I moved to Santa Fe, NM exactly nine years ago and, while life here is exciting and rich, I’m still pining for my home in Atlanta.  I have to admit, I missed New York and Boston when I left there, too – but this time, I feel like I’ve left a lover behind. 

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.  It’s not like I’m dying to arm myself to go to the grocery store (more on the gun issue in a minute).  That’s not what I like about the South.

At any rate ($130/hour?), I decided to speak to a counselor when I first got here because I had a few free sessions available to me and I figured, what the hey – might as well share my insanity with someone else. 

My husband wasn’t around to absorb my sadness – he deposited me in the desert and took off back to Atlanta so he could continue to be gainful.  For several years, it was just me and the screaming coyotes and their cotton-tailed prey (which I was told carried bubonic plague – step away from the bunnies).

There were five therapists on my insurance list; three women and two men.  The women were all focused on the plight of women in domestic violence situations.  That wasn’t me – unless you consider being stranded in the desert an act of violence. 

One of the men on the list was the ex-husband of our realtor and I knew he was nuts.  My last hope – a guy with a simple name like John Smith and a PhD – was willing to speak to me.

John Smith turned out to be Lakota Sioux on his father’s side and Southern Belle on his mother’s side.  He was raised by his paternal grandmother on the rez.  His real name was Running Moose and his PhD was in philosophy, not psychology.

When he was serious, John/Moose looked like Sitting Bull, who I think may have been a distant relation. When he smiled, he looked like Blanche DuBois, who may have also been a distant relation.

John/Moose was focused on the problems of gay, drug-addicted youths.  He must’ve been surprised when I showed up.  When I arrived at his door, I was greeted by a really frightening-looking pit bull named Sharkie.  Sharkie keeled over as soon as he saw me.

“Are you afraid of dogs? John/Moose asked.

“Not this one,” I said, pointing at the catatonic canine.  “Is he okay?”

“He’s narcoleptic,” said John/Moose.

I stepped over the prone pooch and sat on the couch.  John/Moose asked me, “What seems to be the problem?”

“I recently moved to Santa Fe from Atlanta and can’t seem to settle into my new life here.  I am actually yearning to be there.”  

I had never used the word “yearn” in a sentence before. 

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“About six months.”

John/Moose gave me a dark look and informed me I had ghost fever.  He explained, “On the rez, when you experience a loss, you are given a limited amount of time to mourn.  Once that period is up, you are expected to move on.  If you can’t move on, that’s very serious business.  Ghost fever is harshly dealt with.”

“Oy vey,” I said to myself.

I have a problem with smoke.  It hurts my eyes, shuts down my nose and upsets my pancreas.  Nevertheless, I sat through the entire exorcism with tolerance and high hopes.  Was I going to be able to overcome ghost fever and say good-bye to my previous life?  Especially since my current life was so stimulating?

No.  It’s been nine years and I still have ghost fever. John/Moose even tried turning a dead bird inside out to turn me around – I don’t know what that practice is called – but it didn’t work.  Good thing I wasn’t living on the rez.

So, how do I handle my malady?

I go back to Atlanta once or twice or three times a year and stay a couple of weeks per visit. I usually stay in my own little room across from where I used to work out (L.A. Fitness).  Sometimes I do an overnight with friends.  I always visit the Chattahoochee River and walk in the lush woods all around it.  I drink in all that’s familiar and reconnect with people who are dear to me. 

It would appear that my ghost fever is all about love.  Seriously.  If that’s the case, It’s a disease I don’t want to recover from. 

But it goes deeper than that.  I moved to Atlanta in my twenties.  I was young there.  I grew up with people there for nearly thirty years. I was 52 years old when I moved to Santa Fe.  I was never going to be young here.  And I think that’s what I’m mourning the most.  I go back to Georgia and I’m young again, with the open heart of a girl.

Incidentally, I have moved on and I’ve never been more productive.  That’s rejuvenating.  And I have great friends here.  Maybe someday I’ll have ghost fever when I leave Santa Fe.

Having said that, I promised I would get back to the gun issue.  Turns out that, like Georgia, half of New Mexico is also locked and loaded. 

I was at a dinner party in Santa Fe one night schmoozing with a group of women. They were all discussing their Glocks and their Lugers and their Colt 45s and so forth.  That really attracted my attention.

After getting an earful, I announced, “I don’t have a firearm.  If someone broke into my house in the middle of the night, all I’d be able to do is lie in bed and go, “Woof woof.”

My friend, Sally, replied, “My husband gave me a gun 11 years ago but he never gave me any ammunition so if someone broke into my house, all I’d be able to do is point my big gun at him and go, “Woof woof.”

Now that’s speaking my language!