balance out the patients we also want to work with but who are less high-functioning. High-functioning patients are those who can form relationships, manage adult responsibilities, and have a capacity for self-reflection. The kind who don’t call daily between sessions with emergencies. Studies show, and common sense dictates, that most therapists prefer to work with patients who are verbal, motivated, open, and responsible—these are the patients who improve more quickly. I include the high-functioning bit with Caroline because it broadens the range of therapists who might be interested in this case, and, well, I consider myself to be relatively high-functioning. (At least, I did until recently.)
“I think he’d feel more comfortable with a male therapist who’s also married with kids,” I continue.
I add this for a reason too. I know this isn’t a fair assumption, but I’m afraid that a female therapist might be predisposed to empathize with me post-breakup and that a male therapist who’s neither married nor a father won’t understand the nuances of the kid part of the situation. In short, I want to see if an objective male professional who has firsthand experience of marriage and kids—a man just like Boyfriend—will be as appalled at Boyfriend’s behavior as I am, because then I’ll know that my reaction is normal and I’m not going insane after all.
Yes, I’m seeking objectivity, but only because I’m convinced that objectivity will rule in my favor.
I hear Caroline clicking away on her keyboard. Tap, tap, tap.
“How about—no, scratch that, he thinks much too highly of himself,” she says of some unnamed therapist. She goes back to her keyboard.
Tap, tap, tap.
“There’s a colleague who used to be in my consultation group,” she begins. “But I’m not sure. He’s great. Very skilled. He always has insightful things to say. It’s just—”
Caroline hesitates.
“Just what?”
“He’s so happy all the time. It feels . . . unnatural. Like, what the hell is he so happy about? But some patients like that. Do you think your friend would do well with him?”
“Definitely not,” I say. I, too, am suspicious of chronically happy people.
Next Caroline names a good therapist I also know relatively well, so I tell her that he won’t work out for my friend because there’s a conflict—therapist shorthand for “Their worlds collide, but I can’t reveal more.”
She clicks around again—tap, tap, tap—then stops.
“Oh, hey, there’s a psychologist named Wendell Bronson,” Caroline says. “I haven’t talked to him in years, but we trained together and he’s smart. Married with kids. Late forties or so, been doing this a long time. Do you want his info?”
I say I do. I mean, “my friend” does. We exchange some pleasantries and then hang up.
At this point, all I know about Wendell is what Caroline has just told me and that there’s two-hour free parking in the lot across the street from his office. I know about the parking because when Caroline texts me his phone number and address a minute after our call, I realize that my bikini-wax place happens to be on the same street (Not that I’ll be needing those services for the foreseeable future, I think, which makes me start crying again).
I pull it together long enough to dial Wendell’s number, and of course I get voicemail. Therapists rarely answer their office phones so that patients won’t feel rebuffed if they call in a crisis and their therapists have only a few minutes between sessions to speak. Colleague-to-colleague calls are made via cell phone or pager.
I hear a generic outgoing recording (“Hi, you’ve reached the office of Wendell Bronson. I return my calls during business hours Monday through Friday. If this is an emergency, please call . . .”), and after the beep I leave a concise message with exactly the information a therapist wants—name, one-liner about why I’m calling, and return phone number. I’m doing well until, thinking it might get me in to see him sooner, I add that I’m also a therapist, but my voice cracks as I say the word therapist. Mortified, I cover with a cough and quickly hang up.
When Wendell calls me back an hour later, I try to sound as together as possible as I explain that I just need a little crisis management, a few weeks to “process” an unexpected breakup, and then I’ll be good to go. I’ve done therapy before, I say, so I come “preshrunk.” He doesn’t laugh at my joke so I’m pretty sure he has no sense of humor, but it doesn’t matter