I wanted therapy to be linear. I wanted to point to measurable improvements with every year I put in. By this point, after five years and two months, I should be immune from the fury that made me pull hair out of my head with my own fists.
Patrice put her hand on my back. “Please don’t hurt yourself. Come to my house.”
“I don’t want pity! I want my own! I want my own family! I thought you would help me, Dr. Rosen!” The windows vibrated with my screams. I was the sobbing woman with fists full of hair in group therapy again. Would I ever be anything else?
“Can you stay with the hurt?” Dr. Rosen asked.
“No!” There were zero seconds left in the session. My head pounded.
“Stay with the hurt.”
I stood up and grabbed a ceramic flowerpot from the windowsill. I hoisted it over my head with both hands and brought it down on my head—right where my forehead met my hairline. White-hot silence stunned me before the rush of pain to my head. I let the pot slip through my hands. The dirt, dotted with tiny white balls, rained on the carpet along with a hunk of eucalyptus. Dr. Rosen grabbed my wrists and guided me back to my chair. I didn’t struggle. I fingered the welt already forming on my head. The room fell silent, except for my ragged breathing. “Say it, Dr. Rosen: ‘We’ll stop there for today.’ It’s over.”
It was two minutes after nine. Nobody moved. Without looking up, I asked, “What do I do?” I was asking all of them. We weren’t meeting again for a week. A sob lodged in my chest broke through. “I thought I was getting better.”
“Don’t hurt yourself anymore,” Patrice said. “Please.”
“Christie—” Max hesitated. “Keeping Brandon’s secrets isn’t working.”
I nodded and opened my palms, hoping that the gesture might save me from myself. Dr. Rosen suggested, as usual, that I be around other people as much as possible over the holiday weekend. Go to meetings. Sleep on Lorne and Renee’s couch. Like a preschooler, I should make playdates with people from group or recovery meetings.
At five after nine, Dr. Rosen took a deep breath and clasped his hands together. We all stood up for the regular closing. I held out my right hand, now streaked with my own blood, to Patrice. Dr. Rosen grasped the other. Tears trickled down my cheeks, and my head thrummed with my pulse. After we let go, everyone moved in slow motion. I bent to pick up my bag, keeping my back to the group. I was embarrassed about my tantrum, the bloody wound on my head, my nonlinear movement in therapy.
“Can you all stick around for a few minutes?” Dr. Rosen said. Max, Brad, Patrice, Maggie, and Lorne stood silently in front of their chairs. “I want to get Christie some medicine for that cut.” Dr. Rosen pulled a small first-aid kit out of his file cabinet. He squeezed some ointment onto his finger and rubbed it on my forehead. He patted my head tenderly. “You’re going to be okay.” He repeated it twice. “It’s fortunate you have a very hard head.”
* * *
I slid open the curtains to let the bright December sun fill the room. The Pacific Ocean rolled toward the shore like a frothy tongue. The sand shimmered in the midmorning light, and the Ferris wheel on the dock sparkled against a perfectly cloudless sky.
It was Christmas Day, and Brandon and I were in Santa Monica.
After the flowerpot incident, I summoned the courage to be more direct. As soon as he returned from his Thanksgiving trip, I told Brandon straight up: I’d like us to be together for the next holiday. It wasn’t a test or a demand—it was simply what I needed. He suggested we go to LA for a few days. “I know a great hotel on the beach,” he said. He never asked about the bruise on my forehead.
Dr. Rosen appeared agnostic about my relationship with Brandon—he never hinted that I should let go of the secrets—but all of my group mates were skeptical. They would speculate among themselves during sessions. About the secret, whether he was still flipping me during sex, how long we would last. Is she even enjoying this relationship?
On vacation, Brandon and I were loose and loving. He joked more and hummed while he shaved. We had more sex and sang along to songs on the radio and ate dishes with fresh avocado. We saw The Pursuit of Happyness, the movie where Will Smith played a destitute salesman who ends up with an unpaid internship at a prestigious brokerage firm and eventually becomes a wealthy businessman. Brandon held my hand the whole time. The movie proved that seemingly impossible transformations could happen. Under the bright California sky, the ocean as my witness, I let happiness seep in.
* * *
“I’m meeting my mom for brunch at the Peninsula on Sunday.” Brandon paced around my living room one January night as I scrolled through work e-mails on my BlackBerry. “Do you want to join us?”
My head jerked up. I dropped my BlackBerry on the counter. Brunch. The Peninsula. His mother. “Yes. Yes, I do want to brunch with you and your mother at the Peninsula.”
It was the first week of January, and everything in Chicago was still and frozen: ice-laden trees, slick roads clogged with old snow, the frigid metal rail leading to the El train. But underneath my wool sweater, my down coat, and my fleece hat, I was humming with life. I’d never met a Mother at a five-star hotel brunch before. My heart warmed my body. I hinted to my group that things were going well. “Maybe I’m having a fancy brunch on Sunday with a friend and his mother.” Subtle.
The morning of breakfast, Materfamilias’s driver picked us up in her long black Mercedes. Her fur coat was so thick that it was hard to see her head underneath all the mink. She shook my hand and offered a slight smile. After we ordered, we talked about Barbara Kingsolver novels and ordered the same entrée: egg-white frittata with farm vegetables and goat cheese. She kept the mink draped on her shoulders, but her smile widened, and she laughed at my jokes.
Later, Brandon reported that his mother enjoyed my “lively company.” I assumed that the next step would be meeting his younger brother, who lived in London full-time, and then he could meet my parents when they visited in the spring. In every vision of my future, I Photoshopped Brandon into the frame. Just out of the frame, I could feel my group members and Dr. Rosen cheering me on, even though no one could see them but me.
36
Brandon stopped kissing me on the lips. When I asked him about it, he said that my breath turned him off, even after I brushed, flossed, and rinsed with mouthwash. Hurt, I brushed harder, swilled more mouthwash. Still no kisses.
Then he started working longer hours. He booked meetings out of town and declined my offer to drive him to O’Hare. We still had sex about once a week, and my face always met the pillow. One hundred percent flipping. And every single time, my voice failed—it sat quivering and useless on the pillow next to my head. At work, I’d imagine rearing up and saying something—anything—the next time he flipped me. Or bringing it up in the car, over dinner, in a text. I’d promise myself I wouldn’t sleep with him if I couldn’t discuss how we were having sex. But in his bedroom, on his fancy white sheets, I couldn’t utter a single syllable.
In group, I stayed silent too. I wanted so badly to spill my guts and ask for feedback. It had been so long since I’d filled them in that I could no longer imagine what advice they’d give me. Would they tell me to ask for kisses on the mouth? To discuss how the flipping made me feel? To accept him exactly as he was? To let go altogether? It terrified me that my connection to my group members and their voices was dissolving into memory.
Sunday mornings with Brandon still felt normal. We still slept in, read the New York Times, and went to the gym. For those few hours, passing the paper or high-fiving after a run on the track, I trusted that the relationship was stronger than whatever was going on with Brandon’s work. Real relationships had ups and downs. I’d heard that from everyone. Our hearts might not perfectly match, but surely there were enough grooves to attach.
On a Sunday in early February, we ran into Brandon’s college friend Bill in front of the gym. The three of us stood in the parking lot, bouncing to keep warm as fat chunks of snow fell
from a cashmere-gray sky. I listened as Brandon and Bill talked about mutual friends, orthopedics, and the Dow Jones.
“How’s Marcie doing?” Bill asked Brandon. I’d met Marcie—one of their mutual college friends—in the fall when she was in Chicago to meet buyers of her exclusive line of high-end eyeglass frames. I’d been envious of her long curly hair, her killer leather jacket, and her funky-framed glasses. Next to her New York chic, I felt like a midwestern lump of dough.
“I’ll see her in two weeks,” Brandon said. News to me.
“In New York?” Bill asked.
“Actually, Cancún.”
If my life was a movie, I would have spit out my food or spewed a mouthful of soda all over someone’s face. My boyfriend of ten months had just casually announced his upcoming vacation with another woman in another country. I must have misheard. Brandon didn’t notice my shock. A few minutes later, Bill touched my shoulder, said good-bye, and walked away. Brandon walked toward the gym. I didn’t move. After a few steps, he turned to ask me what was wrong.
“Are you serious?” My voice sounded low and powerful. I spoke from my deepest place.
“About what?”
“You’re joking, right?” I turned and walked toward my car. I was done.
By the time I opened the driver’s-side door, he’d caught up to me. In the car, I looked straight ahead as I put the key in the ignition and turned on the heat full blast. I cupped my hands over my mouth and breathed warm air into them. A random CD was in the player, and I cranked the volume all the way up. He slid into the passenger’s seat and turned down the volume.
“Christie.”
I turned the volume back up. He punched the power off and held my hand away.
“Why are you so upset?”
“Please get out.” He didn’t move. For once I wasn’t hysterical, even though I knew by sundown I would be single. “Don’t play dumb. It’s a bad look. Also, Cancún is where Texas high schoolers go to puke for spring break—”
“She has a meeting and asked me to come—”
“Tell me what’s going on or get out of my car.” He sighed heavily, which made me want to punch his face. It was all such a burden for poor Brandon.
Then he said things like “You should be with someone who wants to be with you,” and “You deserve better.”
“If you want to break up, do it like an adult.”
“I’m telling you that you deserve someone who wants to be with you.”
“You’re saying that’s not you.”
He didn’t answer.
* * *
“You don’t look so hot,” Max said.
I still had on the same clothes from the day before—a sweater, now wrinkled, and shirt, now untucked. “Brandon and I broke up last night.”
Gasps. All eyes wide.
“Are you hiding any sharp objects?” Lorne asked.
I held my hands up in the surrender pose. No weapons. I had no urge to hurt myself or smash my stuff. This breakup, unlike the others, carried something novel: a strong whiff of relief. Now I could stop pretending that Brandon was my soul mate and get on with my life. When I told them about Marcie and Cancún, no one seemed shocked.
“Dr. Flipper has major issues,” Lorne said.
“Money can’t fix crazy,” Max said, shooting a look at Brad, who remained steadfastly convinced it could.
Dr. Rosen stared at me long and hard.
“I know what you’re going to say,” I said to Dr. Rosen. My palms were open, all fight drained out of me. Dr. Rosen opened his palms. A mirror image of mine.
“I’m listening.”
“You’re going to say that this group loves me. My other group loves me. That you love me. That I’m going to be okay.” Of course he would insist that this—sitting in this circle in my rumpled clothes turning my thoughts and feeling over to him and the group—was enough.
“Wait—” Lorne’s face lit up like a jack-o’-lantern. “Can you tell us his secret now?”
I looked at Dr. Rosen, whose face was wholly inscrutable. I wanted to tell them everything—to go back to the way it was before I picked Brandon over them, but not like this. Not to satiate Lorne’s curiosity, and not while I was still so raw. I shook my head—I’d tell them later. I started to shiver uncontrollably. My teeth chattered like pennies falling on marble. My knees jolted up and down. I hugged my arms into my body and tried to sit still. It was impossible.
“What’s going on?” Dr. Rosen asked.
I shook my head. No amount of effort could stop the shaking that was growing more violent.
“Give her a blanket,” Patrice said. I glanced in the corner at Dr. Rosen’s sad collection of 1970s fringed pillows and a ratty old brown blanket that screamed smallpox.
“No thanks,” I said through clattering teeth.
Dr. Rosen stood up and moved his chair back. He sat on the floor with his legs hips width apart and opened his arms wide.
“Oh boy,” Max murmured under his breath.
“What’re you doing?” I asked.
Dr. Rosen smiled broadly. “I have an idea.” He opened his arms wider. “My sense is you need to be held. You’re on the edge of a new identity and a new way of thinking about yourself.” He stretched his arms wider.
“He’s offering to hold you,” Max said.
“How?”
Max tossed me a pillow. I walked over to where Dr. Rosen was sitting and handed him the pillow, which he positioned like fig leaf. I knelt and then eased myself onto my butt. I stuck my feet out so they were perpendicular to his body. He bent his left knee so it was supporting my back and his right knee formed a bridge over my outstretched legs. I was still shivering, hands and legs jerking.
“Breathe,” he said.
I inhaled until it felt like my chest would explode. I slowly let the air out, molecule by molecule. The shivering continued but with less force. A wave of shame about being in this room with another failure on my docket washed over me. I let it. I didn’t try to outrun it in my mind or spook myself with thoughts about dying alone. Dr. Rosen held me. I let him.
After a few minutes, I put my head on Dr. Rosen’s shoulder. He put his arm on my back and held me closer. I buried my face into his shirt like a child and began to rock back and forth. He patted my back gently. On and on I rocked. I went to some other place—some preverbal time when I was rocked to sleep as a little girl before I had language and knew the words failure and loser.
The group continued as usual: Lorne told a story about his ex-wife, and Max said something about his daughter’s college application. They were all right there, but I was far away—I was a child, a toddler, a baby. When Dr. Rosen spoke, his neck vibrated against my scalp. I kept my eyes closed, but when they flickered open now and then, I saw Dr. Rosen’s watch, Max’s shoes, the mottled carpet. Twenty minutes went by. Then twenty more.
At some point, Dr. Rosen said, “We’ll stop there for today.” We were still on the ground, and now group was over. I opened my eyes and sat up. My hip flexors ached, and I wasn’t sure I could get to my feet by myself. Max grabbed one hand, Brad the other. I stood up and joined the circle.
37
To help me move past Brandon, Dr. Rosen gave me two prescriptions: to feel my feelings anywhere, anytime, and to commit no acts that required safety goggles. I agreed and decided I would be single differently this time. I would embrace and explore it. I would let go of the story that being single was a death sentence or a fatal disease. At night, I’d sit on my couch and stare at the Chicago skyline. When my fingers itched to throw something that would shatter, I would call Rory, Lorne, or Patrice. I’d crawl through the loneliness to their familiar voices that promised comfort.
One night, the stillness felt like a curse, and no one was around. I paced from my kitchen to my bedroom, where I stood in the doorway staring at my bed and imagined the ghosts of Jeremy, the Intern, Alex, and Brandon hovering just above my comforter. Good-bye, I whispered, and then turned to my laptop, where
I scrolled through furniture stores looking for a new bed. I liked the symbolism of a new bed for this new chapter of my life, whatever it held. Even if it only held me.
Click. Click. Click.
Now I was the new owner of a giant sleigh bed, a heavy, curved monstrosity in light oak set to be delivered in two weeks. A warm gust of triumph made me raise my fist. I’d dreamed this bed for my betrothed young cousin the night I cut up Dr. Rosen’s teddy bear, but now I’d claimed it for myself.
A week later, I gave myself a challenge to say yes to any social invitation. Period. No qualifications. In some cosmic way, word must have spread about my new resolution because invitations rolled in. Did I want to see a country band I’d never heard of with a friend from work? Did I want to accompany Nan to the store to replace her dildo? How about catching a Preston Sturges black-and-white movie at an old bank that had been turned into a movie theater ten miles west of Chicago? Yes, yes, yes. I’m in. I’m alive. I exist.
On Presidents’ Day—a below-freezing morning in February—I woke up in a fog of shame and anger. My fists curled and my head throbbed.
This is it. Here’s where I skid off the ledge. Brandon and I were supposed to be in New Hampshire for a wedding—had we stayed together we’d be there now. Brandon had probably taken Marcie and they were doing whatever you do in New Hampshire in mid-February: Tapping trees for maple syrup? Ice fishing? Fucking by a fire? Before me stretched an empty day: the office was closed, and I had no plans other than group. Looming holidays had always been my undoing. I could hardly breathe. To beat back the despair, I laced up my running shoes and headed outside.
The sky was still inky gray and the temperature hovered around ten degrees. A coat of ice slicked the sidewalks, so I ran in the street. The air was so cold and thin that breathing took extra effort. By the time I reached the lakefront path, the sun was rising over the half-frozen water. With every step, my breath huffed out in a puff of white air. This run teetered on self-abuse—the world was frozen all around me—but I decided: If I saw another runner in the next two minutes, I would keep going. If not, I would get in a cab and sit in a coffee shop around the corner from Dr. Rosen’s office until group started.
Group Page 24
