Poet Meets Counselor
by Patti See
I am to tell the kind-faced, middle-aged woman in the easy
chair before me—a stranger—that I am planning to leave
my husband of ten years. When she asks why I’m here I tell
her I want to separate with grace and strength. I want to know
if there’s any way to make a good divorce. She nods her
kind face. Go on, go on.
I say, "I want to establish a relationship here in case
my husband and son need some assistance during this lifestyle
change." I am good at euphemisms. Assistance? As if this
is comparable to a car breaking down on the highway or a homework
hotline answer to a math problem. I cannot do this alone. Is
that why I’m really here?
Women like me don’t go to counselors. We talk to our
girlfriends in a crowded bar at happy hour, make plans on cocktail
napkins about who we want to grow up to be, the lives we’ll
have at forty or fifty. We dig in, buck up, cry over homemade
soup slow to boil or whites hung out on a crisp spring day, believe
everything will get better tomorrow or next year. We don’t
make an appointment weeks in advance to tell our troubles to
a stranger. Did I make the call because I know my life with my
husband will not get better? Because I know when to seek out
an expert?
Judy Marshall doesn’t look like an expert. She’s
a forty-five year old woman with long auburn hair pulled back
in a barrette, a navy blazer and sensible shoes. Her desk is
pushed against one wall covered in Anne Geddes’ photos of
babies in caterpillar outfits and cabbage hats. Along another
wall a ratty plaid loveseat and recliner are squared off giving
her office a part Brady Bunch den, part cubicle feel. On a bookshelf
are tattered stuffed bunnies, Barbie dolls in short shirts, a
tin dollhouse with plastic people and all the props of a home,
and puzzles in torn boxes that a newcomer might guess are missing
a piece or two. Judy is a marriage and family counselor who sees
clients—children—in worse shape than I am. For a moment,
eyeing the toys, I feel guilty. I am merely unhappy in a stagnant
marriage. No fights, no abuse, no bruises. What makes me think
I belong here?
Contemplating my appointment the night before, writing down
notes I wanted to get to, was somewhere between preparing for
a job interview or face to face confession. What will I wear?
What will I say or gloss over or leave out altogether? How many
Hail Mary’s this time? What will be my punishment?
I knew only this counselor’s name, so I imagined her
as "Judge Judy," someone to tell me like it is, to
straighten me out once and for all. Last night I fell asleep
thinking, I’m the boss, Applesauce.
This morning, applying mascara, I realized that I have never
spoken truth to a stranger without a bar between us.
I am relieved that this is merely a get-to-know-you session.
Judy asks questions from an initial interview form.
Read the rest of the story here... |
