“That’s normal,” she said, “when your marriage is fucked up.”
MIKE AND I HAD SETTLED INTO THE SMALL SOFA, SITTING AS FAR APART AS you can on a couch that was built to force couples into close physical proximity. Dr. Karl started with all the usual therapy stuff: how being here was a good sign for us, that all marriages can be saved, that the work starts in this room, but the most important work will be done outside of these walls. I didn’t even have to look at Mike to know he was rolling his eyes.
“Let’s start with some affirmations,” Dr. Karl suggests. “I want you each to tell your spouse three things that you like about them.” She over-pronounced like, just to clear up any confusion.
“Can I go second?” Mike asks, because of course he did.
My mind goes blank. Blanker than blank. What did I like about him?
“Well. I like that you gave me my children. That was nice of you.” I say the words slowly, hoping my brain will come up with two more reasons while my mouth was talking.
“You’re welcome,” he shoots back, in that self-satisfied way that I used to find appealing.
“I like that you sometimes pick up the kids from school; that’s really helpful. And . . . I like that you came to therapy.”
Dr. Karl nods in Mike’s direction.
“Okay. Um, I like your spaghetti. And your calzones.”
Dr. Karl and I wait patiently for him to mention something that isn’t Italian food.
“Is that three?” he says after several moments of silence.
“Oh!” He continues, “I like that you’ve never crashed the car.”
So. That’s it. That was what we like about each other?
Dr. Karl pages through the file folder in her lap, probably reviewing her notes from our last session.
She breathes deep, and exhales loudly. Without thinking, Mike and I do, too. Dr. Karl asks us to close our eyes, and to imagine ourselves as our partner. We aren’t to say anything aloud, just imagine life in their shoes. What do they see when they wake up? What do they think about? What does their day look like? She will ring a small bell when our exercise is finished.
I close my eyes and disappear into Mike’s life for three hundred seconds. It’s . . . nice. I wake up, and the coffee is already made. My wife has already hit the gym and fed the kids, and all I have to do is stumble to the shower and get downstairs for breakfast. During the workday, I take a few phone calls and spend the morning picking a restaurant where I can spend two hours chatting with a client. After lunch, I set my phone to silent and take a nap. I come home to a clean house where my wife has made a balanced dinner, where my laundry is folded neatly and arranged by color.
The bell rings before I can even finish the day, which surprises me because Imaginary Mike hadn’t even done anything yet. I blink open my eyes. Mike is playing on his phone. I try my best not to let the rage blooming inside of my chest take over.
Dr. Karl clears her throat. “Mike? Why don’t you go first? Tell me what it’s like to be Amy.”
Mike puts his phone down and sits up straight. Is he making fun of me?
“Hiiiiii,” he says in a patronizing voice that is supposed to be me, “I’m Amyyyyy. I’m sooooo perfect. My life is sooo perfect! I spend all day just rubbing lotions on my face and talking and talking and talking and making sure everyone around me lives up to my ridiculous standards!”
“We—we don’t need the voice,” Dr. Karl tries to interject. “Focus on how it feels to be Amy.”
“Oh, it feels great to be me! Why wouldn’t it? I have a fully tricked-out minivan and my husband still has all his hair and I have a ton of expensive clothes, but I still wear these boner-killing sweatpants every night and I don’t know what I sit around complaining about all day because my life is great!”
I pride myself on my ability to navigate conflict with maturity. Which is why I’m not proud of what I say next.
“OH, HEY!” I shout in my best bro voice. “I’m Mike! I have no idea how good I have it! My wife actually buys all her clothes on sale, takes care of literally everything for me, and all I had to do was not jerk off all day online with a stranger but whoops! I’m still the same fuckup I was in college!”
“Oooooh!” Mike squeals. “I’m Amy! And I’ve never jerked off on the Internet because I’m sooooo perfect!”
“Hey, Doctor,” I bellow, “mind if I splooge all over your computer?!”
“Please don’t joke about that,” Dr. Karl whispers, eyeing her MacBook Air, which sits on the coffee table between us.
“The bottom line is that she is a perfectionist, and I’m never going to be good enough for her. And she doesn’t even bother with sex anymore. I haven’t gotten a blowie since my birthday, which was like, months ago.”
“You know what, Mike? You’re right. You haven’t gotten a blowie since your birthday. Maybe because you still say things like ‘blowie’? Or because you think I owe you sex in exchange for you meeting the minimum requirements as a parent and a spouse. And by ‘minimum,’ I mean just being alive. You know what would be so hot to me? If you took care of the kids, or me, in any way. If you ever walked the dog. If you took care of anyone outside of yourself, I would give you so many blowies your dick would explode.”
Mike scoffed. “That would never happen. My dick is indestructible.”
Sometimes, you don’t know what the truth is until it slips out of you on its own. I sigh, and it comes out: “I am so tired of pretending to love you, Mike.”
Mike nods. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
Dr. Karl snaps shut the folder in her hands.
“Okay, you two. I know earlier I said a lot of stuff about how all marriages can be saved? But that was hyperbole. This marriage? It’s not going to happen for you. I’m not going to refund you for our time today, but I won’t be booking another session with you. I can refer you each to an individual therapist, which I highly recommend.”
“Wait, don’t you think we should stay together for the kids?” Mike asks, and Dr. Karl shakes her head, citing statistics that kids whose parents stay in a loveless marriage are two times unhappier than kids whose parents got divorced. I think about my parents, and how even as a child I could tell that my parents loved each other and belonged together, even though my mom is an absolute tyrant. Was that why I believed that marriage was like a staring contest? Because my parents hadn’t blinked? Did I want Jane and Dylan growing up thinking that marriage was more important than love, or happiness? That misery was noble?
“So,” I wonder aloud, “what now?”
“As a therapist, I’m not allowed to tell you what to do. But as a human being with two fucking eyes in my head, I will tell you to get a divorce as soon as humanly possible.”
DIVORCE.
Why have I been so afraid of saying the word before? Now that it was out there, the fear had been drained from it.
“Hi,” I said to my rearview mirror, “I’m Amy. I’m divorced. Oh, it’s okay. It’s a good thing. The divorce was really amicable. Really!”
It would be amicable, I knew. Eventually, at least. I’d walked into therapy hating Mike and hoping to work it out, and walked out of therapy planning for a divorce and hating him at least 200 percent less than I had for the past month. By the time I got to work, he’d already texted me five times: