Dark Horse

Five-thirty PM snowflakes brighten the darkening Minneapolis skyline through Shoua’s eighteenth floor windows. My therapist—a Hmong woman with a grounded sentimentality and a heavenly face that looks younger than her graying hair suggests—insists I call her by first name. This is the hour I look forward to every week. And I’ve done my homework: retrace my advice blog venture until I uncover the innocuous seed, the innocent beginning before everything went awry.

I face Shoua, but stare miles past her at the multicolored glow of buildings that shape downtown. “They say ‘the artist is born in the suffering child,’” I mumble a quote I once heard.

“Hm. Israel Horovitz, the playwright,” she says, crossing one leg over the other in her upholstered chair that matches mine.

“Artist. It’s such a romantic word. I never envied anyone’s suffering, but I always wished I had talent to create something that people connect with.” I shift my gaze to her for just a moment. “You know?”

She nods.

“I was always praised for my obedience, told I was beautiful and smart—practical traits, but nothing special." I begin twisting my wedding ring in circles around my finger as I reflect. "I’d much rather be gifted. According to my mother, I’m very adept at hiding. ‘You’re so private,’ she’d say, making it her business to find out what I was thinking. She often said I spent too much time alone and that I needed a hobby or something. Her words always felt like a scathing judgment. It made me wonder, if that’s what I get for being quiet, what would happen if I said what’s on my mind? I had so much on my mind. And I did have a hobby, a stockpile of scenarios—secrets and concerns harvested from watching and listening to unsuspecting people. I was a collector.”

I smile in retrospect and look at Shoua. “I documented things they meant to keep private. I’d consider various perspectives then write suggestions to resolve their dilemmas. After a while I stopped buying notebooks because I ran out of places to hide them. That’s when I got the idea to create an online advice blog. It was my playground! I posted anonymous dilemmas gained from true experiences then responded using my alias. People loved it! Over the years I got hundreds of requests for advice. I couldn’t answer them all. It was a legitimate service.”

I rest my elbows on my thighs and clasp my hands under my chin. “Advice columns, psychology, and human relations have always fascinated me. I never sought a professional degree for that kind of thing, but I . . . I was, I am a sensible, compassionate person. I give sound advice. There was no harm in sharing that . . . that . . . gift.”

I inhale deeply and close my eyes then exhale slowly until the burgeoning tears retreat. “It wasn’t right to meddle in the secrets I knew came from friends or family. They didn’t know it was me they were telling . . . and I should never have fooled anyone into seeking my anonymous advice.”

A tear trickles into the corner of my lips, but salt won’t quell the bitterness from it all.

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