanished into thin air.

She had become part of the sea, which now carried all her depressed and suffering thoughts. Now she had become the waves themselves, like the novel “The Waves” by her favorite author, Virginia Woolf.

I left the bookstore with that book in my hand.

And I headed toward that cliff, a short distance from the harbor. A place shrouded in perpetual fog, with a view of the poetic landscape of the Pacific Ocean.

I climbed up those rough, dark rocks and made it all the way to the top. I sat down just before the edge and took out a sheet of paper and a fountain pen complete with an inkwell; I placed the book beside me.

I stared intently at the blank sheet of paper before picking up the pen and beginning to write.

“Dear Matilda,

I’m happy to be writing you another letter.

Several years have passed since you left, but I’ve never forgotten you.

All this time, I’ve never stopped coming back to this cliff and writing in your memory. You were a difficult patient to understand, but I never wanted to stop trying to make you smile again.

I never considered you a professional failure—quite the opposite. I was honored to be the one you chose to confide your despair in; I’m glad to have been the one you trusted to understand you.

I did everything I could.

I’m proud of the fact that on that day, when you were still very young, you had the courage to open the door to my office and walk in. Something not everyone is able to do.

I don’t want you to think I felt guilty. I did my best to foster an indirect dialogue between us—that is, through books. Ours was a profound dialogue, one that I hope helped you understand new things about yourself, and that certainly helped me understand many things about myself.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault.

Not even yours. You did your very best to overcome your difficulties, and you tried to hold on, even though your mind and body were clearly telling you that you wouldn’t be able to bear such a heavy burden on your own.

You could no longer fight, and I’m not angry with you for that.

I want to remember you for the person you were—though complicated, you were intelligent and insightful.

You were a special girl, mature enough to grasp all the hidden meanings in the most complex texts. You could understand anyone’s mind, but you couldn’t understand your own.

I hope that there will always be someone who, on this day, wakes up in the morning and remembers the loss that occurred today, all those years ago.

I hope that you remain a cherished memory for everyone who knew you, and that everyone understands that you cannot be described as a restless soul, but as a soul that is now at peace with itself.

I hope that you are no longer suffering now, and that you have been freed from the burden you had been carrying on your shoulders for far too long.

Today is the twentieth anniversary of your passing, and the pain of your loss is vivid. As I watch the waves crash, I see your tangled and confused thoughts,

which could not find order and which prevented you from finding peace.

Watching the fog, I think of the sense of emptiness that could be seen in your eyes, too present to allow them to be illuminated by joy again. Looking at the roughness of the rocks, I remember your bitter tears that would occasionally fall down your cheeks.

You were blue like the ocean.

Your blue eyes remain a vivid image, tormented like the stormy sea and cold like the icy sea water in winter.

I want you to know that I will always write you a letter on every anniversary, for as long as I am able, because you, too—like all those who now rest in eternal peace—deserve to have someone who remembers you. You left quietly, without warning, without giving any sign at all. You made your decision and acted on it.

I often wonder if I was the one who missed something. You almost never let your feelings show; I couldn’t read anything on your face. So I couldn’t do anything to stop you in time.

All I can say to you now is, sail safely on the waves, my dear patient.

Your psychologist,

George”

Once I had finished writing the last word, I carefully rolled up the sheet of paper, as if it were a scroll. I took a glass bottle out of my backpack and slipped it inside. Then I took the Virginia Woolf book she loved to read so much, tore out the first page, and slipped that into the bottle as well.

That page represents a beginning.

These waves didn’t stop her; they finally allowed her, albeit in the worst possible way, to find peace, so her true story was still yet to be written. I proceeded to seal the bottle with a cork. I held it in my hand, looking at it with a bitter melancholy.

Shortly after, I threw it into the ocean, as if to deliver it directly to her.

I gazed out at the sea.

It was as if I could see her standing before me, in that white gown fluttering in the wind. She was gazing out at the horizon, then disappearing as if swept away by the fog. Tears of sorrow streamed down her face.

To me, the sea was no longer just a body of water; it represented her.

Only then did I understand the line you had underlined, back then.

Sky and sea were indistinguishable.

Like every anniversary, this was the letter I gave her, and I was sure, one way or another, she would read it.

So I gathered my things and walked away slowly, out of respect for her loss, knowing that next year, on the same day at the same time, I would return to the cliff to remember her once again.