“How so?” He’s writing furiously now, which always makes me feel super-freaky. Like he’s thinking, Oh my gosh, I can’t write this down fast enough! Wait until I write my next paper! Move over, Freud!
But I have to get this off my chest. “Okay, first off, it used to drive me crazy that he used all these strange, slangy words and phrases that mean nothing over here, but I scatter them all over our imaginary conversations.”
“So you didn’t really hate when he did it; it was one of his endearing quirks.”
“I guess. And we rarely agree on anything. It’s like he’s tormenting me. But I know exactly what he’d say in these situations, so I make him say it. So, in essence, I’m arguing with myself. Like the homeless people under the overpasses.”
He ignores my self-diagnosis. “Did you argue often when you were together?”
I think about it. “No, not really. Kiddingly sometimes. I mean, we didn’t agree with each other all the time, but we didn’t fight.”
“And you’d describe these imaginary exchanges as ‘fights’?”
“Borderline. Sometimes. Most of the time, he’s just mercilessly teasing me.”
“Tell me some of the subjects of these discussions.”
“Sex, mostly.” When Dr. Marsh raises his eyebrows, I clarify, “A guy asked me on a date recently. A guy from work. I talked to Jude about why I turned him down, but at the same time, I was trying to make him jealous.”
“Did it work?”
“No. He acted like he couldn’t care less. He pretty much joked the whole time.”
“Is that how he typically reacted to things that made him uncomfortable, though?”
“Actually… yes.”
He nods, so I continue, “And I confronted him about Leslie. That’s about the only venue where I’m willing to confront him about it. I kind of got his side of the story.”
“Which was?”
“He was new in town and lonely, blah, blah, blah.” I open and close my hand like a flapping mouth.
“Anything else you guys talk about regularly?”
Wincing, I answer, “Everything?” When he bites his lip, I say, “I mean, I don’t have anyone else to talk to, except Sandberg. I don’t know which one is more pathetic, talking to a cat or talking to a person who’s not really there. At least my conversations with Jude are silent. I’d have to talk out loud to Sandberg.”
Dr. Marsh precisely clips his pen to my folder and takes a deep breath. “Do you want to hear my professional opinion about what you’re doing?”
“Let me guess: driving myself insane?”
He smiles gently. “Perhaps. That may be the ultimate conclusion to this, but no. You’re allowing yourself to be told what you want or need to hear. From him. And some of it is combative, because you feel a need to be punished for breaking up with him. You know him well enough to know that he would treat most serious things irreverently, which also serves to relieve the tension and stress for you. And because you left so many questions unanswered—on both sides of things—you’re fabricating his side of the story. So you can sort through it and bring yourself some closure. But I have a question.”
“Just one? Really?”
“Why didn’t you talk to him about it—the real him—when you had a chance? From what you’ve told me, he was willing. You weren’t. Why not?”
Holding the tissue to my mouth, I say, “I’m weak. I would have taken him back.”
“And this is a bad thing?”
I nod, trapping my tears as they slide down my cheeks.
“Forgiveness is weakness?”
Coldly, I assert, “Sometimes we do unforgiveable things. There are consequences.”
His brow furrowed, he tries to understand. “And Jude did what to you that was so unforgiveable? Slept with someone before you were dating?”
“Didn’t tell me! Things happen. Even with her. She was convenient; she was crap. Like fast food. But why didn’t he tell me?”
“Have you, historically, been an easy person to break difficult news to?” he asks, then defends his question when I give him a dirty look. “I’m not excusing it; I’m just trying to understand the circumstances and his motivations for keeping it a secret. Do you think he’s ashamed?”
“He should be!” I’m sobbing and hiccupping and snotting everywhere, like a child throwing a massive temper tantrum.
Dr. Marsh sits next to me on the couch. It’s the closest he’s ever been to me during a session. “Libby,” he says softly, handing me a fresh tissue. “I want you to take a minute to calm down.”
I nod and work hard to do just that.
After several minutes, when it seems like I’m breathing normally again, with only the occasional hiccup-sob, he asks, “Now, have you ever done something that you’re so ashamed of, so disgusted with yourself about, that you’ve gone to great lengths to conceal it from everyone, even someone you know you can trust?”
I freeze mid-hiccup. It hurts.
“Have you?” he prods. “What was it?”
“This isn’t about me; it’s about him. And what he did.”
“If this were about him, he’d be here, not you. This is all about you.” He sighs. “You and I, we don’t have secrets. I already know the answer to my question.”
“Then why are you harassing me about it?” I snap. “You know everything.”
“But I want to know what you tell yourself; why you can’t forgive yourself. And I want you to say it out loud.”
Now he waits patiently. It’s clear after several minutes of silence that he’s not going to say another word.
Twisting the soggy tissues in my hands, I take a deep, shuddering breath. “I—” I begin only to choke on the next three words. He hands me the glass of water from the table in front of us, but without taking so much as a sip from it, I blurt it out: “I killed my parents!”
28
It was extremely difficult to go back to work after that session. I was late, because I had to do a lot of repair work to
