I also enjoyed talking about personal things—a delicious meal I had prepared, a good book I was reading, and of course, my relationship with my mother. It was all about me, which was what made it so intoxicating, to be listened to like that. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it felt like to meet your perfect match. Whatever I said—even if it was mundane—he would listen with interest and inquire further, always appearing completely rapt. Those hours with Dr. Robinson had become the most electrifying hours of my entire adult life.
Gathering up my things, I went to the ladies’ room to freshen up and apply some makeup, which I had purchased at Walgreens that morning. Face powder, mascara, and lip gloss. It felt strange because I never wore makeup.
After I put it on, however, I studied my reflection in the mirror and hated what I saw. A wave of nausea crept up from the pit of my stomach, so I grabbed some tissue from one of the stalls and quickly scrubbed at my face. Then I stuffed everything back into my bag and hurried out the door.
“I’d like to talk about something that just happened,” I said to Dr. Robinson when I sat down on the sofa in his office. He sat across from me in the big armchair, his notepad on his lap, hands upon it, clasped together.
It was a bold and daring request I was making. I had struggled with the idea of bringing it up during the subway ride, and I had rehearsed a few different ways of communicating the issue. I also debated with myself about whether I should introduce a topic that could completely backfire on me. But Dr. Robinson had become my most intimate confidant, and he had proved to me that this room was a safe space where I could say anything without fear of judgment. I felt close to him now, I trusted him, and it seemed wrong not to bare my soul in this matter. He was my therapist after all. It was his role in my life to help me gain better self-awareness and learn not to bury my feelings. To truly understand myself.
“We can talk about whatever you like,” he replied in his usual warm, magnanimous manner that broke down all my walls and filled me with courage.
“All right.” I paused and lowered my gaze as I spoke. “Just before I came over here, I put on some makeup.” I swallowed uneasily, kept my eyes fixed on the floor. “I wanted to look nice, so I powdered my nose and applied lipstick. I’m only mentioning it because it feels significant. Because I never wear makeup.”
I looked across at Dr. Robinson. I’m not sure what sort of response I was expecting, but he watched me with concern, his expression serious. I waited for him to say something, but of course he didn’t.
Suddenly we were back to the early days of our sessions together, where he would wait patiently for me to lead our conversation somewhere that suited me, and long silences would arise until I filled them.
“But then I looked at myself,” I continued, “and I felt totally pathetic. I mean . . . what was I trying to do? Make myself sexy and attractive? For you? My therapist? That’s crazy, right?”
He shifted in his chair, and the awkwardness caused me to lose my nerve, so I dropped my gaze and fiddled with my thumbnail. “All I could think about was my mother and how she used to get all gussied up to go out at night, looking for a man. She would curl her hair like Farrah Fawcett. I remember she had these green satin shorts that she called ‘hot pants.’ She’d wear them with shiny black patent leather go-go boots. It never failed. She always managed to bring some guy home from the bar, and it would last for a while. Until it didn’t.”
Dr. Robinson touched the pads of his fingertips together and waited for me to continue.
“That’s why I felt nauseous in the bathroom. It was the lipstick. I had to rub it all off.” I sighed heavily. “I think the point is that . . . I’m still doing it.”
“Doing what?” he asked.
“Living in fear that I’m going to end up like my mother.” This time I stared at him and waited for him to speak.
“And that’s why you washed off the makeup?” he asked.
I nodded, tipped my head back against the sofa cushion, and slouched down low. “I always dreamed that one day a man would love me for who I was on the inside, not because of my cleavage or my big hair. And he would love me forever and he wouldn’t leave. And lately . . .”
I swallowed hard and tried to summon my courage again, but it was gone.
Dr. Robinson remained quiet. I wished he would say something. I wanted him to recognize what I was really trying to explain—that he had awakened a desire in me. A desire to feel sexually attractive. I wanted him to understand that I was falling in love with him.
I sat up again. “So what do you think about that, Doctor?”
I realized this had become a mildly flirtatious pet name I liked to use whenever I felt a spark flicker between us. It represented a deeper attraction that neither of us would ever dare to acknowledge because there were professional ethics to consider here. His, not mine. Of course, I would never do anything to jeopardize his reputation or career. I respected him too much for that, and I cared about his happiness.
Dr. Robinson cleared his throat. “Well,” he finally said, after taking a moment to think before he spoke. “It’s been quite clear to me . . . and I believe you already know this yourself, Melanie. You knew it long before you started seeing me. You know that you carry a resentment toward your mother for not providing you with a traditional family life and a steady father figure.”
I felt my brow furrow. Where was he going with this?
“This is why your feelings around her death were so confusing to you,” he continued. “You didn’t know whether to be sad or indifferent or to feel guilty because you hadn’t spoken to her in so long. And that confusion spilled over into all the other aspects of your life, including your work. It made you question your choices in the past and made you doubt who you really are. If you want to wear makeup, you should be able to wear makeup. It should have nothing to do with your mother. Yet it does, so clearly we still have some work to do.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if this was just a way of changing the subject, a redirection to usher me away from the true point I was trying to make. I had already lost my nerve about that, so I followed his lead.
“We’ve gotten sidetracked lately, haven’t we,” I said, “talking about my dissertation. But that’s been helpful too. Your interest in the subject made me remember why I was always so fascinated by it. And that was my goal when I came here. To figure out if I was on the right path.”
“I’m glad our sessions have been helpful,” he said. “But if it’s all right with you, I’d like to go back to what you were saying earlier, when you were describing your mother to me.”
Not knowing what to expect, I shifted my position on the sofa. “You have a theory?” I asked.
“Possibly.” He set his notebook aside on the small table beside him and sat forward with his elbows on his knees. “Of course, it’s important that you feel good about your academic and professional life, Melanie, and that you are fulfilled in that area. But your personal life matters, too, and I’d like to address that, if we could make that our next area of focus.”
As always, I felt comfortable putting myself in his hands. “All right.”
Dr. Robinson inched a little closer. “Have you ever tried to think about your mother as a young woman like you, with hopes and dreams, similar to what you mentioned to me earlier?”