My first marriage ended by the time I was 30, so when I met Matt at a poker game a few years later, I was certainly skeptical about getting into a relationship. But unlike all the post-divorce guys before him—the Ninja, the Soap Star, the Goth—he was someone that I could possibly fall in love with. I usually stuck to the snarky, too-cool-for-school men but Matt, though quite cool with his hipster glasses, hoodies, and surfboards, was earnest and open.
Matt was aware that I made my living writing about my own experiences and was a tell-all type of person, and he was mostly supportive and accepting. But one day he expressed his discomfort with some of my more salacious content. Had I been slightly farther along with my emotional availability, what I could have said to him was, "I can see why my articles might make you uncomfortable, but we'll get through it." Instead I said, "Well, too bad. Deal with it."
A devastated Matt admitted he might not be able to deal with it. I took this as a perfect time to challenge him with what I thought would be the final blow to our budding romance (which was fine by me, since being in love is exhausting, distracting, and perilous.) I said, "Well, maybe we should go to couples
therapy."
The idea that Matt and I, who had only been dating for three months, would go to therapy was preposterous. But by mentioning it, I could be the good girl willing to try anything. He would be the bad guy.
But then something unexpected happened. He called my bluff and said, "OK, let's go. Why not?"
Why not? Because it goes against every unsentimental fiber of my cynical belief system! Because it's embarrassing!
I convinced myself we would go a few times if for no other reason than it would one day be great material.
Matt and I walked through the typical leather-chair-and-old-magazine-filled waiting room and into Harold's comfortable Santa Monica office. We sat on the couch where, unforeseen by me, we would remain for the next two years.
Harold was a handsome man in his 60s, married for over 40 years, to the same woman. He was just the right amount of sarcastic for me and just the right amount of Zen for Matt.
We began by telling him why we were there: I am a writer of lewd things and Matt isn't sure he can handle being the boyfriend of a writer of lewd things. Harold immediately moved past that, sensing this couples therapy catalyst was merely the tip of our iceberg. Week after week, it became clearer I had a knack for avoiding being vulnerable by pushing men away, even when I pretended to want to be close to them.
One night in therapy Matt looked at me and said, "I love you." I quickly re- sponded with "That's nice." Harold stopped me and asked, "What's this?" He put his arms by his side, squared off his shoulders, and tensed up his neck. I regarded him and immediately said, "You look like my mother when you do that!"
"I've never met your mother, so I wouldn't know," he replied. "I'm imitating you." Oh, my God! I had turned into my mother.
Harold explained that when Matt told me he loved me, it seemed I had braced myself to hear those words. If I let his love really sink in, I would be defenseless.
Harold studied Matt and me while we communicated with each other, and he picked up on every subtle eye flutter, voice drop, leg shift. He was able to see us in action, speak both our languages, and bridge the gap. "Sascha, constantly asking Matt questions and then ignoring the answers can be very annoying." "Matt, constantly feeling responsible for Sascha's well-being is both patronizing and exhausting."
Matt and I moved in together. I often wished Harold could live with us, too. I wanted him to vacation with us, follow us around, and translate our every yawn. I frequently wondered, what is Harold doing right now? Do his kids realize how awesome he is? Would it be inappropriate to invite him to my birthday party? I yearned for Matt and me to be his favorites. With contempt I eyed the other couples in the waiting room coming and going. Does he like them better? Are they as fun as us? Are they as in love? I fantasized about running into Harold and his wife at a restaurant some night. It wouldn't be awkward at all! We would join tables, order a nice Pinot, and laugh.
Whenever Matt and I would get into a quibble about him leaving his sneakers around, a misunderstanding about whether the dog should get her octopus toy, or a full on fight about how to put on snow chains, we would cite what we believed Harold would say. Sometimes if we weren't in agreement about what we thought Harold would say it would lead us into a bigger argument. "What would Harold say?" became as common a phrase in our apartment as "What would Jesus do?" is in the Bible Belt.
We would then dash into Harold's office, recount the minutiae of our lives and ask, "What would you have said?" Harold wisely delved into the heart of the matter and once again we would leave better off than when we arrived.
I worried we would have to see Harold forever. Since we had been with him for most of our relationship, I wasn't sure how we could continue without his weekly guidance. We were, in a way, a couple of three. Matt and I were on very solid ground, able to use the tools we had learned to navigate through the murky waters of love—but still I was scared that if we left Harold then all my newfound emotional openness would leave, too. I didn't want to revert back to that square-shouldered, tense-necked person.
Tags:
60s,
belief system,
couples therapy,
final blow,
good girl,
goth,
handsome man,
hipster,
hoodies,
leather chair,
perfect time,
poker game,
snarky,
surfboards,
three months,
waiting room
