Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, Her Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed

by Lori Gottlieb

Infant (hope)—trust versus mistrust Toddler (will)—autonomy versus shame Preschooler (purpose)—initiative versus guilt School-age child (competence)—industry versus inferiority Adolescent (fidelity)—identity versus role confusion Young adult (love)—intimacy versus isolation Middle-aged adult (care)—generativity versus stagnation Older adult (wisdom)—integrity versus despair

She was used to viewing the world from a place of deficit, and as a result, joy felt foreign to her. If you’re used to feeling abandoned, if you already know what it’s like for people to disappoint or reject you—well, it may not feel good, but at least there are no surprises; you know the customs in your own homeland. Once you step into foreign territory, though—if you spend time with reliable people who find you appealing and interesting—you might feel anxious and disoriented. All of a sudden, nothing’s familiar. You have no landmarks, nothing to go by, and all of the predictability of the world you’re used to is gone. The place you came from may not be great—it might, in fact, be pretty awful—but you knew exactly what you’d get there (disappointment, chaos, isolation, criticism).

Better not to get used to a full box of tissues, or a surrogate family next door, or people purchasing your art, or the man you’re dreaming about giving you a big fat kiss in the parking lot. Don’t delude yourself, sister! The second you get too comfortable—whoosh!—it will all go away. For Rita, joy isn’t pleasure; it’s anticipatory pain.

One thing that has surprised Julie about going through the process of watching herself die is how vivid her world has become. Everything that she used to take for granted produces a sense of revelation, as if she were a child again.

It’s a sunny Los Angeles day and I’m in a good mood as I park my car across the street from Wendell’s office. I almost hate being in too good of a mood on therapy days—what’s there to talk about?

It turns out that sessions to which patients come with neither a crisis nor an agenda tend to be the most revelatory ones. When we give our minds space to wander, they take us to the most unexpected and interesting places.

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not.

“What people do in therapy is like shooting baskets against a backboard. It’s necessary. But what they need to do then is go and play in an actual game.”

once, when I was complaining about the way a relative would try to make me feel guilty, my father quipped, “Just because she sends you guilt doesn’t mean you have to accept delivery.”

He also imagines the possibility that Gabe would have gone through a phase of butting up against John, and when John hears other parents complain about their high-schoolers, he thinks about what a luxury it would be to have the chance to nag Gabe about his homework or find weed in his room or catch him doing any of the pain-in-the-ass things that teens tend to do.

“That if you were happy, you couldn’t also be sad.”

I remember a woman I treated whose husband had died. When she fell in love a year later—a love all the more sweet because of the loss of her husband—she worried that others would judge her. (So soon? Didn’t you love your husband of thirty years?) In fact, her friends and family were excited for her. It wasn’t their judgment she was hearing—it was her own.

Daniel Gilbert at Harvard found that in responding to challenging life events from the devastating (becoming handicapped, losing a loved one) to the difficult (a divorce, an illness), people do better than they anticipate. They believe that they’ll never laugh again, but they do. They think they’ll never love again, but they do. They go grocery shopping and see movies; they have sex and dance at weddings; they overeat on Thanksgiving and go on diets in the New Year—the day-to-day returns. John’s reaction while playing with Grace wasn’t unusual; it was the norm.

And yet we do run small businesses, and Wendell’s father must have realized that his son, despite leaving the family’s company, had actually become a businessman after all. Maybe he took great joy in having that connection with his son.

Research shows that people tend to remember experiences based on how they end,

And in a way, our silences serve another purpose: They give us the illusion of stopping time. For fifty blissful minutes, we’re both granted a respite from the outside world.

calamities

She liked the idea of a “celebration of life,” which the party planner told her was all the rage nowadays, but she didn’t like the message that came with it. “It’s a funeral, for God’s sake,” she said. “All these people in my cancer group say, ‘I want people to celebrate! I don’t want people to be sad at my funeral.’ And I’m like, ‘Why the fuck not? You died!’”

“I’ll be driving, and I’ll panic about something, but then I’ll hear your voice,” she explained. “I’ll remember something you said.”

Now, as I stand in the kitchen waiting for Julie, I think about that conversation and about the ways I know that I’ll hear her voice too, long after she’s gone, especially at certain times, like while shopping at Trader Joe’s or folding laundry and seeing that pajama top with NAMAST’AY IN BED in the pile. I’m saving that top not to remember Boyfriend anymore, but to remember Julie.

You were afraid that if it didn’t work out, we would feel awkward living in the same building—as if it weren’t tremendously awkward seeing you with that woman, whose cackle I could hear two floors up, even with my television on.’” Rita looks up at me, raises her eyebrows in a question, and I shake my head. She strikes something out.

Wendell smiles as if to say, Displacement’s a bitch, isn’t it? We all use defense mechanisms to deal with anxiety, frustration, or unacceptable impulses, but what’s fascinating about them is that we aren’t aware of them in the moment. A familiar example is denial—a smoker might cling to the belief that his shortness of breath is due to the hot weather and not his cigarettes.

Displacement (shifting a feeling toward one person onto a safer alternative) is considered a neurotic defense, neither primitive nor mature. A person who was yelled at by her boss but could get fired if she yelled back might come home and yell at her dog. Or a woman who felt angry at her mother after a phone conversation might displace that anger onto her son.

“The nature of life is change and the nature of people is to resist change.”

“Thanks for . . . you know”—he searches for the right word—“everything.” My eyes tear up again. “You’re so welcome,” I say. “Well,” John says, clearing his throat and folding his pedicured feet onto the couch. “Now that the preliminaries are over, what the fuck should we talk about today?”

missive

told Rita what I tell everyone who’s afraid of getting hurt in relationships—which is to say, everyone with a heartbeat. I explained to her that even in the best possible relationship, you’re going to get hurt sometimes, and no matter how much you love somebody, you will at times hurt that person, not because you want to, but because you’re human. You will inevitably hurt your partner, your parents, your children, your closest friend—and they will hurt you—because if you sign up for intimacy, getting hurt is part of the deal.

doted

Sitting with Rita, I was reminded that the heart is just as fragile at seventy as it is at seventeen.

The vulnerability, the longing, the passion—they’re all there in full force.

Falling in love never gets old. No matter how jaded you are, how much suffering love has caused you, a new love can’t help but make you feel hope...

Rita told me that after her talk with Myron, they went to bed, and she enjoyed what she called “an eight-hour orgasm,” just what her skin hunger craved. “We slept in each other’s arms,” Rita said, “and that felt just as good as the several orgasms that came before it.”

While the changes in her life have added much-needed color to her days, she still experiences what she calls “pinches”: sadness over her children as she watches Myron with his; anxiety that comes with the novelty of being in a trusting relationship after her unstable history.

“You can’t do that to a seventy-year-old,” Rita says today, relishing the memory. “I almost went into cardiac arrest.” Standing in the crowd, clapping and laughing, were the hello-family—Anna, Kyle, Sophia, and Alice (the girls made paintings as gifts); Myron’s son and daughter and their children (who are gradually becoming another set of honorary grandchildren); and a few students from the college class she’s teaching (one student told her, “If you want to have an interesting conversation, talk to an old person”).

Nearly twenty people had come to celebrate a woman who a year earlier hadn’t had a friend in the world.

And though Rita’s days are finally full, she does have time to add a few more products to her website. One is a welcome sign that can be hung in people’s entryways. It consists of two large words surrounded by various stick figures who all look unhinged in their own ways. The sign reads HELLO, FAMILY!

The second is a print she created for Myron’s daughter, a teacher, who saw this message on a Post-it above Rita’s desk and asked if she’d make an artistic version for her classroom to teach kids resilience. It reads FAILURE IS PART OF BEING HUMAN.

Rita’s third addition is a small print featuring two abstract gray-haired people, their bodies entwined and in motion, surrounded by cartoon-like exclamations: Ouch . . . my back! Slow down . . . my heart! In elegant calligraphy above the bodies, she wrote, OLD PEOPLE STILL FUCK. It’s her best-selling piece to date.

I think again about the hierarchy of pain. When I first started seeing Julie, I imagined that it would be hard going from hearing about her CT scans and tumors to listening to “So, I think the babysitter is stealing from me” and “Why do I always have to initiate sex?” You think you have problems? I worried I’d say in my head. But it turned out that being with Julie made me more compassionate. Other patients’ problems mattered too: their betrayal by the person who’d been trusted to watch their child; their feelings of shame and emptiness when rejected by their spouses.

The invitation includes a note from Julie explaining that she wants people to come to a “cry-your-eyes-out goodbye party” and that she hopes her single friends might take advantage of the gathering “because if you meet at a funeral you’ll always remember how important love and life are, and to let the small stuff go.”

Of course I want to be there, and I’d considered the potential complications before I made my promise to Julie. Not every therapist would make the same choice. Some worry that this might be crossing a line—being overly invested, as it were. And while in some instances that might be true, it seems odd that in a profession dedicated to the human condition, therapists are expected to compartmentalize their humanity when it comes to their patients’ deaths.

She wrote the most achingly beautiful love letter in the form

Everyone should have at least one epic love story in their lives, Julie concluded. Ours was that for me. If we’re lucky, we might get two. I wish you another epic love story.

I apologized for calling her therapist an idiot and she apologized for calling me an asshole, and then we both started laughing, and I can’t remember the last time we laughed like that together. We couldn’t stop, and the girls heard us and they came in and looked at us like we were a couple of crazy people. ‘What’s so funny?’ they kept asking but we couldn’t explain it. I don’t think we even knew what was so funny. “Then the girls started laughing and we were all laughing about the fact that we couldn’t stop laughing. Ruby got on the floor and started rolling around, and then so did Gracie, and then Margo and I looked at each other and we got on the floor and all four of us were rolling around on our bedroom floor and laughing. And then Rosie runs over to see what all the commotion’s about, and when she sees us rolling around the floor, she freezes, right there in the doorway. She just stands there shaking her head, like, You humans are too much.

“The truth as I see it,” I say honestly, “is not that I’m an idiot or you’re an asshole but that sometimes in order to protect yourself, you act like

Recently John and I talked about the beauty of the word sometimes, how sometimes evens us out, keeps us in the comfortable middle rather than dangling on one end of the spectrum or the other, hanging on for dear life. It helps us escape from the tyranny of black-or-white thinking.

when Gabe died, he thought he’d never be happy again. Now, he says, he’s come to feel it’s not either/or, yes or no, always or never. “Maybe happiness is sometimes,” he says, leaning back on the sofa.

but John kept thinking about the famous saying “Those who can’t do, teach.”

“When I was rolling on the floor with my family,” he says, “I had the strangest thought. I was thinking that I wished you could see us.

not sure if it’s all of your annoying questions or the sadistic silences you put me through—but I feel like you get me, you know? And I don’t want your head to get too big or anything, but I thought, you have a more complete picture of my total humanity than anyone else in my life.” I’m so moved I can’t speak.