“Hi, it’s me,” I hear as I listen to my voicemails between sessions. My stomach lurches; it’s Boyfriend. Though it’s been three months since we’ve spoken, his voice instantly transports me back in time, like hearing a song from the past. But as the message continues, I realize it’s not Boyfriend because (a) Boyfriend wouldn’t call my office number and (b) Boyfriend doesn’t work on a TV show.
This “me” is John (eerily, Boyfriend and John have similar voices, deep and low) and it’s the first time a patient has called my office without leaving a name. He does this as if he’s the only patient I have, not to mention the only “me” in my life. Even suicidal patients will leave their names. I’ve never gotten Hi, it’s me. You told me to call if I was feeling like killing myself.
John says in his message that he can’t make our session today because he’s stuck at the studio, so he’ll be Skyping in instead. He gives me his Skype handle, then says, “Talk to you at three.”
I note that he doesn’t ask if we can Skype or inquire whether I do Skype sessions in the first place. He just assumes it will happen because that’s how the world works for him. And while I’ll Skype with patients under certain circumstances, I think it’s a bad idea with John. So much of what I’m doing to help him relies on our in-the-room interaction. Say what you will about the wonders of technology, but screen-to-screen is, as a colleague once said, “like doing therapy with a condom on.”
It’s not just the words people say or even the visual cues that therapists notice in person—the foot that shakes, the subtle facial twitch, the quivering lower lip, the eyes narrowing in anger. Beyond hearing and seeing, there’s something less tangible but equally important—the energy in the room, the being together. You lose that ineffable dimension when you aren’t sharing the same physical space.
(There’s also the issue of glitches. I was once on a Skype session with a patient who was in Asia temporarily, and just as she began crying hysterically, the volume went out. All I saw was her mouth moving, but she didn’t know that I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Before I could get that across, the connection dropped entirely. It took ten minutes to restore the Skype, and by then not only was the moment lost but our time had run out.)
I send John a quick email offering to reschedule, but he types back a message that reads like a modern-day telegram: Can’t w8. Urgent. Please. I’m surprised by the please and even more by his acknowledgment of needing urgent help—of needing me, rather than treating me as dispensable. So I say okay, we’ll Skype at three.
Something, I figure, must be up.
At three, I open Skype and click Call, expecting to find John sitting in an office at a desk. Instead, the call connects and I’m looking into a familiar house. It’s familiar to me because it’s one of the main sets of a TV show that Boyfriend and I used to binge-watch on my sofa, arms and legs entwined. Here, camera and lighting people are moving about, and I’m staring at the interior of a bedroom I’ve seen a million times. John’s face comes into view.
“Hang on a second” is how he greets me, and then his face disappears and I’m looking at his feet. Today he’s wearing trendy checkered sneakers, and he seems to be walking somewhere while carrying me with him. Presumably he’s looking for privacy. Along with his shoes, I see thick electrical wires on the floor and hear a commotion in the background. Then John’s face reappears.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m ready.”
There’s a wall behind him now, and he starts rapid-fire whispering.
“It’s Margo and her idiot therapist. I don’t know how this person has a license but he’s making things worse, not better. She was supposed to be getting help for her depression but instead she’s getting more upset with me: I’m not available, I’m not listening, I’m distant, I avoid her, I forgot something on the calendar. Did I tell you that she created a shared Google calendar to make sure I won’t forget things that are ‘important’”—with his free hand, John does an air quote as he says the word important—“so now I’m even more stressed because my calendar is filled with Margo’s things and I’ve already got a packed schedule!”
John has gone over this with me before so I’m not sure what the urgency is about today. Initially he had lobbied Margo to see a therapist (“So she can complain to him”) but once she started going, John often told me that this “idiot therapist” was “brainwashing” his wife and “putting crazy ideas in her head.” My sense has been that the therapist is helping Margo gain more clarity about what she will and will not put up with and that this exploration has been long overdue. I mean, it can’t be easy being married to John.
At the same time, I empathize with John because his reaction is common. Whenever one person in a family system starts to make changes, even if the changes are healthy and positive, it’s not unusual for other members in this system to do everything they can to maintain the status quo and bring things back to homeostasis. If an addict stops drinking, for instance, family members often unconsciously sabotage that person’s recovery, because in order to regain homeostasis in the system, somebody has to fill the role of the troubled person. And who wants that role? Sometimes people even resist positive changes in their friends: Why are you going to the gym so much? Why can’t you stay out late—you don’t need more sleep! Why are you working so hard for that promotion? You’re no fun anymore!
If John’s wife becomes less depressed, how can John keep his role as the sane one in the couple? If she tries to get close in healthier ways, how can he preserve the comfortable distance he has so masterfully managed all of these years? I’m not surprised that John is having a negative reaction to Margo’s therapy. Her therapist seems to be doing a good job.
“So,” John continues, “last night, Margo asks me to come to bed, and I tell her I’ll be there in a minute, I have to answer a few emails. Normally after about two minutes she’ll be all over me—Why aren’t you coming to bed? Why are you always working? But last night, she doesn’t do any of that. And I’m amazed! I think, Jesus Christ, something’s finally working in her therapy, because she’s realizing that nagging me about coming to bed isn’t going to get me in bed any faster. So I finish my emails, but when I get in bed, Margo’s asleep. Anyway, this morning, when we wake up, Margo says, ‘I’m glad you got your work done, but I miss you. I miss you a lot. I just want you to know that I miss you.’”
John turns to his left and now I hear what he hears—a nearby conversation about lighting—and without his saying a word, I’m staring at John’s sneakers again as they move across the floor. When I see his face appear this time, the wall behind him is gone, and now the star of the TV series is in the distant background in the upper-right corner of my screen, laughing with his on-camera nemesis along with the love interest he verbally abuses on the show. (I’m sure John is the one who writes this character.)
I love these actors, so now I’m squinting at the three of them through my screen like I’m one of those people behind the ropes at the Emmys trying to get a glimpse of a celebrity—except this isn’t the red carpet and I’m watching them take sips from water bottles while they chat between scenes. The paparazzi would kill for this view, I think, and it takes massive willpower to focus solely on John.
“Anyway,” he whispers, “I knew it was too good to be true. I thought she was being understanding last night, but of course the complaining starts up again first thing this morning. So I say, ‘You miss me? What kind of guilt trip is that?’ I mean, I’m right here. I’m here every night. I’m one hundred percent loyal. Never cheated, never will. I provide a nice living. I’m an involved father. I even take care of the dog because Margo says she hates walking around with plastic bags of poop. And when I’m not there, I’m working. It’s not like I’m off in Cabo all day. So I tell her I can quit my job and she can miss me less because I’ll be twiddling my thumbs at home, or I can keep my job and we’ll have a roof over our heads.” He yells “I’ll just be a minute!” to someone I can’t see and then continues. “And you know what she does when I say this? She says, all Oprah-like”—here he does a dead-on impression of Oprah—“‘I know you do a lot, and I appreciate that, but I also miss you even when you’re here.’”
I try to speak but John plows on. I haven’t seen him this stirred up before.
“So for a second I’m relieved, because normally she’d yell at this point, but then I realize what’s going on. This sounds nothing like Margo. She’s up to something! And sure enough, she says, ‘I really need you to hear this.’ And I say, ‘I hear it, okay? I’m not deaf. I’ll try to come to bed earlier but I have to get my work done first.’ But then she gets this sad look on her face, like she’s about to cry, and it kills me when she gets that look, because I don’t want to make her sad. The last thing I want to do is disappoint her. But before I can say anything, she says, ‘I need you to hear how much I miss you because if you don’t hear it, I don’t know how much longer I can keep telling you.’ So I say, ‘We’re threatening each other now?’ and she says, ‘It’s not a threat, it’s the truth.’” John’s eyes become saucers and his free hand juts into the air, palm up, as if to say, Can you believe this shit?
“I don’t think she’d actually do it,” he goes on, “but it shocked me because neither of us has ever threatened to leave before. When we got married we always said that no matter how angry we got, we would never threaten to leave, and in twelve years, we haven’t.” He looks to his right. “Okay, Tommy, let me take a look—”
John stops talking and suddenly I’m staring at his sneakers again. When he finishes with Tommy, he starts walking somewhere. A minute later his face pops up; he’s in front of another wall.
“John,” I say. “Let’s take a step back. First, I know you’re upset by what Margo said—”
“What Margo said? It’s not even her! It’s her idiot therapist acting as her ventriloquist! She loves this guy. She quotes him all the time, like he’s her fucking guru. He probably serves Kool-Aid in the waiting room, and women all over the city are divorcing their husbands because they’re drinking this guy’s bullshit! I looked him up just to see what his credentials are and, sure enough, some moron therapy board gave him a license. Wendell Bronson, P-h-fucking-D.”
Wait.
Wendell Bronson?
!
!!
!!!!
!!!!!!!
Margo is seeing my Wendell? The “idiot therapist” is Wendell? My mind explodes. I wonder where on the couch Margo chose to sit on her first day. I wonder if Wendell tosses her tissue boxes or if she sits close enough to reach them herself. I wonder if we’ve ever passed each other on the way in or out (the pretty crying woman from the waiting room?). I wonder if she’s ever mentioned my name in her own therapy—“John has this awful therapist, Lori Gottlieb, who said . . .” But then I remember that John is keeping his therapy a secret from Margo—I’m the “hooker” he pays in cash—and right now, I’m tremendously grateful for this circumstance. I don’t know what to do with this information, so I do what therapists are taught to do when we’re having a complicated reaction to something and need more time to understand it. I do nothing—for the moment. I’ll get consultation on this later.
“Let’s stay with Margo for a second,” I say, as much to myself as to John. “I think what she said was sweet. She must really love you.”
“Huh? She’s threatening to leave!”
“Well, let’s look at it another way,” I say. “We’ve talked before about how there’s a difference between a criticism and a complaint, how the former contains judgment while the latter contains a request. But a complaint can also be an unvoiced compliment. I know that what Margo says often feels like a series of complaints. And they are—but they’re sweet complaints because inside each complaint, she’s giving you a compliment. The presentation isn’t optimal, but she’s saying that she loves you. She wants more of you. She misses you. She’s asking you to come closer. And now she’s saying that the experience of wanting to be with you and not having that reciprocated is so painful that she might not be able to tolerate it because she loves you so much.” I wait to let him absorb that last part. “That’s quite a compliment.”