I guess all of us have the same preconceived notions about
what a visit to a shrink will be like.
Even though it sounds silly, I think I really was anticipating being
asked to lay down on a long couch while some man older than God peered at me
over spectacles and asked personal questions about my childhood. Needless to say, none of that happened. I slid into the appointment five minutes
late. Partially because I’m generally
late to everything, and partially because, up until the last minute, I was
trying to decide if this was worth it.
“I really don’t NEED to talk to anyone about this,” I said to my
rear view mirror while sitting in the parking lot. “I’m perfectly capable of working this out
myself.” I swing between
self-sufficiency and the underlying whisper that tells me I need some help
here.
It’s a she, not a he, and she is neither ancient nor
intimidating. She’s, well, she’s very
normal seeming. This room we are in is bright yellow. She has pictures on her desk of two little
boys giggling at something. There is no
couch for me to lay on, just two chairs for us to sit. I sink into mine, hoping that it will absorb some
of my nervous energy. I am expecting
pleasantries and small talk. I hate
small talk when I’m fully at ease and comfortable, but at this moment in time,
I suddenly have the feeling that if she starts benignly asking me about what I
do for a living and what my dog’s name is, I might jump out of her smudge-free
window. Before the poor woman can get a
word out, I rapidly launch into a monologue that lacks introductions. “I need
to talk about my husband. Things are not
going well, and if something doesn't change I’m afraid that we are going to
lose our marriage.” There. Cat out of the bag.
This woman, my counselor, she does not seem thrown by this outburst
in the slightest. She smiles at me- and
I can tell that with that smile she is seeking to be both comforting and
reassuring. Against my better judgment,
I feel myself relax a little bit. She
does not reach for a note pad, and she does not begin a lecture. She just says, “I’m glad you’re here. Won’t you tell me about your husband?”
My husband. I begin
to nervously twist the wedding ring on my finger, that band that I love with
all of my heart, but sometimes resent, if I am honest. I begin.
“My husband is….wonderful. He’s
wonderful in every way. He loves me so
well. He cannot wait to come home to me
every day. He encourages my passions,
and… He’s so proud of me. And…and I love
him very much….” I sound rehearsed. Everything I just said is true. I know it to be true. Do I believe it to be true?
The woman across from me, nods encouragingly after a beat of
silence, and says, “He sounds like a very good man.” My response bursts forth quickly, louder than
I meant, “Oh He is! He is the best man I
have ever known!” With that statement
comes what I have been dreading. Guilt,
settled in my stomach, begins curling up into the back of my throat and closing
my mouth with tears. I’ve only been here
for five minutes. It’s too early to
start crying.
Again the nod of encouragement. Again, a soft question, “Hmm. Tell me what the trouble is then.”
Breathe. In. Out.
You can talk about this. You can.
That is why you are here. “He just. He just expects too much of me. I can’t do it. I’m always….upsetting him. It’s so stupid too because I feel like he
gets hurt by the tiniest little things.
And I don’t really understand why they are such a big deal. It’s not like I’m doing anything that
catastrophically horrible you know? I’m
not off sleeping with other men, I’m not lying to him, or sneaking off spending
all of his money on shoes and purses (I know wives that do that- I’m not that
kind of wife). I just wish he wasn’t so
sensitive!” The guilt and the tears that
had hovered on my voice a moment ago have been vaporized by a rush of indignation,
and perhaps even anger. This is really
why I’m here isn’t it? To have someone
affirm how I feel?
“Is there one specific thing that is upsetting him do you think?” She’s leaning in now, with her chin in her
hand, a contemplative look on her face.
Did she have to practice that listening look when she was studying to be
a counselor? I bet she did.
“There are a few things, but they are always so small and
insignificant. Like, for example, I
won’t wear the perfume he bought me.”
Her eyebrows raise quizzically in surprise. “Yeah right?
It’s completely ridiculous! He gave
it to me when we got married. And it’s
not that it doesn't smell pretty because it does. It’s, well it’s exquisite, and it was very
expensive. I don’t think I've ever owned
anything so expensive. And it sits on my
dresser in this huge gorgeous glass bottle.
I think I could spray it on every day of my life and never run out of
it. I’ve worn it a few times, but it
just is not a scent I’m used to. It’s
too nice for me. And the few times I’ve
worn it around my friends, they make comments about it. Some of them don’t even like it, but all of
them say things like, ‘Wow- that’s really different.’“ I’m feeling much better
now. She just looks so sympathetic. My vindication seems forthcoming.
“Different from what exactly?” She asks.
“Oh, just really different from the scent I used to wear
every day. It’s just SO up-scale. Almost pretentious.”
“What scent did you used to wear?”
“You know, something a bit more normal, not as nice. I forget the name of it honestly.” I am being evasive. I know I’m being evasive. Surely she’ll move on, right? Wrong.
“Well do you still have it? You’re old perfume I mean?”
Dang it. “Um. Well yeah I do.”
“And do you still wear it?
Since you don’t like the perfume that your husband bought you?”
In my head I know that these innocuous questions should not
bother me, but I can feel myself getting defensive. “I never said that I didn’t like the perfume
that my husband got me. It’s not that I
don’t like it, I just…it’s just….not me.
And yeah, I do still wear the old perfume sometimes, it’s not like I
flaunt it or anything. I just like to
wear it occasionally because it’s more comfortable for me. And I don’t understand why that should be
such a big deal.”
Wouldn’t you know, this woman has another damn question,
“How do you know that your husband is upset when you wear your old
perfume? Does he yell at you? Storm out?
Threaten to leave you?”
“Um. Well no. Nothing like that. He just….He just gets really sad. And quiet.
He doesn’t really want to be around me when I wear it. I always know to, he comes in the house, and
he’s happy and he’s himself and he can’t wait to see me and then he hugs me and
when I look at him there is this hurt in his eyes, and it’s awful. Like I’ve wounded him terribly. And I try to talk to him about it and I try
to reason with him. I’ve calmly and
kindly explained that he really needs to get over it. This kind of thing would never bother any of
my friend’s husbands. It’s just this
small thing that makes me feel better after a long day, because it’s familiar. Then he makes me feel guilty that I’ve hurt
him. But I should not have to feel
guilty about this!”
The ache that the
anger numbed temporarily has returned full force. This is what I cannot face. This is what I cannot swallow. Admitting to myself that I have hurt the man
who loves me, the man I claim I love.
There’s another stretching pause. She is letting my last speech just kind of
hang in the air between us for a while.
Dangling. Now I wish she would
ask another question. I wish she would
stop letting me listen to my own words like that.
“But is this such a small, insignificant, issue if you are
ready to leave him over it?”
“HE is the one who is making it such a colossal problem!” And
now even I can hear that I am lashing out, though to be honest I don’t know if
I’m lashing out at me, or her, or him.
“I don’t want to leave him. And
we can still be friends, I’m just not sure I can be his wife anymore. He wants me to forget who I was before we got
married. He wants me to just accept his
love and be this secure and joyful person, and maybe he can forget who I was
when we first met, but I can’t. And I
think maybe we would all be better off I just went back to the way things were
before.”
“Before? Were you
happy and secure before?”
Memories wash over me, flooding me, overwhelming me,
irritating wounds that have not quite yet faded to scars. It occurs to me now why I have never tried
this counseling thing up till now.
“No,” I finally manage.
Words seem inadequate at this point.
I do not elaborate.
“And how does your husband feel about the time before you
were married? Does he blame you? Shame you?
Does he bring up things from the past?”
The past. My shadow. Always gripping and biting at my heels
wherever I find myself. “He never talks
about my past. It’s like in his mind it
never happened. Sometimes I genuinely
think that he has amnesia. To him I have
never been anyone other than the wife that he loves.” Without meaning to, my voice has gone soft
and quavering. And in this moment I see
what the woman across from me must think is hugely obvious. My husband does not dredge up my past with
its explicit content. He does not splash
my failures on the canvas of our life together.
I do that.
I cut off her next question.
“So you see that’s why I just don’t see how things are going
to work out for us. He wants me to trust
him, he wants me to see myself the way he sees me, but I’m terrified that I
will never be able to. I just, I just
can’t wear his perfume, ok? I just
can’t. I've tried and I can’t. His expectations are entirely unrealistic.” I've rubbed my ring finger raw from tugging
at my wedding band.
She is strangely calm in the face of my ranting. I keep waiting for something profound, full
of psychological wisdom. Maybe some
advice about divorce proceedings? But I
don’t get it.
“Zoe,” She says. (And
I’m startled because she hasn’t used my name until now) “Who gave you the perfume that you wear every
day?”
I close my eyes involuntarily. I shut out the woman and the office and the
photograph with the smiling children.
But his face is there, painted on the back of my eyelids. I cannot see him without seeing myself. How I used to live and breathe both in need
and in fear of him. My heart shakes and
quivers, reliving the words that once sliced my organs to ribbons, recalling
losing all that I was to his all-consuming appetites. Do we have to talk about him? I hate him.
Don’t I?
“Oh,” I shrug, a little too flippantly to be convincing,
“Just an ex-boyfriend of mine.”
“And did he love you, this old boyfriend of yours?”
I shrug again. “He
called it love I guess.” I am done. This has not gone as planned. I have another appointment. I really do have to go. These words are on my tongue. I am standing up to leave. She is still sitting. She seems unperturbed. She has just one final question.
“So. Will you turn
your back on your marriage because the memory of an ex-lover is more
comfortable than the unconditional love of your husband?”
I am standing at the door of her office with the yellow
walls, my ring clinking against the knob as I grip it with all the strength I
have. Which isn't much.
Will I indeed?
For your Maker is
your husband- The Lord Almighty is His name- The Holy One of Israel is your
Redeemer; he is called the God of all the earth. The Lord will call you back as if you were a
wife deserted and distressed in spirit, a wife who married young and was rejected.
Isaiah 54:5
