I cried through Tuesday group, barely uttering a coherent sentence. On Thursday, I sat directly to the right of Dr. Rosen with my purse in my lap so I could secretly press the top of the letter opener into the pads of my index finger. Of course, hiding was impossible in that fourteen-by-fourteen room. The entire point of group was to be witnessed, to come out of hiding.
Dr. Rosen extended his right hand to me, palm flat and open. “I want your weapon.” I shook my head. “I want you to give it to me.”
I surrendered the blade because I didn’t really want to hurt myself. Dr. Rosen took the letter opener and continued to hold my hand. I let him because I wanted him to save me from myself, from my attraction to sharp objects that made me bleed, from men who didn’t love me, from my mental illness, whatever it was. I wanted him to save my heart, which would never be scored deep enough for lasting attachment. I would die like this: paying someone to hold my hand while my life slipped away. The thing that had always been wrong with me felt worse than ever. I couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes, only their shoes. Max’s expensive broughams, Lorne’s scuffed brown Eccos, Grandma Maggie’s thick-soled white shoes, Brad’s gray New Balance tennis shoes, Patrice’s navy flats. It was the only view I could take in.
“Do not cry alone. Be with your group members, as much as you can,” Dr. Rosen said. My gaze lingered on their shoes.
“Renee is being induced this weekend. Come to the hospital,” Lorne said.
“Come over for dinner on Saturday night,” Patrice said. “You can spend the night.”
“I’ve got tickets to the opera, and William doesn’t want to go,” Grandma Maggie said.
I cried in the grocery store. I cried at work. On the train. In group. At home. On Marnie’s couch. On Patrice’s couch. On the phone with Marnie, Marty, Patrice, and Rory. I went to the hospital to meet Lorne’s baby boy and cried up and down the maternity ward, frightening the nurses on call. I went to the gynecologist for a checkup and cried when she asked me if I needed contraception. Concerned, Dr. Spring put down her pen and offered a referral to a therapist.
Every morning I startled awake with a violent stomach cramp. Diarrhea. One morning I didn’t make it to the bathroom and shit in my favorite cornflower-blue cotton pajamas in the middle of the living room. Dr. Rosen promised it wouldn’t last forever—the crying, the shitting. I believed him one second, but not the next. Shame consumed me. Shame that I was coming undone over a five-month relationship. Shame that I was literally losing my shit over a beautiful man I’d slept with twenty-seven times. Shame that after nearly 380 therapy sessions—more than 34,000 minutes of therapy with an Ivy League–educated therapist—my heart was still defective, could not attach.
27
“Is your passport up-to-date?” Jack, a middle-aged partner with thick glasses and a friendly chortle, stuck his head in my office, where I was drafting a memo on my beverage-company case. I paused Riverdance and sat up straight. It was August 2005, and my two-year anniversary with Skadden was two days away.
“Good until 2014.”
“Do you speak German?”
“Nyet?”
“That’s Russian.”
“Then, no.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ve got a new matter. The Department of Justice is involved, so we have to move fast. Can you leave Sunday?”
“For Germany? Absolutely.” This was the best news I’d ever heard. I’d let my career simmer for months while I biked, ran, and ate chili. Jack was a rainmaker—his star protégée was about to make partner. If I impressed him, I could end up on the partner track. A glow in my chest: I’d been chosen. Never mind that years ago I’d called Dr. Rosen with the express purpose of building a life filled with relationships, not billable work.
“At the partner meeting, we discussed which associates had no commitments—no spouses or children—and your name popped up first.”
“Excellent.” My face froze in a smile.
I showed up at Thursday group two days later, smiling for the first time in days.
“I don’t recognize you without all the tears and sharp objects,” Max said.
“My firm is sending me to Germany. I’ll be flying there every other week for the next few months. Maybe longer.”
Everyone nodded, impressed. No doubt they were picturing me scaling stone steps to a stately German high court building during the day and raising a stein in the Hofbräuhaus at night.
“You’re getting an opportunity to work on your professional life.” Dr. Rosen nodded approvingly. “Now you can stop pretending you’re not interested in making partner and admit that you want success in both work—”
I covered my ears. “I hate it when you do that.” Professionally, I was successful and would always be successful because I knew how to work my ass off and get shit done. I’d risen to first in my class before I ever stepped foot in Rosen-world. I’d learned to kiss partners’ asses and knew how to treat the support staff like human beings who deserved my respect. I knew how to laugh with colleagues at happy hour and how to hold clients’ hands when the SEC threatened legal action. Personal relationships housed my stack of failures. “Focus on my personal life, buddy. Eyes on the ball.”
That night, I called my mom out of the blue. We usually spoke once or twice a month, usually on Sunday after she and Dad returned from mass. I wanted to tell her about Germany, but the first thing out of my mouth
