Maybe You Should Talk to Someon - Lori Gottlieb Page 0,180
situations to my liking might have played a part in my being blindsided by Boyfriend. Wendell didn’t want to do therapy the way I wanted him to. Boyfriend didn’t want to live in contented domesticity the way I wanted him to. Boyfriend tried to accommodate me until he couldn’t anymore. Wendell wouldn’t waste my time that way, he explained; he didn’t want to say two years in, like Boyfriend did, Sorry, I can’t do this.
I remember how I both loved and hated Wendell for saying that. It’s like when somebody finally has the guts to tell you that you have a problem and you feel both defensive and relieved that this person is telling it like it is. That’s the delicate work that therapists do. Wendell and I worked on my grief but also my self-imprisonment. And we did it together—it wasn’t all me. Therapy can only work if it’s a joint endeavor.
Nobody is going to save you, Wendell had said. Wendell didn’t save me, but he did help me to save myself.
So when I express my gratitude to Wendell, he doesn’t push away the compliment with a trite line of humility.
He says, “It’s been my pleasure.”
Recently John observed that a good television series leaves viewers feeling like the time between weekly episodes is simply a pause in the story. Similarly, he said, he began to realize that each of our sessions wasn’t a discrete conversation but a continuing one and that the time between sessions was just a pause, not a period. I share this with Wendell as the minutes wind down in our final session. “Let’s consider this a pause in the conversation,” I say. “Like every week, but longer.”
I tell him I may come back one day, because it’s true; people leave and come back at different times in their lives. And when they do, the therapist is still there, sitting in the same chair, holding all of their shared history.
“We can still consider it a pause,” Wendell replies, then adds the part that’s hardest to say. “Even if we don’t meet again.”
I smile, knowing exactly what he means. Relationships in life don’t really end, even if you never see the person again. Every person you’ve been close to lives on somewhere inside you. Your past lovers, your parents, your friends, people both alive and dead (symbolically or literally)—all of them evoke memories, conscious or not. Often they inform how you relate to yourself and others. Sometimes you have conversations with them in your head; sometimes they speak to you in your sleep.
In the weeks leading up to this session, I’ve been having dreams about my leaving. In one, I imagine seeing Wendell at a conference. He’s standing with somebody I don’t know and I’m not sure if he’s seen me. I feel a yawning distance between us and all that once lived between us. And then it happens: He looks over. I nod. He nods. There’s a hint of a smile that only I can see.
In another dream, I’m visiting a friend at her therapy office—who this friend is isn’t clear—and as I exit the elevator on her floor, I see Wendell leaving the suite. I wonder if he’s there to meet with colleagues for a consultation group. Or maybe he has just left his own therapy session. I’m fascinated; Wendell’s therapist! Is one of these therapists Wendell’s? Is my friend Wendell’s therapist? Either way, he’s not self-conscious about it. “Hi,” he says warmly on his way out. “Hi,” I say on my way in.
I wonder what these dreams mean. I’m always embarrassed as a therapist when I can’t understand my own dreams. I bring them to Wendell. He doesn’t know what they mean either. We come up with theories, two therapists analyzing one therapist’s dreams. We talk about how I felt during the dreams. We talk about how I feel now—both anxious and excited to move on. We talk about how hard it can be to get attached and say goodbye.
“Okay,” I say now in Wendell’s office. “A pause.”
We have about a minute left, and I try to take in the moment, memorize it. Wendell with his crossed and impossibly long legs, his stylish button-down and khakis, and today’s trendy blue lace-ups over socks with patterned squares. His face—curious, compassionate, present. His beard with the flecks of gray. The table with the tissues between us. The armoire, the bookshelf, and the desk that always has his laptop on it and nothing else.