Lying on the Couch

by Irvin D. Yalom

  192. s^ Lying on the Couch

  for time turned backward, for the yearning for an escape from the fate of aging and diminishment! Ernest was full of admiration for the latent artist in all his patients; often he wanted to doff his hat in homage to the unconscious dream-maker who, night after night, year after year, spun masterpieces of illusion.

  In the waiting room on the other side of the wall, Carol wrote also: notes of her first therapy session with Ernest. She stopped and reread her words:

  FIRST SESSION Feb. 12, 1995

  Dr. Lash — inappropriately informal. Intrusive. Insisted, over my protests, that I call him Ernest . . . touched me in the first thirty seconds — my elbow, as I entered the room . . . very gentle — touched me again, my hand, when he handed me a tissue . . . took history of my major problems and my family history . . . pressed hard for repressed sexual abuse memories in first session! Too much, too fast —/ felt overwhelmed and confused! Revealed his personal feelings to me . . . tells me it's important that we get very close . . . invites me to ask him questions about himself. . . promises to reveal all about himself. . . expressed approval of my affair with Dr. Cooke . . . ran ten minutes over the hour . . . insisted on giving me a good-bye hug . . .

  She felt satisfied. These notes will come in very handy, she thought. Not sure how. But someday, someone — Justin, my malpractice attorney, the state ethics board — will find them of great interest. Carol closed her notebook. She needed to get focused for her session with Ernest. After the events of the last twenty-four hours, she wasn't thinking too well.

  She had come home yesterday to find a note from Justin taped to the front door: "/ came back for my things." The back door had been pried open, and he had taken everything that she had not yet destroyed: his racquetball racquets, clothing, toiletries, shoes, books, as well as some jointly owned possessions—books, camera, binoculars, portable CD player, most of their CD collection, and several pots, pans, and glasses. He had even pried open her cedar chest and taken his computer.

  In a frenzy Carol had called Justin's parents to tell them she intended to see Justin behind bars and that she would put them in the next cage if they, in any way, aided their felon son. Phone calls to Norma and Heather were of no help—made things worse, in fact. Norma was preoccupied with her own marital crisis, and Heather, in her annoying, gentle way, reminded her that Justin had the right to his own things. No breaking-and-entering charge could be filed— it was his own home and she had no legal right to change the locks or attempt to exclude him in any other fashion without a restraining order.

  Carol knew Heather was right. She hadn't secured an order from the court restraining Justin from entering the premises because never—not in her wildest dreams—could she imagine him taking such action.

  As if the missing objects were not bad enough, when she dressed that morning she found the crotch neatly cut out of all her underpants. And just so there could be no confusion about how it had happened, Justin had left, in each pair, a small section of one of the neckties she had sliced and thrown back into his closet.

  Carol was stunned. This was not Justin. Not the Justin she knew. No, there was no way Justin could do that alone. He didn't have the guts. Or the imagination. Only one way it could have happened . . . only one person who could have orchestrated this: Ernest Lash! She looked up and there he was in the flesh—nodding his fat head to her and inviting her into his office! Whatever it takes, you son of a bitch, Carol resolved, however long it takes, whatever I have to do, I am going to put you out of business.

  "So," Ernest said after he and Carol were seated, "what seems important today?"

  "So many things. I need a moment to collect my thoughts. I'm not sure why I'm feeling so agitated."

  "Yes, I see from your face there's a lot going on inside today."

  Oh, brilliant, brilliant, you asshole, Carol thought.

  "But I'm having a hard time reading you, Carolyn," Ernest continued. "Somewhat perturbed, perhaps. Somewhat sad."

  "Ralph, my late therapist, used to say there were four basic feelings ..."

  "Yes," Ernest rushed in quickly, "bad, sad, mad, and glad. That's a good mnemonic."

  Good mnemonic^ This field is a real brain trust — a one-syllable

  profession, Carol thought. You fuckers are all alike! " guess I've been feeHng some of each, Ernest."

  "How so, Carolyn?"

  "Well, 'mad' at the bad breaks of my life—at some of the things we discussed last time: my brother, my father, especially. And 'bad'—anxious—when I think of the trap I'm in now, waiting for my husband to die. And 'sad' ... I guess 'sad' when I think of the years I wasted on a bad marriage."

  "And glad?"

  "That's the easy one—'glad' when I think about you and about how lucky I was to find you. Thinking about you and about seeing you today was the main thing keeping me going this week."

  "Can you say more about that?"

  Carol took her purse out of her lap, placed it on the floor, and gracefully crossed her long legs. "I'm afraid you're going to make me blush." She paused, demurely, thinking: Perfect! But slow, play it slow, Carol. "The truth is I've been having daydreams all week about you. Sexy daydreams. But you're probably used to your women patients finding you attractive."

  Ernest was flustered at the thought of Carolyn having daydreams, probably masturbatory fantasies, about him. He considered how to respond—how to respond honestly.

  ''''Aren't you used to it, Ernest? You said I should ask you questions."

  "Carolyn, there's something about your question that makes me uncomfortable, and I'm trying to figure out why. I think it's because it assumes that what happens here between us is something standardized—something predictable."

  "I'm not sure I understand."

  "Well, I consider you unique. And your life situation unique. And this meeting between you and me unique. Therefore, a question about what always happens seems off somehow."

  Carol screwed her eyes into a starry-eyed gaze.

  Ernest savored his own words. What a great answer! I must try to remember it — it'll fit right into my Hn-betweenness' article. Ernest also realized, however, that he had steered the session into abstract, impersonal territory, and hastened to correct that: "But, Carolyn, I'm getting away from your real question . . . which is . . . ?"

  "Which is how you feel about my finding you attractive," replied Carol. "I've been spending so much time thinking about you this past week ... of what it might be like if we had, by chance—perhaps at

  Lying on the Couch ^ 19 5

  one of your readings—met as man and woman instead of as therapist and client. I know I should talk about it but it's hard . . . it's embarrassing . . . maybe you'll find it—I mean me —repugnant. I feel repugnant."

  Very, very good, Carol thought. Damn, I'm good at this!

  "Well, Carolyn, I promised honest answers. And the truth is it's very pleasant for me to hear that a woman—a very attractive woman, I might add—finds me attractive. Like most people, I have doubts about my physical attractiveness."

  Ernest paused. My heart is racing. I've never said anything so personal to a patient. I liked telling her she was attractive — gave me a charge. Probably a mistake. Too seductive. Yet she regards herself as repugnant. She doesn't know she is a good-looking woman. Why not offer her some affirmation, some reality testing, about her appearance?

  Carol, for her part, was elated—for the first time in weeks. 'A very attractive woman.' Bingo! I remember Ralph Cooke uttering the same words. That was his first move. And it was the exact words that disgusting Dr. Zweizung had used. Thank God I had enough sense to call him a scumbag and walk out of that office. But both of them are probably still at it with other victims. If only I had had the sense to get evidence, to blow the whistle on those bastards. Now I can make up for it. If only I had brought a tape recorder in my purse. Next time! I just didn't believe he'd be so lascivious so soon.

  "But," Ernest continued, "to be
fully honest with you, I don't take your words too personally. There may be a little of me in your words but, to a much greater extent, you're not responding to me; you're responding to my role."

  Carol was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, move back a few steps. Let's look dispassionately at recent events. You've had some awful things happen to you; you've kept everything inside, sharing little with anyone. You've had disastrous relationships with the important men in your life, one after the other—your father, your brother, your husband, and . . . Rusty, wasn't it? Your high school boyfriend. And the one man you felt good about, your former therapist, abandoned you by dying.

  "And then you come to see me and, for the first time, take a risk and share everything with me. Given all that, Carolyn, is it surprising that you develop some strong feelings toward me? I don't think so. That's what I mean when I say it's the role, not me. And also

  those powerful feelings toward Dr. Cooke? It's not surprising that I inherit some of those feeHngs—I mean, they get transferred to me."

  "I agree with that last part, Ernest. I am starting to feel the same feelings toward you as I did toward Dr. Cooke."

  A brief silence. Carol gazed at Ernest. Marshal would have waited it out. Not Ernest.

  "We've discussed the 'glad,'" said Ernest, "and I appreciate your honesty there. Could we take a look at the other three feelings? Let's see, you said 'mad' at the circumstances of your past—especially the men in your life; 'bad' at the trap in which you find yourself with your husband; and 'sad,' because . . . because . . . remind me, Carolyn."

  Carol flushed. She had forgotten her own story. "I've forgotten myself what I said—I'm too agitated to concentrate well." This won't do, she thought. I have got to stay in my role. Only one way to avoid these slips — Vve got to be honest about my self ^except, of course, about Justin.

  "Oh, I remember," said Ernest: "'sad' because of the accumulated regrets in your life—'the years wasted,' I think you put it. You know, Carolyn, that mnemonic of 'mad, sad, glad, and bad' is pretty simplistic—you're obviously an intelligent woman and I fear insulting your intelligence: yet it was useful today. The issues associated with each of these four feelings are absolutely core—let's pursue them."

  Carol nodded. She felt disappointed that they had moved so quickly away from his comments about her being attractive. Patience., she reminded herself. Remember Ralph Cooke. This is their modus operandi. First they win your confidence; next they make you totally dependent and themselves absolutely indispensable. And only then do they make their move. There's no way to avoid this charade. Give him a couple of weeks. We have to go through it at his pace.

  "How shall we start?" asked Ernest.

  "Sad," said Carolyn, "sad to think of all the years I've spent with a man I can't stand."

  "Nine years," said Ernest. "A big chunk of your life."

  "A very big chunk. I wish I had it back."

  "Carolyn, let's try to find out why you gave away nine years."

  "I've done a lot of rummaging around in the past with other therapists. Never helped. Won't looking at the past take us away from my present situation, my dilemma?"

  Lying on the Couch ,^^ ^97

  "Good question, Carolyn. Trust me, I'm not a rummager. Nonetheless, the past is part of your present consciousness—it forms the spectacles through which you experience the present. If I'm to know you fully, I need to see what you see. I also want to find out how you've made decisions in the past, so we can help you make better decisions in the future."

  Carol nodded. "I understand."

  "So, tell me about your marriage. How did it come about that you decided to marry and stay married for nine years to a man you detested?"

  Carol followed her plan of staying close to the truth, and gave Ernest an honest history of her marriage, changing only geography and any factual details that might alert Ernest's suspicion.

  "I met Wayne before I graduated from law school. I was working as a clerk in an Evanston law firm and assigned to a case representing Wayne's father's business, a highly successful chain of shoe stores. I spent a lot of time with Wayne—he was good-looking, gentle, devoted, contemplative, and poised to take over his father's five-million-dollar business in a year or two. I had no money at all and had accumulated enormous student loans. I made a quick decision to marry. It was a very stupid decision."

  "How so?"

  "After a few months of marriage, I began to see Wayne's qualities in more realistic ways. 'Gentle' I soon learned was not kindness, but cowardice. 'Contemplative' became monstrous indecision. 'Devoted' turned into clinging dependency. And 'rich' turned to ashes when his father's shoe business went bankrupt three years later."

  "And the good looks?"

  "A good-looking, poor male dolt plus a dollar fifty buys you a cup of cappuccino. It was a bad decision in every way—a life-wrecking decision."

  "What do you know about making that decision?"

  "Well, I know what it followed. I told you that my high school sweetheart. Rusty, dumped me in my sophomore year of college with no explanation. Throughout law school I kept steady company with Michael. We were a dream team; Michael was second in the class ..."

  "How did that make you a dream team?" Ernest interrupted. "Were you a good student also?"

  198 ^ Lying on the Couch

  "Well, we had a bright future. He was second in the class and I was first. But Michael ended up dumping me to marry the airhead daughter of the senior partner of New York's largest corporate law firm. And then, during my summer internship at the district court, there was Ed, an influential assistant to a district court justice, who tutored me on his office couch in the nude almost every afternoon. But he wouldn't be seen in public with me and, after the summer was over, never responded to my letters or calls. I hadn't gotten close to a man for a year and a half when I met Wayne. I guess marrying him was a rebound decision."

  "What I'm aware of is a long skein of men who have betrayed you or abandoned you: your father, Jed—"

  "Jeb. It's a ^." B, b, b, you jerk, Carol thought. She forced a friendly smile, "Think of b for brother—a two-syllable mnemonic. Or for betrayer, or bullshitter, or butcher."

  "Sorry, Carolyn. Jeb, Dr. Cooke, and Rusty, and then today we add Michael and Ed. That's quite a list! I guess when Wayne came along you must have been relieved to find someone who seemed safe and reliable."

  "No danger of Wayne abandoning me—he was so clinging he was scarcely willing to go to the bathroom without me."

  "Maybe 'clinging' had an allure to it at the time. And this skein of male losers? Is it an unbroken skein? I haven't heard of any exceptions, any men who were good for you. And good to you."

  "There was just Ralph Cooke." Carol hastened to move into the safety of deception. A few moments before, as he listed the men who had betrayed her, Ernest was beginning to stir up painful emotions just as he had last session. She realized she had to be on guard. She had never appreciated how seductive therapy was. And how treacherous.

  "And he died on you," said Ernest.

  "And now there's you. Are you going to be good to me?"

  Before Ernest could answer, Carol smiled and posed another question: "And how's your health?"

  Ernest smiled. "My health is excellent, Carolyn. I plan on being around a long time."

  "And my other question?"

  Ernest looked at Carol quizzically.

  "Will you be good to me?"

  Ernest hesitated, then chose his words carefully: "Yes, I will try to

  be as helpful as I can. You can count on that. You know, I'm thinking of your comment that you were law school valedictorian. I had to almost tug it out of you. First in the class at University of Chicago Law School—that's no mean achievement, Carolyn. You take pride in that?"

  Carol shrugged her shoulders.

  "Carolyn, humor me. Please tell me again: How did you do scholastically in University of Chicago Law School?"

  "Did pretty well."<
br />
  "How well?"

  Silence and then, in a small voice, Carol said, "I was first in my class."

  "Come again. How well?" Ernest cupped his ear with his hand to indicate he could barely hear.

  "First in my class," Carol said loudly. And added, "And editor of the law review. And no one else, including Michael, was even close to me." And then she burst out crying.

  Ernest handed her a Kleenex, waited until the heaving of her shoulders subsided, and then gently asked: "Can you put some of those tears into words?"

  "Do you know, do you have any idea, what vistas were open to me then? I could have done anything—I had a dozen good offers— I could have picked my firm. I could even have done international law, since I had a good offer to work in the general counsel's office of the U.S. agency for international development. I could be doing something very influential in governmental policy. Or if I had gone to a prestigious Wall Street firm, I'd be earning five hundred thousand dollars a year now. Instead, look at me: doing family law, wills, two-bit tax work—and earning peanuts. I've squandered everything."

  "For Wayne?"

  "For Wayne and also for Mary, who was born ten months after our wedding. I love her dearly, but she was part of the trap."

  "Tell me more about the trap."

  "What I really wanted to do was international law, but how can you do international work when you have a young child and a husband who's too immature even to be a decent househusband—a husband who freaks out if he's left alone a single night, who can't decide what to wear in the morning without a consultation with me first? So I settled for less, turned down my opportunities, and took an

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  offer from a smaller firm to stay in Evanston so that Wayne would be near his father's headquarters."

  "How long ago did you realize your mistake, did you know, really know, what you had gotten into?"