Page 4 of The Therapist
I worry about why I offered the space to him over any of the women. We all have the same basic qualifications but Ben spent years practising in the UK so perhaps I thought he would bring a different perspective.Or perhaps you really liked his smile. I hate having to question myself. My ability to maintain control over everything is a source of pride. Even through my divorce, I remained calm, unruffled, able to communicate logically with my lawyer and negotiate with Oliver, despite what he had done.
‘It’s just that…’ Ben shoves his hands in his pockets, walks around the room looking at the few benign objects I have on display like the wooden bowl filled with dry, lightly scented rose petals and the glass vase filled with multicoloured marbles – objects that add some colour but cannot upset or offend anyone.
‘Just that?’
‘I’m really worried about her.’ I feel like there is more to this than Ben is telling me, some other reason why he doesn’t want to tell this woman to find another therapist, but I don’t really have the time to go into it with him now.
A rumble of thunder makes me turn towards the window and I silently curse the rain, knowing that I am wasting valuable driving time. ‘I understand,’ I tell Ben, ‘but I don’t think it would be the right thing to do.’
He nods his acceptance and smiles. ‘Thanks for listening anyway,’ he says as he leaves and goes back into his office.
I make my way down the back six flights of stairs of our building so I can get some incidental exercise in, and as I climb into my car in the parking garage, I think about the client Ben says he’s attracted to.
I wonder what she looks like. I’m sure she’s really pretty, beautiful even.
Quickly dismissing the thought, I put her out of my mind because I can’t treat her. It would obviously be a very bad idea.
TWO
Sandy
No one ever told me that ageing would be the worst experience of my life.
Every morning, I get out of bed and go to the bathroom mirror, stand close and study my face, searching for signs of decay. With microscopic intensity, I examine my skin for wrinkles and marks and my body for sagging parts. I am fighting time and gravity and I hate it, but that’s not what I hate most about getting older.
Today I can see that the line between my eyes is a little deeper, a little more visible. No doubt courtesy of last night’s drunken argument with him. I see the two of us, me with my wine, him with his beer, shouting and spitting our hate for each other. Leaning forward, I use my fingers to stretch the skin. Would a facelift help? Botox? Fillers? All of that is so expensive.
But the loss of physical beauty is not the worst thing. The worst thing about ageing is the loss of hope and expectation and choices. At sixteen I was glorious with peachy skin and a firm body. I was the girl who turned heads wherever I went. Boysdanced to my tune and they were so entertaining to play with, to use and discard, to destroy when I could.
The world was my oyster. I was going to do everything, go everywhere. I was going to leave my small life behind and conquer the world. I saw the rest of my life as a bigger version of school, where my looks opened every door and always got me what I wanted.
But then I was seventeen and eighteen and nineteen and I realised that conquering the world is not as easy as it seems because beautiful girls are everywhere.
I had to take a mundane job so that I could live. Money is boring but so very necessary. But even at nineteen and twenty, even at twenty-five, I still had hope for a grand life. I was waiting, biding my time until the hand of fate gave me everything I wanted.
And then I fell into infatuation. I won’t say it was ‘love’ because I don’t do that. I can’t do that. But I was drawn to his physical beauty and so I let my guard down a little. That was stupid. And then I got pregnant and I let him convince me that it was a good thing. And now I am here with two children and ‘the husband’. We are two beautiful people who have made each other ugly by staying locked together in a toxic marriage dance.
When I’m not in an argument with him, I feel trapped and bored as I watch the wrinkles write themselves onto my face. When I am in an argument with him, I am filled with fury and venom and I hate myself as much as I hate him.
Is it any wonder that I need to entertain myself, that I find ways to keep myself amused? What other choice do I have as I stagnate in this small house, tied to a family I have no interest in?
I watch the man I married as he ties himself in knots to keep me happy and then lashes out when he sees that he’s failed. It makes me smile to see him out of control. I like it.
And until a few months ago, that was at least keeping me going. But then it wasn’t enough. I needed someone outside of my life, a stranger, someone who would listen to whatever I said, someone who would give me all his attention. I crave attention, focused and pure. It feeds me like water feeds a plant. I know myself in a way that few people ever do. I know who I am and what I need.
I found the perfect person. A therapist. Who better to listen to me, to tell me that I am perfect and the world around me is damaged, the people around me a disappointment? I walked into his office with my prepared story and my mask in place.
‘Sandy, Sandy!’ I hear him, the husband, my husband, my burden, calling me, and I groan, leaving the mirror to go downstairs.
‘Can you take over here? I have to get to work. Stop crying, Felix, just stop,’ he screams, and my stomach turns at the chaos in the kitchen. My seven-year-old son’s nose is running and he is only half dressed.
‘Mr Teddy is coming to school today,’ my daughter tells us, attempting to stuff the large purple toy into her backpack.
‘No, he’s not,’ I reply. She’s a real little madam, this five-year-old child of mine. I can see my own personality every time she opens her mouth and I have to resist the urge to tell her, ‘There can only be one little girl, only one.’
‘Mr Teddy is coming to school today,’ repeats Lila, a look of pure determination in her green eyes.
‘For God’s sake,’ he mutters.
