CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
2004- 27
I entered my next therapy session with a burning question for Gwen.
“What is the significance of the age twenty-seven?”
“Give me a little background info and let’s see if we can figure this one out together,” Gwen replied. She sat across from me, notebook at the ready to capture my thoughts for me.
“Well, when I was in Rikers,” I started out, “my public defender came to see me. And it was totally weird. I’d already been sentenced, but he came all the way out, just to give me some advice. And one of the things he said has stuck with me for years.”
Gwen looked fully engaged. “What did he say?”
“I remember his exact words- he said, ‘Twenty-seven is pretty much crunch time for figuring out if you're really going to get your shit together or not.’ What did he mean by that?”
“You just turned twenty-seven when you first got here, right?” Gwen asked.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“And how did turning twenty-seven make you feel?”
“Well, for me it was less about turning twenty-seven than it was spending yet another birthday locked up. I mean, I know this isn’t anything like Rikers, but I’m still not free,” I explained.
“But how did turning twenty-seven make you feel?” she persisted.
In therapy-speak, I think this is what they call redirection.
“I felt like maybe the lawyer was right. Maybe it is getting too late for me to get my shit together. Maybe I’m doomed to fail.”
“Okay, Eula,” Gwen smiled, “let’s start unpacking. Because I really don’t think that’s what your public defender was saying at all.”
Finally. I was so looking forward to getting to the bottom of this “twenty-seven” conundrum. It’d been driving me crazy for years.
“So,” she continued, “I can’t speak for your lawyer. But what I can say is that by twenty-seven, a lot of people stop believing that they have unlimited time. That’s around the age when the story you’ve been telling yourself—about who you are and what you’re capable of—starts to solidify. And the danger is, if you’re not happy with the narrative and don’t interrupt that story, it becomes your life.”
She saw the look on my face and made sure to clarify, “Twenty-seven is not a deadline- it’s a checkpoint.”
“Phew, that makes me feel better!” I laughed. “Maybe there’s still hope for Future Eula yet!”
I saw Gwen write the words “Future Eula” in her ever-present notebook.
“Future Eula,” she noted. “Let’s discuss Future Eula first thing, next session.”
Our next session was my last session.
Gwen wanted to get one last point across before our time ran out.
“You’ve always hoped that if you didn't articulate your needs, if you came across as ‘easy to deal with,’ you would get what you need. And how is that possible? How are people supposed to know what you want if you don’t let them know?”
“Oh, so basically what you're saying is closed mouths don't get fed,” I replied.
“Exactly.”
"Well, the expression where I'm coming from is actually 'closed legs don't get fed.'"
Gwen laughed.
