For years, my mother would shudder whenever the trip to Oklahoma came up. There was not a single picture, and no member of my family harbored a happy memory from their weekend jaunt to Oklahoma. And yet I too would shudder at the mention of the state due north of Texas because it was proof that I could be left behind.
Winter also brought my first date since joining group. Carlos set me up with his friend Sam, an attorney who was fresh out of a relationship. In our first phone conversation, Sam and I established an easy rapport. He admitted that he’d never seen an episode of Survivor, and I confessed I abandoned Harry Potter after the first chapter. When I got off the phone because my book club meeting was about to start, he sounded impressed that a busy law student would also take the time to read for pleasure.
I had every reason to believe that Sam and I would hit it off. We both adored Carlos and had mixed feelings about the legal profession. I watched out the window as he parked his car in front of my apartment at eight o’clock sharp. My belly stirred with excitement. In the bathroom, I applied one more coat of the lipstick Carlos picked out for me at Barneys.
When I opened the door, I thought we’d hug, but he stuck out his hand and smiled in a clinical way that didn’t reach his eyes. He then turned quickly to head down the stairs, like a man who had double parked in front of a hydrant. I didn’t despair, though. The whole night stretched before us full of possibility and, perhaps later, physical contact.
Sam hadn’t made a reservation and offered no suggestions about where to go. An awkward silence hung between us until I suggested a Cuban place on Irving Park near my apartment. As we drove, the only sound in the car was my voice giving him directions. Had I made up the chemistry I felt on the phone?
At Café 28, Sam left his wool Burberry scarf wrapped around his neck and was curt with the waitstaff. By the time our food came, it was clear this was going nowhere. The disappointment made me want to smash my fist into the stupid potatoes and hurl my salmon across the room. I’d bought lipstick and a sweater for this. I’d been going to group, calling Rory, calling Marty, and “letting the group in” as Dr. Rosen suggested. Where were the results? Why was Sam so remote and uninterested?
We rode home in silence so complete it was nuclear. Sam did not walk me to the door; he did not cut the engine. Maybe he stuck his hand out for a closing handshake, but I’d turned my back on him after thanking him for dinner. When I walked into my apartment, the clock read eight fifty.
My date hadn’t even lasted an hour.
I dialed Dr. Rosen’s number; his was number one, the valedictorian of my speed dial. To his voice mail, I announced my conclusion. “Therapy isn’t working. Please call me tomorrow. I’m sinking.” I paced in circles around my apartment, wondering why Sam hadn’t given me a chance. I shared the humiliation with Rory when I called with my food report, and Marty when I called for my affirmation.
“It’s not your fault the date sucked,” they promised. “Some dates just suck.”
The next day I did something I’d never done in my entire educational career: Skipped class to huddle under the covers and stare into the void. I didn’t watch TV, read a book, or review any notes for class. Around noon, my closest friend from law school, Clare, left a voice mail. “Hey, no one can remember the last time you didn’t show up for class. Call me.”
The familiar stuckness I’d felt most of my life shut out every other thought, every other sensation. It felt like it would always be there, obstructing my breath, my blood, my desire. Stuck, stuck, stuck. Therapy was supposed to change things, open me up. A cry was forming somewhere in my chest, like a hurricane gathering force way off the coast of Florida. The stuckness felt like my fault. How would this ever change? I sank into self-hate as I counted ridges on my popcorn ceiling. What was the point of those Tuesday sessions if I was going to remain this stuck?
At three fifteen, Dr. Rosen’s number glowed on my phone’s screen.
“Can you help me?” I said instead of hello.
“I hope so.”
“Why was my date such a disaster?”
“Who says it was a disaster?
“It was fifty minutes long. I didn’t even go to school today—I’m in bed.”
“Congratulations.”
“For what?”
“When was the last time you made this much space for your feelings?”
“Um.” He knew the answer was never.
“You deserve space to feel.”
“But what should I do?”
“What were you doing before I called?”
“Staring at the ceiling.”
“Do that. And come to group tomorrow.”
“That’s it?”
He laughed. “Mamaleh, that’s plenty.”
It didn’t feel like enough. But my body unclenched when I got off the phone. Rational thoughts filled my head: Sam was one of thousands of men in Chicago. There was nothing wrong with me. It was one lame date. Big deal. It wasn’t a reason to slip into catatonia.
In group, Dr. Rosen affirmed that all I had to do was keep coming to sessions. To him, the ninety minutes I sat in the circle with him and my group mates were the be-all and end-all of emotional transformation. To him, they were potent enough to score my still-smooth heart. To him, it was enough.
Not to me. I wanted a new prescription. Something bold and hard. Something that would require all my courage. Dr. Rosen wasn’t taking my distress seriously. He didn’t understand how it felt in my body. I was a window painted shut, a jar lid that wouldn’t budge no matter how much you banged it on the counter.
I had to show him.
Andrew Barlee called me out of
