In previous columns, I have written, in lengthy and pathetic detail, about the traumatic breakup I went through at the end of July. In addition to publishing multiple essays about the perils of heartbreak, I’ve also been privately campaigning to get my ex back: shameless, 2,000-word emails listing all the ways I’m prepared to change; sappy, “you complete me”-esque text messages; I even showed up at her apartment crying in a silk slip one evening, like a crazy woman from a Marcello Mastroianni movie. My ex rebuffed all my efforts with the same response: Though she still loved me, she just didn’t feel safe in our relationship. (The result, apparently, of my recurring pressures to open our relationship throughout our two years together—my bad?) By November, after four months of trying to negotiate with her, I was beginning to give up hope. But then I got an email: “I’m willing to try to work things out, under one condition: We have to begin couples therapy.”
I’ll start by saying that I realize this whole situation is embarrassing. Couples therapy just seems like one of those things other people do. Specifically, other people in their 50s, with two kids and a house, for whom separating would dismantle their entire lives. Lessa and I, on the other hand, began dating only two years ago, and we are in our 20s. The only property we’ve ever shared were the communal toothbrushes at our respective apartments. Many would argue that needing to see a therapist at this stage is a sign that we should just break up. I also understand that, by dragging ourselves back into a messy relationship we just spent months trying to get over, we risk suffering heartbreak all over again. But I’m lovesick and desperate, and therefore can’t be held accountable for my decisions.
I’ve always been kind of skeptical of therapy. I grew up in a conservative, traditional Italian Catholic family. Where I come from, when you’re sad, you get smacked in the face and told to cheer up. I can’t remember anyone in my family talking openly about their feelings—we barely talked at all, unless it concerned Jesus or sports. Needing to see a therapist was viewed as a sign of weakness. And although there were a couple of times during depressive periods of my life when I considered seeing a psychologist, I always ultimately decided against it, deeming it too self-indulgent. Of course, there are situations when therapy seems appropriate—after a serious loss or trauma, for example. But am I really going to pay a stranger thousands of dollars to listen to me whine about the stresses of my blogger life? Tragic. (...)
Our first session was six weeks ago. Somewhat worryingly, on the day of, my primary concern was what to wear. I wanted to make a good impression on the therapist by looking pretty, but also virtuous—ya know, “the good guy” in the relationship—and so I chose a white, crew-neck wool dress with gold buttons that I felt made me look particularly angelic. The therapist wasn’t exactly what I expected. Having been a fan of HBO’s In Treatment, the stock image of a therapist in my mind is of a dark and handsome, pensive, Gabriel Byrne–type with whom patients always feel a muted sexual tension. Our therapist (I’ll call her Kate), however, was a 60-something woman in white jeans and trendy, knee-high leather boots, smiling enthusiastically in her shabby-chic Upper East Side office. Peppy and progressive, she’s like the cool mom you always wished you had.
As a first step, both Lessa and I were asked to explain why we were in couples therapy. Surprisingly, Kate did not think “Because she made me do it” was either a funny or a valid response. Lessa, on the other hand, has been in therapy since she was young (typical Jew), and is well-versed in this sort of thing. She explained that we have pretty serious trust and jealousy issues, many of which are left over from our year in a poorly managed open relationship. And the fact that we both cheated once didn’t help. Also, Lessa seems to think I have an “anger problem” (I prefer to think of myself as “passionate”), and that I need to learn to communicate my feelings rather than be an emotional cavewoman (my parents’ fault).
Jealousy sucks. It’s stressful and unattractive, and once it gets hold of you, it can be hard to control. Talking about your feelings is difficult enough, but the sensitive subjects of trust and jealousy are two of the hardest to broach. Usually, when I feel upset or insecure in a relationship, my default reaction is to retaliate in order to make the other person feel as bad as I do. It’s just way easier to be a bitch than it is to admit, “It makes me feel insecure when you talk to your ex.” Retribution is more appealing than fixing the problem, because the latter usually entails making yourself vulnerable. And thanks to my ego, I’ve never been very comfortable with vulnerability. Lessa’s reaction to a problem, meanwhile, has always been to run away—hence her eventual decision to break up. Before we split, we were having the same stupid fight over and over again. Eventually, I’d go into vengeful bitch mode, and she’d walk out. Nothing ever got solved.
I’ll start by saying that I realize this whole situation is embarrassing. Couples therapy just seems like one of those things other people do. Specifically, other people in their 50s, with two kids and a house, for whom separating would dismantle their entire lives. Lessa and I, on the other hand, began dating only two years ago, and we are in our 20s. The only property we’ve ever shared were the communal toothbrushes at our respective apartments. Many would argue that needing to see a therapist at this stage is a sign that we should just break up. I also understand that, by dragging ourselves back into a messy relationship we just spent months trying to get over, we risk suffering heartbreak all over again. But I’m lovesick and desperate, and therefore can’t be held accountable for my decisions.I’ve always been kind of skeptical of therapy. I grew up in a conservative, traditional Italian Catholic family. Where I come from, when you’re sad, you get smacked in the face and told to cheer up. I can’t remember anyone in my family talking openly about their feelings—we barely talked at all, unless it concerned Jesus or sports. Needing to see a therapist was viewed as a sign of weakness. And although there were a couple of times during depressive periods of my life when I considered seeing a psychologist, I always ultimately decided against it, deeming it too self-indulgent. Of course, there are situations when therapy seems appropriate—after a serious loss or trauma, for example. But am I really going to pay a stranger thousands of dollars to listen to me whine about the stresses of my blogger life? Tragic. (...)
Our first session was six weeks ago. Somewhat worryingly, on the day of, my primary concern was what to wear. I wanted to make a good impression on the therapist by looking pretty, but also virtuous—ya know, “the good guy” in the relationship—and so I chose a white, crew-neck wool dress with gold buttons that I felt made me look particularly angelic. The therapist wasn’t exactly what I expected. Having been a fan of HBO’s In Treatment, the stock image of a therapist in my mind is of a dark and handsome, pensive, Gabriel Byrne–type with whom patients always feel a muted sexual tension. Our therapist (I’ll call her Kate), however, was a 60-something woman in white jeans and trendy, knee-high leather boots, smiling enthusiastically in her shabby-chic Upper East Side office. Peppy and progressive, she’s like the cool mom you always wished you had.
As a first step, both Lessa and I were asked to explain why we were in couples therapy. Surprisingly, Kate did not think “Because she made me do it” was either a funny or a valid response. Lessa, on the other hand, has been in therapy since she was young (typical Jew), and is well-versed in this sort of thing. She explained that we have pretty serious trust and jealousy issues, many of which are left over from our year in a poorly managed open relationship. And the fact that we both cheated once didn’t help. Also, Lessa seems to think I have an “anger problem” (I prefer to think of myself as “passionate”), and that I need to learn to communicate my feelings rather than be an emotional cavewoman (my parents’ fault).
Jealousy sucks. It’s stressful and unattractive, and once it gets hold of you, it can be hard to control. Talking about your feelings is difficult enough, but the sensitive subjects of trust and jealousy are two of the hardest to broach. Usually, when I feel upset or insecure in a relationship, my default reaction is to retaliate in order to make the other person feel as bad as I do. It’s just way easier to be a bitch than it is to admit, “It makes me feel insecure when you talk to your ex.” Retribution is more appealing than fixing the problem, because the latter usually entails making yourself vulnerable. And thanks to my ego, I’ve never been very comfortable with vulnerability. Lessa’s reaction to a problem, meanwhile, has always been to run away—hence her eventual decision to break up. Before we split, we were having the same stupid fight over and over again. Eventually, I’d go into vengeful bitch mode, and she’d walk out. Nothing ever got solved.
by Karley Sciortino, Vogue | Read more:
Image: uncredited
