Maybe You Should Talk to Someon - Lori Gottlieb Page 0,163

welcome your vulnerability,” Wendell had said, “the less afraid you’ll feel.”

This isn’t how we tend to view life when we’re younger. Our younger selves think in terms of a beginning, middle, and some kind of resolution. But somewhere along the way—perhaps in that middle—we realize that everyone lives with things that may not get worked out. That the middle has to be the resolution, and how we make meaning of it becomes our task. Although time feels like it’s slipping away and I just can’t hold on to it, something else is true too: My illness has sharpened my focus. It’s why I couldn’t write the wrong book. It’s why I’m dating again. It’s why I’m soaking in my mother and looking at her with a generosity I have for so long been unable to access. And it’s why Wendell is helping me examine the mothering I’ll leave Zach with someday. Now I keep in mind that none of us can love and be loved without the possibility of loss but that there’s a difference between knowledge and terror.

As Julie imagines her mother in therapy, I wonder what Zach might say to a therapist about me when he’s grown.

And then I think: I hope he finds his Wendell.

53

The Hug

I’m curled up on the couch—my living-room couch, that is—with Allison, my college friend who’s in town from the Midwest. We’re surfing channels after dinner and land on John’s show. She has no idea that John is my patient. I keep going, wanting to watch something light and breezy.

“Wait,” Allison says, “go back!” Turns out she loves John’s show.

I click back with the remote. I haven’t seen the show in a while, so I try to catch up. Some of the people have changed; their relationships are new. I’m half watching, half dozing, content to be relaxing with my longtime friend.

“She’s so great, isn’t she?” Allison says.

“Who?” I ask sleepily.

“The therapist character.”

I open my eyes. The main character is in what appears to be a therapist’s office. The therapist is a petite brunette in glasses—but in typical Hollywood fashion, she’s stunning in an intellectual way. Maybe that’s the kind of woman John would take as a mistress, I think. The main character is getting up to leave. He appears troubled. She walks him to the door.

“You look like you need a hug,” the main character says to the therapist.

The therapist seems surprised for a split second, then shifts into neutral. “Are you saying you’d like a hug?” she asks.

“No,” he says. There’s a beat, and then suddenly he leans down and hugs her. It’s not sexual, but it’s intense. The camera moves in on the character’s face: his eyes are closed, but a tear escapes. He rests his head on her shoulder and seems at peace. Then the camera pans around to the therapist’s face, and her eyes are open wide, bulging, as if she wants to bolt. It’s like those scenes in romantic comedies after two people have finally slept together and one person has a look of utter bliss while the other looks completely freaked out.

“I think we both feel better now,” the character says, letting go of the embrace and turning to leave. He walks away, and the scene ends on the therapist’s expression: What the hell just happened?

It’s a funny moment and Allison laughs, but I’m as confused as the therapist in the show. Is John acknowledging his affection for me? Is he making fun of himself, of the way he projects his needs onto others? Television shows are written months in advance. Was he aware back then of how obnoxious he can be? Is he now?

“So many shows have therapists lately,” Allison says. She starts talking about her favorite TV therapists: Jennifer Melfi from The Sopranos, Tobias Fünke from Arrested Development, Niles Crane from Frasier, even the goofy Marvin Monroe on The Simpsons.

“Did you ever watch In Treatment?” I ask. “The Gabriel Byrne character?”

“Oh, yeah—loved him,” she says. “But this one’s more realistic.”

“You think so?” I say, wondering now whether this character is modeled after me or after the “nice, but an idiot” therapist John saw before me. Shows are staffed by a dozen or so writers who are assigned their own episodes, so it’s also possible that this character was created by another writer altogether.

I keep the show on through the credits, though I know exactly what they’ll say. This episode was written by John.

“I watched your show last week,” I tell John at our next