But Dr. Rosen’s conflict of interest was no small thing. Was he working for my welfare or Jeremy’s?
One Thursday night, Jeremy returned from his men’s group and asked if I would buy him a subscription to the Financial Times and a pair of running shoes. I could tell from the way he was asking—and because he’d just come from his group—that it was a prescription from Dr. Rosen.
“How dare you set me up to be his sugar mama!” I screamed at Dr. Rosen during my next group session. “You’re supposed to be helping me, not using me to bankroll his hobbies.”
“I am helping you.”
“Bullshit.”
“What are your two biggest complaints about Jeremy?”
I’d mentioned that Jeremy seemed stuck professionally. He was a member of Mensa and read Greek philosophers with names I could hardly pronounce, yet his job had no future and didn’t cover his bills. He hated his boss and felt like he was wasting his potential. He once mentioned going to law school. I’d also expressed concern about his sedentary lifestyle, which I was afraid would negatively impact our nascent sex life.
“If he reads the Financial Times, might it help him focus his ambition? If he gets running shoes, he’ll be more active. Maybe you can run together and then have sex.”
Dr. Rosen, the great puppeteer, yanked the strings. He’d gotten Jeremy to ask, and he would get me to pay. He knew I had the money because the week before I’d brought the seven-thousand-dollar salary advance check that Skadden sent me. Dr. Rosen suggested I pass it around the circle. When it got to him, he held it above his head: Baruch atah Adonai something-something.
The rage that had brought me to my knees in group before Christmas surged—rage that Dr. Rosen couldn’t truly help me, so he settled for using me to help Jeremy—but I stayed in my chair, pursed my lips, and let it fester. I didn’t have words, just the sensation of anger heating my body.
The following weekend, Jeremy started receiving a daily copy of the pink-paged Financial Times, and we shopped for a pair of retro black New Balances. When I asked him if he wanted to run with me, he said, “Nah, you go ahead.”
After he went after my money, it got worse. Dr. Rosen took aim at my vagina.
One late-winter evening, Jeremy swiveled away from his computer game and declared that March would be “going down on Christie” month.
“Where did this come from?” I said.
“I just decided.”
We’d been dating for months, and there’d been little oral action on either of our parts. Now I was looking forward to the gifts that March would bring my way. But on the last Thursday in February, Jeremy returned home from his group with an announcement: “Dr. Rosen thinks it’s a bad idea.”
I dropped the law book I was holding. “Excuse me?”
“He thinks I’m trying to blow up the relationship.”
So now my therapist, who had promised to get me into healthy relationships, including sexual relationships, was actively working against my pleasure. I excused myself and took the phone into the bathroom. I dialed Dr. Rosen’s number, but got his voice mail. I hung up. No voice mails. I would gift him the full force of my anger in person.
“I hear your anger.” Dr. Rosen answered with calm confidence when I confronted him in my morning group. I pounded fists on the arms of my chair. I called him a misogynist and a control freak.
“I hear you experience me exerting control.”
“You told my boyfriend not to go down on me! What the fuck?” He smiled like ooh, goody, she’s really mad! “Stop pulling the strings.”
Dr. Rosen held up his hands and shook his head. “There’re no strings. I don’t control anyone’s tongue.”
“You make suggestions to people who pay you to tell them what to do.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to fuck right off.” The anger was stuck halfway between my throat and my chest.
More stuckness. In my chair, in my body, in my relationship with my boyfriend and my therapist.
When Dr. Rosen put his hands together, it signaled the end of the session. I stood up with everyone else, but I didn’t recite the Serenity Prayer, and when everyone split off in twos to hug, I took turns embracing Patrice, Rory, Marty, Carlos, and the Colonel. But I turned my back on Dr. Rosen. I wouldn’t pretend everything was okay just because ninety minutes were up. I felt betrayed. His loyalty clearly belonged to Jeremy, and he brought all his Harvard expertise to bear in treating his sexual hangups. Dr. Rosen didn’t have my interests or sexual pleasure in mind at all.
In the afternoon group, I refused to look at Dr. Rosen but explained to all the women how Dr. Rosen was interfering in my relationship by advising Jeremy not to pleasure me. Marnie narrowed her eyes and yelled at Dr. Rosen for using me to help Jeremy. Then she swiveled her chair toward me and scolded me for being so willing to starve in my relationship. “This isn’t all Dr. Rosen,” she said, pointing at me. “You’re going along with all of this.” I wasn’t upset that she was yelling at me—I could hear that she loved me and wanted more for me. I did too.
22
That seven-thousand-dollar salary advance from Skadden made me bold. All my law school friends were planning post–bar exam trips with their beloveds. I dreamed of international travel with my boyfriend. I dreamed of us in Italy, holding hands on medieval bridges and feeding each other bites of pizza margherita, surrounded by languid rivers and soaring cathedrals. I dreamed of us laughing, touching, exploring, and loving. The man holding my hand in my daydreams bore little resemblance to Jeremy. But I set my sights on the trip and wouldn’t back down. I’d worked hard in law school to
