Therapy

I was having a difficult conversation with a friend about another friend who thinks I betrayed her. I place such a high value on my female friendships, almost higher than my marriage, so this misunderstanding about a work matter that's intruding on our friendship is extremely disturbing to me.

I was pacing the long hallway here at the Hotel Hibernia aka The Sweatshop aka the Art Asylum. Without thinking much and without even getting off the phone I walked into the open door of a cute couple who waived me in. They were sitting on their plush burgundy carpet in front of an alter and had a bong loaded up. While listening to my friend I took one deep drag. It was Friday-like. I wanted to change my reality.

I kept listening to my friend explain why my other friend is so hurt by my actions. I understood better as the high grade Santa Cruz Kush with a bit of kief sprinkled lovingly on top seeped into my brain.

But then remembered I had to make a deposit at the f-ing bank. So I kept listening and talking as I walked down Market Street. My friend laughed at me when I told her what I was doing. I was having trouble with the ATM machine but still rapt in conversation about feelings and the politics of the workplace. It was dark by now, and I hoped that the neon sign over my head flashing "not paying attention" did not register with anyone lurking and looking for an easy target.

I concluded that I need to apologize to my other friend, and do whatever it takes to make her feel better. It doesn't matter who is right.

When I got home with cash in my pocket Joe arrived. I like to tell him right away that I'm stoned, so that he doesn't make fun of me or get mad when he notices. "Just letting you know," I like to say. I only allow myself to get stoned on weekends and special occasions. It's cheap therapy.

Joe said immediately, "What about therapy?"

Ooops. That's a rule. Never get stoned before therapy or important talks. Or of course work or anything work-ish like paying bills. Shit.

"Don't be mad at me baby, please?" He was mad for a few seconds, then decided not to be.

So when we arrived at our therapist's offie I told her immediately, "I'm stoned." She said without missing a beat, "Welcome to the club." We spent the first few minutes while I made out her check talking about joining a pot club, how she loves learning about and tasting all the different strains. I should have known that she would not be mad.

I love our therapist. She's so genius. It was the best session we've ever had. She got to watch Joe and me in action in a way that has never happened before and she kept bringing it back and asking hard questions while mingling it with anecdotes. She gets Joe in a way that no one else ever has, and it helps me see him differently.

She gets me, too, in a freakishly accurate way that startles me.

First we talked about how great it is that I finally have my own studio. How it allows me to see Joe in a new way, as an individual. We talked about Mating in Captivity, the Esther Perel book that inspired the title of my novel and this blog. Joe expressed his skepticism about Perel's "over-use of anecdotes" about couples that does not, in his view, represent "researched-based science." Our therapist argued that her own books about couples were not at all scientific, and that there are just too many variables in human behavior. We talked about the work of Virginia Satir the "Mother of Family Therapy."

I expressed my fear that we will fall back into bad patterns. "What are the triggers?" I asked out loud. "Oh yeah...Money."

Then we broached that painful subject. She identified with Joe's commitment to keeping a wide open schedule so he can do his art. And the hardship that results from it. And commended us for declaring financial independence from one another. Somehow she validated me in the discussion while also validating Joe. She watched as I theorized that I use our money problems to distance myself from Joe, as a device for creating that necessary space between us. She brought it back to reality: my anxiety about money is real and anyone would be deeply anxious in my situation. And suggested ways that we can talk about our own anxieties without blaming the other or taking blame.

We talked about why blogging is good for me after she made seemless reference to things I'd written about in Acting My Age and Money, Love and Art. "Having children forces you into routines and predictability, and now you are entering a phase where that isn't as necessary. You finally have more expansiveness, and you are chaffing at Joe's desire for you to remain predictable." "Gosh, Dxxx," I said, "I really feel like I'm getting my money's worth when you spend time off the clock on my backstory." Again, she didn't miss a beat.

She gave us some clear steps for "no-lose" conflict resolution. It's all about deciding to make appointments for the hardest talks. About being able to say, "I'm not ready for this conversation," but making a commitment to having it at a specific time in the future. About giving yourself time to prepare and really figure out how to say the hard things. Then saying them when you are ready.

Somehow all of this and much more in a short 50 minutes.

Now I realize that is what I need to do with my friend who is mad at me. She has not been ready to have the hard talk, and is figuring out what she wants to say. And so am I.