“You need to help me,” she said quietly. Tears I hadn’t noticed welling rolled down her cheeks. She bent her head low like she was addressing her leftovers. “Please help me.” I wanted to cross the circle and put my arms around her. Instead, I picked the cuticle on my right thumb deep enough to draw blood and make my stomach seize.
“I’d love to,” Dr. Rosen said, smiling and sitting up like an actor who’d been waiting for his big solo.
“This is all I know.” She daubed her eyes with her napkin.
Nan turned to me and described a childhood filled with violence and addiction: an unstable stepfather who brandished a gun at her after gambling all night, a bipolar brother who punched the walls and broke family heirlooms. “Brute force—it’s all I know.”
Marnie scooted her chair toward Nan and touched her arm. “It’s all I know too.” Mary and Emily had tears in their eyes. Mine were stuck in my thumb, where I continued to dig at the exposed bright pink flesh. A drop of blood pooled in my nail bed.
In the five years I’d known her, Marnie had met every emotional situation with a hard-nosed defiance, a macho Italian “you talkin’ to me?” bravado that I both feared and admired. I watched, mesmerized, as Nan and Marnie, two women I was sure were going to maim each other moments before, melted into a collage of mutual trauma and healing. Marnie held on to Nan’s left arm.
I’d never seen two people fight—or make up—before. My thumb was throbbing, and I bit my lip to keep from bursting into tears. As the minutes ticked by, I fantasized about shrinking—losing skin, muscle, bone, cells—becoming nothing more than a heap of clothes in my frayed swivel chair.
The next time Dr. Rosen caught my eye, I mouthed, “Help me.”
“What’s that?” he said, cupping his ear with his hand.
No sound came out, but I kept mouthing, “Help me.” Over and over. Help. Me.
The attention in the room shifted from Nan and Marnie to me. I couldn’t look at any of the women, and I couldn’t make any sound come out.
“What’s your problem?” Marnie asked, finally giving me her full attention.
I shook my head, holding Dr. Rosen’s gaze.
“Seriously? What’s your fucking problem? If you’re going to make it here”—she glanced over at Dr. Rosen and jutted out her chin—“and for the record, no one asked me how I felt about her joining my group—you have to speak up. We do deep work here.”
My only thought was I want to go home—to the morning group, the people who knew and loved me.
I turned to Dr. Rosen. “Why did you bring me here? I don’t fit here. Everyone has been on the other end of a knife or horrific violence. I just want some people in my life, maybe a boyfriend who isn’t drinking himself to death or too depressed to have sex, but I feel disgusting—”
“Disgusting isn’t a—”
“Yes, it is!” My whole body shook. I wrung my hands like I was trying to dry them. I wanted to shake the disgust off my skin, even though it was coming from inside.
“No.”
“Fine. I feel shame for intruding on Marnie’s group, scared of what I’m seeing and hearing, and mad at you for putting me here. I’m never going to have a place in this group. I never should have joined a second group!”
“Good!” Dr. Rosen stuck both of his thumbs up like my distress was a movie he’d just watched and was recommending to his audience. “It’s already working.”
“What’s working?”
“This group.” Cue million-watt smile. A sweep of his arm across the circle. Elfin joy.
“Mamaleh, one part of intimacy is learning to express anger. You’ve made huge progress in the morning group. But another part of intimacy is learning to tolerate other people’s anger. This group will help you with that.” He looked at Marnie, who stared him down without blinking. “It already has.” In full Mister Rogers mode, he explained that my terror about other people’s anger was yet another stumbling block to intimacy. Sure, I could now join my law school friends for lunch at the deli, bookend my baths, and yell at Dr. Rosen. But there was always more. Therapy was a Sisyphean trap.
“What do I do about Marnie?”
“You could celebrate her anger.” I rolled my eyes. Then I asked how. “Look at Marnie,” he directed. I swiveled my chair and stared into her angry eyes. “Tell her that you love her, and her anger is beautiful.”
“Marnie, I love you, and your anger is beautiful.”
“Now breathe.” My words hovered over the circle. Every instinct pushed me to go off Dr. Rosen’s script, throw myself at Marnie’s feet, and promise to leave the group or stay up all night with her baby—anything to stop her anger. But I kept breathing, each second pulling me away from my tired old impulses.
I broke my gaze to look at the clock, but Dr. Rosen told me to keep my eyes on Marnie. “Tell her that you welcome her anger and that you are available for more.” I did. She didn’t say anything.
“What are you feeling?” Dr. Rosen asked.
“Scared.” My toes curled toward the floor.
“Good. If you can learn to tolerate that fear and let go of trying to fix her anger, you will be ready for an intimate relationship.”
“I thought all I had to do was turn over my food to Rory. And bookend my bath. And take Baby Jeremiah. And tell the Smoker I was a cocktease.”
“You definitely needed to do all of that. And this is the next thing.”
The session was over. Dr. Rosen ended it in the familiar way. When the hugs began, I kept my eyes on Marnie, watching her embrace Emily, Mary, and Zenia. Please hug me, I wished from across the room. I heaved my backpack over my shoulder.
“Hey you,” Marnie said, nudging my shoulder.
“Hey,” I said, my eyes
