In the kitchen, I throw my lunch in a bag and then race out the door to catch the six fifty-five train. As the train lumbers downtown, I think about what issues I’ll discuss in group. I should probably tell them about the spat John and I have had the past two times he’d returned home from a business trip. As he wheels his suitcase into the foyer, the kids besiege him with hugs and requests to show him their art projects, their spelling tests, their new dance moves. He slips out of his coat and gives them his full attention. Oohing and aahing. Beaming the full bright light of his love on them. From the kitchen, where I’m washing dinner dishes or prepping lunches for the next day, I love hearing them reconnect. I know those hearts; they belong to me and to each other. The fight comes later, after John has read to them and checked their math homework, and they are fast asleep. It happens when we collapse into bed, and I launch into a story about a grievance at work or a perceived slight from a friend. John strains to keep his eyes open, but he’s been up since five, attended various meetings, traveled across the country, and then parented through the bedtime gauntlet. His drawn face tells the story of the miles he’s traveled. Intellectually, I understand how weary his bones must feel, how sleep drags him by the ankles into sweet respite. But I also want him to listen to me. I want him to save some of his bright-light energy for me. Dr. Rosen will ask me how this makes me feel, and I’ll say, “Lonely for John and ashamed that I’m jealous of my kids.” Max will smirk and say, “This is the life you wanted, remember?” Then the group will offer suggestions on how John and I can reconnect when he comes home without ignoring his physical limitations or the kids’ needs. Someone will probably suggest that John and I schedule a sex date for the day after he returns.
I can also let the group know about the conversation I had with my supervisor at work on Friday. I surprised myself by saying, “I work really hard and do a good job. I don’t need more money or a corner office, but I would like a thank-you.” I’d filed a record number of briefs in the past thirty days and wanted acknowledgment. Brad will give me a thumbs-up, and then push me to ask for that corner office. And the raise. Patrice will high-five me for asking for what I want. At work, I struggle to set boundaries and say no when asked to take on thankless tasks with no discernible upside, but at least I spoke up to ask for acknowledgment.
The group will also get a kick out of the meltdown that happened at my house over the weekend. My kids had a piano recital, an activity they ranked behind teeth cleaning and flu shots. When it was time to head to the recital hall, the kids protested by putting on raggedy shorts and pajama tops. John and I explained that the event called for slightly more formal clothing, emphasizing that we should respect the other students, the teacher, and all the work they’d done to prepare. “Think of dozens of times you practiced ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ ” They reacted by stomping and slamming doors. They refused to walk down the street next to us. I was sure I’d get a handwritten letter, like the one I got when I wouldn’t let them buy Skittles in bulk: Dear Mom, Thank you for ruining our lives, but there was no time to take pen to paper. I’ll report to group that I managed to celebrate my kids’ intense emotions, instead of insisting they stuff them back into their little bodies. I’d actually channeled Dr. Rosen for a good twenty minutes before I lost my composure and hissed at them to get it together through gritted teeth. We arrived at the recital late, each of us fuming.
It still scares me, other people’s anger, but I know it’s part of intimacy. I know it’s okay to let it be. I breathe through it the best I can.
All my basest impulses still live inside me, lying in wait. Impulses to keep my ever-wacky relationship to food a secret. Impulses to demonize John for making the reasonable decision to put his energy into parenting after a few days away. Impulses to dive into unremitting despair instead of taking a breath and feeling whatever emotion is trying to surface. Impulses to suck up frustration and invisibility at work instead of having a measured conversation about what I’m thinking and feeling, what I want and need. Impulses to do anything to keep other people from feeling angry at me. I still need help overriding those impulses. I need help figuring out what two-syllable word best describes my feelings. Telling the truth of my desire, even when I’m ashamed of it. Tolerating other people’s intense feelings. Tolerating my own.
Sometimes I run into former Rosen-patients. “You’re still with Dr. R?” they ask. “Yep, I’m one of the lifers,” I say with an impulse to explain that it’s not that I’m hopelessly fucked up or stuck in crisis mode. I have the attachments I craved when I first crawled into Dr. Rosen’s office; now I need help deepening them. And I’ve dreamed new dreams. A more creative life. An intimate relationship with my two children as they pass through middle school, high school, and beyond. A graceful path through the impending corporeal chaos of menopause and the stress of caring for aging parents who live three states away. Dr. R and the group
