“The poor baby,” Nan said. Her voice wobbled. “Poor, poor baby.” My body went slack in the lullaby of her voice. She scooted closer so she could pat my back. I let go of my hair and clambered to my seat. My scalp and hands throbbed with my heartbeat. Stray hairs twined between my fingers. I could not even look at Dr. Rosen. The women beamed me with love, but it stung like pity.
I had a boyfriend, ten group mates, and almost two years of Dr. Rosen under my belt. I felt as stuck as ever.
21
After the Night of the Broken Dishes, Dr. Rosen coached me on how to ask for what I wanted from Jeremy. Pretending to be me, Dr. Rosen would say, “Jeremy, my love, I want you to take me out to dinner tonight,” or “I want us to take off our clothes and hold each other in bed.” As me, Dr. Rosen sat up tall and smiled broadly. He made it look so easy, this asking for what I wanted.
When it was my turn to ask in real life, I sputtered like an old lawn mower. “I want—do you think we could—would you be open to, maybe—I don’t know—leaving your apartment with me sometime?”
Jeremy smiled sweetly. “Where do you want to go?”
“The sushi place down the block?”
He hesitated and then said, “Sure.”
One Tuesday morning I got a prescription: invite Jeremy over for the sole purpose of kissing me for five minutes straight. I was skeptical that Jeremy would make the effort for a five-minute kiss, but the point was whether I was willing to ask.
We giggled as I led him to my bedroom, where we stood on the strip of carpet between my closet and my bed. In the living room down the hall, the TV blared Wheel of Fortune while Steven and Clare cooked dinner. The night sky was a dark blanket over the window. Jeremy futzed with his watch. He stepped toward me with his finger over the button for the timer.
“Ready?”
I took a deep breath, and let out a shudder and a tiny squeal. Part of me wanted to break role, call this exercise stupid, and pick a fight. I pulled myself together, squeezed my eyes shut, and tapped into the other part of me: the one willing to have this kiss.
“Ready.”
Beep.
He slid one arm around my waist and one behind my head and kissed me softly. I was stuck in my head—worried about the timer, whether to slip in some tongue, whether I was getting the most out of this prescription. Then I sent my mind to my lips. I inched closer to Jeremy. The tips of my toes touched his shoes and I pressed my body into his, testing. Could he bear my weight? He smelled like sweat, coffee, and mints. I pulled him closer to me for the final few seconds, knowing time was almost up.
Beep.
“That was cool,” he said, fiddling with the button on his watch. He threaded his arm through his backpack, getting ready to go. I felt settled and calm, almost like a baby swaddled tightly and held close. When Jeremy hugged me good-bye, he held me for an extra beat. His body felt solid against mine, like he could hold me up for a long time. I stood at the front door until the elevator dinged and then watched him disappear behind the silver doors. The kiss had filled me up. I wanted it to be enough.
I stayed with Jeremy. I stayed with Dr. Rosen. I stayed with my two groups. I stayed because I believed the agony of staying was necessary to score my heart. I thought that leaving—wanting to leave and actually leaving—was proof I wasn’t cut out for true intimacy. I had to prove to myself that I could endure whatever pain came up in my relationships. I could survive the heat without letting go. I could attach.
On Christmas morning, I left Jeremy sleeping to meet my friend Jill for coffee. As carols blared through a packed Starbucks, Jill cried about being single with no plans except to visit her abusive father, and I teared up about the sexless state of my relationship. When I returned to Jeremy’s apartment, he called me back to bed. “Take off your jeans,” he said.
Merry Christmas!
I liked his initiative.
There was a condom on the pillow next to him, and my starving body heaved into him. An exhilarating openness overtook my body. He thrust once, and an orgasm seized my whole body in a split second.
I promptly burst into tears.
“What is it?” he said.
Underneath all the frustration and anger was an ocean of hurt and sadness. Waves of loneliness, just as Dr. Rosen had long ago predicted.
“Why is it so hard?” I said it over and over. Why, why, why? Was it that hard to love me and my body? Why couldn’t we have this physical intimacy all the time? All those weeks I’d chased Jeremy’s love and attention reinforced my fear that something wrong with the way that I loved and how I wanted to be loved. The neglect I experienced confirmed my defective capacity for attachment. I’d picked a boyfriend who doled out unsustaining portions of love and attention. And I’d picked him because he was all I could tolerate, even though I wanted so much more. I was like an anorexic who continued to eat rice cakes and celery even though she dreamed of filet mignon and a buttered baked potato.
As 2003 dawned, I sailed into my final semester of law school. Jeremy still needed more time apart than I did. He would occasionally shut down and roll over without any explanation, and his passion for his ASCII video games made me roll my eyes. But instead of breaking household items, I sent texts to Rory, Marty, and Carlos: I’m so lonely. He’s playing video
