As calmly as possible, I begin to tell Wendell the Boyfriend story, but almost immediately, my dignity’s gone and I’m sobbing. I go through the entire story play-by-play and by the time I’m done, my hands are covering my face, my body is shaking, and I think about what Jen said on the phone when she called to check on me yesterday: “You need to find a place where you’re not being a therapist.”
I’m definitely not being a therapist right now. I’m making the case for why Boyfriend must be blamed for all of this: If he hadn’t been so avoidant ( Jen’s diagnosis), I wouldn’t have been so blindsided. And, I add, he must be a sociopath (again quoting Jen; this is exactly the reason therapists can’t see their friends for therapy), because I had no idea that he felt this way—he was such a good actor! And even if he’s not a certifiable sociopath, he’s clearly missing a few marbles, because who keeps something this big to himself for God knows how long? After all, I know what normal communication looks like, especially because I see so many couples in my practice, and besides . . .
I look up and I think I see Wendell suppress a smile (I imagine his thought bubble: This wacko’s a therapist . . . who treats couples?) but it’s hard to tell because I can’t see very well. It’s like looking through the windshield of a car without its wipers on during a rainstorm. In a strange way, I’m relieved to be able to cry this hard in front of another person, even if that person is a stranger who doesn’t say much.
After a bunch of empathetic Mmms, Wendell asks a question: “Is this a typical breakup reaction for you?” His tone is kind, but I know what he’s getting at. He’s trying to determine what’s known as my attachment style. Attachment styles are formed early in childhood based on our interactions with our caregivers. Attachment styles are significant because they play out in people’s adult relationships too, influencing the kinds of partners they pick (stable or less stable), how they behave during the course of a relationship (needy, distant, or volatile), and how their relationships tend to end (wistfully, amiably, or with a huge explosion). The good news is that maladaptive attachment styles can be modified in adulthood—this, in fact, is a lot of the work of therapy.
“No, this isn’t typical,” I insist, using my sleeve to dry my tears. I let him know that I’ve had long-term relationships and I’ve gone through breakups but not like this. And, I reiterate, the only reason I’m having this reaction is that this particular breakup was such a shock, so out of left field, and isn’t what Boyfriend did the most confusing and bizarre and . . . UNETHICAL thing to do to someone?
I’m sure that this married professional with kids is going to say something supportive right now about how painful it is to be blindsided but that in the long run, thank goodness this happened, because I dodged a bullet—not just for me, but for my son. I sit back, take a breath, and wait for the validation to pour in.
But Wendell doesn’t offer any. Of course, I didn’t expect him to call Boyfriend trash, as Allison had; a therapist would use more neutral language, such as “It sounds like he had a lot of feelings that he didn’t communicate directly to you.” Still, Wendell says nothing.
My tears are starting to spill onto my pants again when out of the corner of my eye, I see an object flying through the air toward me. At first it looks like a football, and I wonder if I’m hallucinating (from the zero hours of restful sleep I’ve gotten since the breakup), but then I realize that it’s a brown box of tissues—the one that was on the end table between the sofas, next to the seat I didn’t take. Instinctively, my hands fly up to catch it, but I miss. It lands with a thud on the cushion next to me, and I grab a bunch of tissues and blow my nose. Having the box there seems to narrow the space between Wendell and me, as if he just threw me a lifeline. Over the years, I’ve handed tissue boxes to patients countless times, but I’d forgotten how cared for that simple gesture can make someone feel.
A phrase I first heard in graduate school pops into my head: “the therapeutic act, not the therapeutic word.”
I take more tissues and wipe my eyes. Wendell is watching me, waiting.
I continue talking about Boyfriend and his avoidance issues, building a case using details from his past, including the way his marriage ended, which wasn’t dissimilar to how our relationship ended in terms of shock value for his wife and kids. I’m telling Wendell everything I knew about Boyfriend’s history of avoidance without realizing that what I’m unintentionally illustrating is my avoidance of his avoidance—about which apparently I knew quite a bit.
Wendell tilts his head slightly, a questioning smile on his face. “It’s curious, isn’t it, given what you knew about his history, that this is such a shock to you?”
“But it is a shock,” I say. “He’d never said anything about not wanting a kid in the house! In fact, he’d just talked to HR at his firm to make sure that he could put my son on his benefits policy once we were married!” I go over the entire chronology again, adding more evidence to support my story, then notice that Wendell’s face is starting to cloud over.
“I know I’m being repetitive,” I say. “But you have to understand, I was expecting that we would spend the rest of our lives together. This was how things were supposed to go, and now it’s all up in the air. Half my life is over, and I have no idea what’s going to happen. What if Boyfriend was the last person I fall in love with? What if he was the end of the line?”
“The end of the line?” Wendell perks up.
“Yeah, the end of the line,” I say.
He waits for me to continue, but instead my tears return. Not the wild sobs of the past week, but something both calmer and deeper.
Quieter.
“I know that you feel caught by surprise,” Wendell says. “But I’m also interested in something else you said. Half your life is over. Maybe what you’re grieving isn’t just the breakup, though I know this experience feels devastating.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “I wonder if you’re grieving something bigger than the loss of your boyfriend.”
He looks at me meaningfully, like he just said something incredibly important and profound, but I kind of want to punch him.
What a load of garbage, I think. I mean, really? I was fine—more than fine; I was fine-plus—before this turn of events. I have a child I adore beyond measure. I have a career I enjoy immensely. I have a supportive family and amazing friends whom I care about and who care about me. I’m grateful for this life . . . okay, sometimes I’m grateful. I certainly try to be grateful. And now I’m frustrated. I’m paying this therapist to help me with a painful breakup and this is what he has to offer?
Grieving something bigger, my ass.
Before I can say this, I notice that Wendell is looking at me in a way I’m not used to being looked at. His eyes are like magnets, and every time I glance away, they seem to find me. His expression is intense but gentle, a combination of a wise elder and a stuffed animal, and it comes with a message: In this room, I’m going to see you, and you’ll try to hide, but I’ll still see you, and it’s going to be okay when I do.
But I’m not here for that. As I told Wendell when I called to schedule the appointment, I just need some crisis management.