Once Celta was settled into the apartment in Athens, the frantic days behind us, our relationship began to take its real shape. What had been survival became, finally, a courtship.
Celta had carried more than one illness alongside everything I loved in her. There was the anorexia, and there was alcohol. To a layperson, the word would be alcoholic; when we went to AA later, people would say, “Hi, I’m Bill and I’m an alcoholic.” I like the term “Alcohol Use Disorder” better, since I was going into the psychiatric field and prefer something more scientific. At that time, in the 90s, we used the terms Alcohol Addiction and Alcohol Dependence. I thought her anorexia and her psychological struggles were every bit as serious, but I was too new in the field to know what would be best for her.
I want to say something here about my parents, because they were the shadow over all of this. I had been working whatever jobs I could find—everything from busboy to waiter. My parents made sure to add to my shame for not working as an engineer. It was reprehensible. I would have done anything to earn enough that I didn’t need them for anything. For anyone to believe I was stubbornly refusing to work as an engineer, that person could not have been thinking rationally. I hated them. I had to act cordial, to swallow it, out of fear and a kind of forced respect, but I hated them. Many people overuse that word. In my experience as a therapist, hate is rarely something people will admit to feeling. It is what you feel when you are exposed to something noxious, something repulsive. That is precisely what I mean. I found them repulsive. And the contrast with Celta—who was interested in every detail of my existence—was staggering.
I loved to hear about Celta’s talents. She had studied acting beginning before she was even in high school.
Sunday, April 15th – The Botanical Gardens
It was Sunday, April 15th, a week before my birthday. It was a bit cool that morning as we arrived at the Botanical Gardens in Athens. She had suggested the place.
The sun was passing through the misty morning fog as we walked along a path. I reached out to take her hand, feeling as if something emotional was rippling through me at her touch. It was still early in the day, and Celta was wearing a white coat made of soft cotton. I was warm-natured and only had a short-sleeve shirt on.
“Can I take off this glove?” I asked. “My hand will keep your hands warm.”
She smiled as we gazed at the misty sun above and ahead. This felt so good and right. I felt awkward at first as I saw another couple. Celta and I were not a “couple” per se. I let the thought go. This felt too good to overthink. Instead, I basked in the excitement and peace of being with Celta.
I could feel her tiny fingers intertwined in mine, which sent a particular feeling flowing up my arm, almost like a chill or a soft rippling stream.
On another occasion, we were having a picnic at the Botanical Gardens, and I was thinking about how the area we found reminded me of growing up and hiking in the woods. I didn’t think the story was all that exciting, but when I looked up, her eyes were transfixed upon me. It took my breath away.
Her smile as she gazed at me gave me butterflies. I felt a lightness, almost like floating. I felt serene. And I smiled back.
What did she see in me, I wondered? At the same moment, I was nourished by the reality and truth of being seen through the eyes of love.
This year with Celta, being seen through the eyes of love, was like waking up for the first time in my life. I was about to turn 24 in April, and the first 23 years of my life were something like a blur or a dream… lacking something essential until now.
“This is nice... good,” I said. Adding with a slight chuckle, “I have always wanted to feel this. I mean even as a kid. It is like a hunger that I forgot I had, or that I was too afraid to acknowledge...” I then added, “maybe acknowledging it would have made life too sad, because I would know that I wanted something that wasn’t available.”
She understood that I was talking about what had been missing in my family. Celta always seemed to know when things had not been going well at home.
We developed a synchronicity of mind and thought... respect and love... yes, respect and love felt like something I had not known previously. This was strange, because Celta and I had what seemed like a completely platonic relationship, and I had had supportive friends before. My friends Thomas and Jo-Lee were really good friends, but the way Celta looked at me was different.
And was it platonic? I mean, was it free from sensual desire? It seemed that way, but occasionally my body reacted differently—reacting in ways that would not have been known to Celta.
What do I mean when I say we developed synchronicity of mind and thought? I don’t mean the tired cliché of finishing each other’s sentences. The way we looked at the world was the same. The way we felt about things. The way we moved toward one another, and the way our expressions were mirrored by each other.
Daily Connection Through Spring
The days and weeks passed, and I kept coming to visit her on the weekends.
Celta could seem to pick up on the emotional pain I had been experiencing during the week with my parents. It was almost like she had a psychic connection to me. Almost like that.
I could talk to Celta about anything happening in my life—how and why I felt such low self-esteem living with my parents, the emotional, verbal, and psychological abuse I experienced from them. I could talk about it all.
Sometimes I didn’t need to keep talking about something on my mind. I had a sense of being in sync with Celta, a sense that she understood and felt with and for me. So I let myself rest in the comfort of her arms. It would begin with my arm around her waist and her arms around my back, and we just stayed like that, smiling at each other.
All week, whenever I became stressed, bored, or had time to dream, my thoughts went to Celta.
I spoke to Celta for an hour, sometimes hours, on the phone each day. We had only one phone in the house, so it’s a small miracle the line was free that long. My parents seemed completely unconcerned with where I went or who I spoke to. They never asked.
Celta could tell from my voice if I was having a hard time at “home.” No—it wasn’t a home for me.
Yet when I saw Celta, it was as if I were ten feet tall. I felt confident, valuable, worthy of love, and important.
Perhaps I was keeping this relationship private in a way—it was mine; she was mine. That sounds like something you’d say in a devoted, romantic relationship. Yet wasn’t this relationship platonic? Well, it’s complicated. When I was with Celta, we had not even been kissing. But my body was responding in subtle ways.
Spring days passed through April and into May, and for me it was like riding gentle waves on an ocean—rising and falling—so soothing and peaceful. One Sunday was like another.
Sunday, May 13th – Profound Feelings of Peace
It was an ordinary day in late spring like any other. Sunday, May 13th. I greeted her with a hug. Instead of parting, we remained in one another’s arms, smiling at each other. It felt so different. I felt at peace... but I had something on my mind that I wanted to share.
“Can you hold me?” I asked, indicating her bed. “I want to lie down next to you.” There wasn’t much room on her bed, but we weren’t big. She lay against the wall facing me. My first thought was to curl into a fetal position, but I turned to face her.
“Something happened?” she said in the form of a question.
“The same things... my mother... ah, actually...” My voice trailed off like a sigh of relief. My breathing slowed. I felt my muscles relaxing. I had been restless, but I noticed my body sinking comfortably into the bed. It suddenly seemed unnecessary to discuss what had been on my mind.
I looked down to find her hands. She looked at me. I raised her right hand with my right hand, placing my left hand over hers while turning my eyes up to meet hers. We smiled.
For a few moments, we just looked into each other’s eyes. I noticed our breathing was synchronized. I briefly thought about how I was never good at keeping a beat, and let a slightly amused smile pass across my face, which was matched by Celta, and from that our smiles drifted back to something more serene.
This was hypnotic, and I let it last a moment longer. I was lost in her gaze, unaware of anything else.
“This feels different to me,” I said. “I think I have hungered for this nourishment for as long as I can remember. When I hold your hand, I feel something amazing.”
After a brief pause, I added, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Early June – Precious Photographs
It was a warm spring day in early June, and Faye, Celta’s mother, wanted a few photographs of the two of us. I wanted copies for myself. The three of us chose different poses, because I wanted to hold onto the image of Celta looking and smiling at me. I needed that so much. It was a passionate hunger, to see that.
Even if the angle her mother used couldn’t capture Celta’s face or her eyes meeting mine, I would still see it. I knew I would see that perspective in my mind’s eye when I looked at the photo.
There was one pose where Faye suggested I get down on one knee and let Celta sit on my other leg. I remember Celta starting to fall, and I was scared. “Grab—hold me,” I gasped, trying to find a place to catch her. I had to act faster than conscious thought would allow. She rested upon my arms and gave no sign that she’d been hurt.
The Daily Ritual of Love
When we were apart, each day we told each other those words: “I love you.” It was so easy, so natural, so right. To be honest, I was so excited that I would go first. I guess I am just passionate that way. But if it weren’t reciprocated, it wouldn’t be as special, and I wouldn’t feel such a desire to say it.
Sometimes I would put the phone down after talking, lie back, and smile, resting in the serenity and joy of the moment. Picturing her. Reflecting on what we shared.
We were both trying to find meaning and direction in life—a purpose. I’m not guessing; we talked about these things.
At one point she seemed to be searching for something to say about our feelings for each other. She looked up and saw a song playing on the TV. It was “I Don’t Know Much But I Know I Love You,” by Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt.
“Yes, indeed,” I said with a smile.
Finding My Professional Voice
I wondered how many people experienced these kinds of singular moments. During times that seemed dark, it makes all the difference to have someone who respects, values, and honors you as a person.
I noticed how easy it was to connect to and empathize with Celta as my friend. And I noticed the same capacity emerging in my work. The other experiences I had as a psychiatric social worker at Georgia Regional Hospital were extremely positive and rewarding. I could sense that I had developed real communication skills and a capacity for empathy. Patients would tell me so, or tell my supervisors, asking when they would see me again. My sense of self-confidence kept growing.