The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [8]
Julio had developed a rough exterior. He was distant, shy, unyielding. He felt ugly and unloved. He buried himself in his studies, and with little help, got himself into college and became a brilliant student. He worked during the day and went to school at night, studying in the late hours and on weekends. And, now, he vented aloud a deep-seated anger he had never overcome:
“But I showed them. I became more cultured and successful than all those who had ridiculed me. I was an exemplary college student and became a highly respected professor, envied by some and hated by others. I was admired. I married and had a son, John Marcus. I don’t think I was either a good husband or a good father. Time went by, and a year ago I fell in love with a student who was fifteen years younger than I. I tried to seduce her, buy her, I took on debts. I ruined my credit, lost everything . . . and in the end she left me. It was as if the earth had opened up and swallowed me whole. My wife discovered the affair and left me, too. When she left, I realized that I still loved her; I couldn’t lose her! I tried to win her back, but she was tired of the cold intellectual who had never been affectionate, who was a pessimist, depressed and, on top of everything else, bankrupt. She left me for good.”
At that moment, he allowed himself to cry. He hadn’t cried this much since losing his mother. He sobbed and wiped his eyes. Whoever looked at him and saw a rigid professor knew nothing of his scars.
“John Marcus, my son, started using drugs. He was always angry and accused me of being a distant father. He went to rehab several times. Today, he lives in another state and refuses to speak to me. Ever since I was five years old people have been abandoning me. Some through the fault of others, some through my fault,” he said, learning for the first time how to remove his mask.
Pictures of his childhood ran quickly through his head and he remembered the final images of his father, images he had blocked out. He remembered that he had called out to him day and night for weeks after his loss. Julio grew up angry with his father and was convinced he had locked away those injured feelings deep inside.
Now he was reliving all those painful emotions. His notable education was no match for the pain that had been formed in his past. His learning and sophistication could not help him to be flexible and relaxed. He was an intense, rigid man. He never let down his guard before his psychiatrists and psychologists. Instead, he criticized them because he thought their evaluations of him were childish for someone of his intellectual level. Helping this man was a daunting task.
After telling his story openly for the first time, Julio fell silent again, fearing the stranger would offer more of the same glib, useless advice he had often heard before. Instead, the stranger found a way to joke.
“My friend, you’re in a real bind,” the stranger said.
Julio gave a wan smile. He wasn’t expecting that response. And the stranger offered none of the empty advice. He couldn’t feel Julio’s pain, but the stranger was familiar with abandonment.
“I know what loss is. There are moments when our world seems to come crashing down around us and no one else can understand it.”
The stranger wiped tears from his eyes as he spoke. Perhaps his scars were as deep or deeper than Julio’s.
Julio, once again moved, said, “Tell me, who are you.”
The stranger responded with a warm silence.
“Are you a psychiatrist or psychologist?” he asked, believing himself in the presence of an extraordinary professional.
“No, I’m not,” the stranger affirmed with assurance.
“A philosopher?”
“I appreciate the world of ideas, but I’m not a philosopher.”
“Are you the head of some church?” he asked.
“No,” the man replied firmly.
Julio asked impatiently, “Are you crazy?”
The stranger replied with a slight smile. “Now, that’s more likely,” he said, and Julio couldn’t have been more confused.
“Who are you? Tell me.”
He pressed the stranger who was