terrific.
Am I rattling? Honestly, I don't know why I'm so unhinged. I run into an ex, ex-whatever, we exchange pleasantries, act civilized. The awful thing was, this is embarrassing, my heart was pattering away, I could hear it the whole time we were talking.
We're walking across the baseball diamonds, and I tell him I've moved over to a bigger agency, that I'm handling Diane Ladd and Ben Kingsley, and he's telling me about Thailand, how serene and happy the people there are, and there's this little outdoor cafe that I would love, it has monkeys that aren't in cages, that perch on your shoulder while you eat.
Mind you, all of this is said like we're just old friends. Not old friends, like no time has passed, like we're still the way we were. There's no allusion to our parting, my parting. How would you phrase it? He was the one who suggested ending it, so technically I suppose he left me. The fact that I did the actual leaving is beside the point.
I've never told you exactly what happened, have I? I went in originally because I was having trouble sleeping after my divorce. I won't go into the reasons behind that – suffice it to say that I got over my insomnia within the first six months and kept going because for that one hour every week I was happy.
Happy? I don't know, not euphoric certainly, but I felt more at home there than I did in my own apartment. Time stopped in that room. For fifty minutes, anyway.
His office was on the top floor of a brownstone in the West Village. You entered through a gate off the street into a courtyard, and then up four flights of stairs, very narrow and squeaky. And at the top was this wonderful garret, with a skylight and a door that opened onto a tiny iron balcony. The windows faced the back side of a convent and a garden that was maintained by the nuns.
The room was so quiet and separate from the city. In the summer months the smell of lilies and cooking floated up through the open windows. Birds nested in the ivy, pigeons, but other birds too. Sparrows.
We talked about my fears and my childhood, all the standard stuff, my trust issues, my dreams, et cetera. Not just mine, though, his as well. Douglas was never a classic analyst; he would throw in more than the occasional 'How do you feel about that?' I got to know him rather well over the two years. When life was going well, we talked about fantasies. I know what you're thinking, not just sexual fantasies, fantasies about being a child again or time traveling. He told me then that he wanted to visit Thailand, that he wanted to study with the monks there. He actually did go that Easter, and then again in August. That second trip, he brought me back a picture of Hanuman, the monkey general, painted on green silk.
Mine? Well, I had one wonderful fantasy that the room we were in was actually in Rome, that the voices I sometimes heard from across the courtyard were speaking Italian, and that when I passed outside the courtyard, there would be piazzas and open plazas filled with women in black. This fantasy also included Douglas, of course, the city of love and all that. It was part of the transference process; even I had read enough Freud to recognize that. That knowledge, by the way, is no comfort. It's disorienting enough to fall in love, without the added embarrassment of knowing that your feelings are as programmed as a laboratory rat's.
Douglas and I, in my fantasy, would float through the canals in a gondola. I know the canals are in Venice, not Rome, but in my fantasy they were in Rome. He stood at the rear of the gondola, pushing us through a dark labyrinth of canals, under bridges with smiling gargoyles. Pretty transparent, tunnels and a gondola instead of a train. Probably the only original thing in the whole fantasy is that he was singing chants. Buddhist chants, I suppose. I couldn't understand the words, but the music was atonal.
I don't know. I guess the chants would be significant, the fact that I didn't understand them. I don't know.
Our last session, or rather the next to the last, I was rambling on about something, much as I'm doing now, and he was turning his pen over and over in his hand, with this look on his face. Like his dog had died. He never developed the ability to appear raptly attentive when he was not, and he's not a good liar. I would imagine this candor is a professional liability, but it was one of the things I really loved about him. His emotions were very close to the surface, almost in a feminine way. Most men, I think, seem to regard their feelings as awkward and embarrassing, like a second pair of hands.
I asked him what was the matter, was he all right? At first, he tried to evade the whole thing, asked me to please continue. I said, 'Listen, I consider you a friend, and something is obviously bothering you.'
Finally he said he wanted to discuss the possibility of my ending therapy, 'graduating,' I believe was his term. He felt I had come so far, that I was ready to move on. And he would be leaving for another vacation to Bangkok in a month, so the timing seemed apt, et cetera, et cetera. I don't remember his exact reasoning, but anyway, how would I feel about this?
I felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. I felt much worse than when my husband, Eric, moved his things out. What I said was, ready or not, I liked being there, I liked being with him.
He said, 'I like you being here, too, Abby, and I'll miss you when you go. But, frankly, I can't go on taking your money simply because we enjoy each other's company. There are ethical considerations.'
I still don't buy that. I had a good settlement from Eric, and I was making not a bad living besides. If I wanted to spend it on being with him, that was certainly as valid as spending it at Sak's or going to a spa. And since when do therapists decide you don't need them anymore? Okay, I know that's the goal, but I've never heard of a person being dumped by their shrink before. You're supposed to leave them. I guess he didn't see it that way.
We spent the next session talking about closure. That was his agenda, in any case. In reality, I spent the hour making a complete ass of myself, telling him that I loved him, that I didn't give a damn whether it was transference or not. And how could he be so sure? Transference is endowing the therapist with the qualities of the ideal mother or father, right? Well, you tell me, when have you fallen in love and not done just that?
He reassured me that my feelings were natural and nothing to be ashamed of. His exact words. Nothing to be ashamed of. Which, of course, made me feel perfectly foolish and angry besides.
'I'm not the one who's ashamed of his feelings,' I said. Listen, I know about countertransference. More to the point, I know love when I see it, when I've seen it. I looked in his face and it was all there.
I said, 'Do me a favor, Douglas. Explain to me why only the patient has human feelings. How come I can't ask you how you're feeling and get a straight answer?'
You know what he said? He said, and I quote, 'I have human feelings, Abby, but you are more important here than my feelings.' And then he went on to tell me about the bodhisattvas. They're Buddhist monks, but they're teachers. And they make this sacrifice. Instead of floating off to Nirvana, they stay behind so they can help other people.
Which sounds real impressive until you ask yourself, 'Do I want someone who renounces his feelings telling me how to be happy?'
We were supposed to have another couple of sessions, but suddenly I just didn't see the point. I had this moment of clarity, and I realized that there's no mileage in trying to convince someone to recognize happiness when it comes. You can talk and talk and talk and talk, and the truth gets further away. Some truths aren't gotten to through words. That's heresy in your profession, I know, and who am I to be criticizing? After all, here I am. Still blathering on. Of course, I'm not exactly happy now either.
How much time do we have left?
The cherry trees are blooming in the park now. Douglas and I walked the length of the long meadow and through this place over near the library called the Vale of Kashmir. It's pretty run-down now, broken beer bottles, et cetera, but it must have been beautiful once. The cherry trees were thick with blossoms, and every little riff of breeze snowed petals on us.
Douglas was telling me a story about a monk he met who can amplify his heartbeat. He sat in a room, in Thailand, with this monk and he listened to the pulse of the man's heart, this slow drumming swelling louder and louder. Douglas said it felt like being inside the womb, like a memory of perfect contentment.
The funny thing is I nodded and smiled, like I'd been there, like I remembered it, too. The room, the feeling of peace. Like a deja vu or something. And then I realized it was the sound of my own heart.
Confessions Of A Falling Woman
If this letter reaches you, it will have to be by some divine accident. I know you are no longer living at this
