by Ruth Kaufman
Despite a few friendly texts from Jeff, concluding with him saying we should get together soon and my ready-to-take-the-next-step reply suggesting several possible times, I’m not feeling optimistic.
I can’t stop thinking I’m not good enough. Which makes me feel worse. Maybe the divorce took a bigger bite out of me than I thought.
One step forward, several steps back…like that word problem in math. How long will it take Frog to get out of a thirty-foot deep well if he hops up two feet each day but slips down one?
Too long.
I want to live my new life as the best me possible. Obviously, my efforts to put the past behind me aren’t working. I’m reluctant to accept that I need help, but decide to see someone. A therapist or psychiatrist.
I’m not comfortable calling friends and asking casually, “So, have you heard of any good psychologists lately?” And a shrink isn’t exactly something you get from Facebook. I find the nerve to ask my former life coach. For some reason, simply asking makes me want to cry. Am I sad about needing help or filled with relief that soon I’ll get some?
I call the first of the three psychologists she recommends, Dr. Abigail Valdemar.
My stomach swirls as I dial. Why is this such a big deal? Shouldn’t I be proud of myself for taking this step? For being willing to take on the challenges of growing and changing, opening myself up to a stranger?
“You’ve reached the offices of Dr. Abigail Valdemar,” a most soothing voice says. If this is an emergency, press 1.”
Relief fills me. I’m not so bad off. I’m no emergency.
“To schedule or change an appointment, press 2. For prescription refills, press 3. If you are a new patient, press 4.”
I could be this voice…maybe I can get some voicemail or those frustrating messages like, “I’m sorry, I did not understand. Please try again.”
I press 4 and leave my name and contact information as requested. On to number two. Dr. George Miller. Whose number has been disconnected. Number three is Dr. Alan Smythe.
Dr. V doesn’t call back. Dr. Smythe’s assistant does. I’d hoped to check out more than one, but as I can’t bring myself to collect more names and it’s hard enough to find someone who accepts my insurance, Dr. Smythe it is. He has an opening tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Is that good, meaning he’s willing to fit me in, or bad because no one wants to go to him?
I make an appointment. As I hang up the phone, my throat tightens and I fight back tears. I’m still holding onto my cell. Should I cancel?
The phone rings. I jump.
It’s my mom. I’m not in the mood to talk to her, but why postpone the inevitable?
“Hi, Mom.”
“Have you met anyone yet?” The eagerness in her tone prods like a pointy toothpick. “My friend Lois’s daughter Jenna met a Jewish doctor the first week she was on e-Matrimony. They just got engaged.”
“I bet Jenna is in her twenties.”
“Well, yes, she’s twenty-nine.”
Thought so. “From everything I hear, online dating works better for younger people, Mom. Guys my age don’t usually search for women over forty. Most of the men that contact me are at least ten years older, and most of the ones I write to don’t write back.”
“Hmmm. What are you doing wrong? You’ve always been a good writer. Maybe you need a sexier picture. What are you wearing?”
“Mom.” I do not need this.
“Margaret’s daughter Melissa said she was six years younger than she is and met a man who was ten years younger. He’s only a social worker, but they’ve been dating for several months now.”
I’m clutching the phone so tightly my nails hurt. “Mom. I’m not going to start any kind of relationship with a lie.”
She sniffed. “Well, I led the horse to water. If you don’t want to drink...oh, your father’s home. I’ve got to go.”
I would not cry. Not let her get to me. I had been drinking. Could I help it if the water wasn’t tasty and fresh?
The high cancellation fee makes me decide I might as well see Dr. Smythe. His office is downtown, on Michigan Avenue near the Wrigley Building. I take the elevator to his floor, wondering if the building doormen can tell which visitors are going to see a shrink. Is there neediness, fear or despair we exude like a strange pheromone?
My heart races, my hands are icy as I press the notification button on the wall beside his name, as instructed when I made the appointment. Do I fear sharing embarrassing truths, or that he won’t be able to help?
Dr. Smythe has a full head of golden reddish hair, a nice square chin and pale blue eyes. A bit like the guy who plays Jiminy Cricket and Dr. Archie Hopper on Once Upon a Time. The telltale gold band glistens on his finger. All the good ones are taken.
Not that I’d want to date my psychologist.
My psychologist. I shudder.
His office looks as expected, with a dark wood bookcase filled with tomes including Neuropsychopharmacology and Treatment Plans and Interventions for Depression and Anxiety Disorders. Another shelf must be intended for patients to borrow from, with books like Straight Talk About Psychiatric Medications for Kids, and Yoga for Depression: A Compassionate Guide to Relieve Suffering Through Yoga. Diplomas in matching cherry frames line the wall behind his desk. The carpet and wallpaper are soothing shades of blue.
Dr. Smythe sits on a dark blue flowered armchair next to the ubiquitous leather couch I’m on. He looks out the window as if he has all the time in the world to stare at the skyscrapers. At his rates, he probably does. I can almost hear the ka-ching of a cash register as the seconds tick by.
He tells me a little about himself, then asks some general questions. Does he really care, or is he merely doing his job? How can a person spend day after day listening to people ramble on and on about their problems, some of which, maybe most of which, may not seem like problems at all to this erudite professional?
“Tell me more about why you’re here.”
As loquacious as I am, at this moment I have no words. I look at my hands, which are well-manicured with deep purple nails. I almost always wear polish.
The pressure of silence grows unbearable. I am Violet Beauregarde, the blueberry girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Ready to explode.
“We can schedule another appointment next week if you think you’ll feel more like talking then,” Dr. Smythe says.
Next week would drag out the agony. Still I seek words.
“You’re right, Marla. Sharing your feelings and truths is hard.” He’s as soothing as a Ricola Lemon Mint drop on a scratchy throat.
This doctor is so good he can read my expressions. Is he like that with his wife...does he know from a mere raise of her eyebrow if she wants him to make love to her or take out the garbage?
How can I share my deepest fears with him? Surely he’ll pounce on his prescription pad and scribble an Rx. Or two. If I had to take any of those drugs so often advertised on TV with those sad little animated circles, I’d feel ashamed. Even though I know depression is an illness, not a weakness, thank you.
Why can’t I control my thoughts? Why can’t I be happier, more at peace?
My father always says, “Solve your own problems. I did.”
Now I must rely on and trust a stranger.
“I was blindsided when my husband told me he wanted a divorce and I’m still not sure why, well, maybe lack of communication, because all I could get him to say was he wasn’t happy enough and we had to sell the new house we’d built and I don’t like my stressful job though I’ve been doing it for ten years because I’ve always wanted to be an actress but was too chicken to try until now and it’s not going very well and I’ve been trying to date but haven’t met anyone I like who likes me back and I’m frustrated and wish I could have inner peace and feel good about myself more often.”
I await Dr. Smythe’s reaction to my revelations. Not as much as a hair on his eyebrow moves as he scribbles busily on a yellow pad. “I see.”
I reveal my agonizing life story and all I get in return is, “I see?”
“My life is a shambles. I’m over forty and haven’t accomplished anything. Well, not nearly as much as my brother and sister or most of my friends.” I wish I could keep my voice calm, but it wavers and the pitch gets high and whiny. The ache of tears swells in my throat. I squeeze my nails into my palms as if more pain will keep the tears from falling.
“Yes, it does sound like your life is a shambles at the moment. How does that make you feel?” He leans forward, crossing his arms over his knees.
I almost believe the sympathy in his eyes is real, and the resulting swell of emotion sends tears dripping down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. I know my nose is getting red. I must look as bad as I feel.
“Like a failure.” I force the words out in a whisper.
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But if I can’t change, I might as well be dead. Because my life will never have meaning.
“Why? Tell me about it.”
“I just did.” Is he purposely tormenting me?
“Why does what you’ve said mean you’re a failure?”
My jaw drops. Can’t he see? Maybe Dr. Smythe isn’t so good after all.
“Because all of my friends have a life. They have good jobs, kids, houses, achievements. They know what they’re doing, and what they do works out. I work hard, but don’t get the results I want.”
“I don’t believe you don’t get results,” he says. “Let’s think about it.”
The tissues I need to wipe away the tears tickling my cheeks are too far away to reach.
As if reading my mind, Dr. Smythe hands me the box. I blow my nose, pull another tissue to dab at my face, though tears keep coming. I do prefer Puff’s. They really help keep your nose from getting sore.
“You’ve got quite a list of accomplishments...graduating from college, holding down a job, no credit card debt. Did you ever stop to think that the fault might not be in you? Maybe the things that happened to you are other people’s fault, society’s fault. Maybe even your ex-husband’s fault.” He takes more notes. “Can you accept that? Can you say truthfully to yourself that what I’ve said makes sense?”
Is he pausing, or does he expect me to answer?
He continues, “You’ve got a lot of years ahead of you.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” I blow my nose again, thankfully not too noisily.
There’s no garbage can in sight. What am I to do with the soggy clump of tissues?
“Yes, it is. It might not be easy for you to rebuild your life.” He shifts in his chair, adjusting the notebook on his thighs. “We’re finished for today, but I’d like to talk with you at least a few more times. Would that be all right with you?”
What choice do I really have? I need help. I need to be happy most of the time, or what’s the point? “I guess so.”
“I’d like you to think about your answer to this question: How would you describe your relationship with your family?”
I do not want to go there.
My divorce, relationship with my parents and recent efforts to meet someone make me wonder why people aren’t taught to communicate better and more effectively...with spouses, significant others, family members and even in the business world. A public speaking class in high school or college might be required, but that’s about it. No one teaches you how to handle disagreements or deal with difficult situations. Or express your true feelings clearly.
Filming a movie can yield another example of poor communication.
I get a call for an HBO movie. Though it’s shooting about an hour and a half away, I agree to go. They tell me to prepare for an upscale bar scene and bring two changes of clothes.
When I get there, the hair person spends ages doing everyone’s hair. She touches up mine so carefully I could be in a Vidal Sassoon commercial. Shimmering and fluffy, my red curls have rarely looked better.
Sixteen finely dressed, well-coiffed extras ranging from me to elderly sit in our holding area—the local courthouse—snacking, reading, chatting about other movies we’ve worked on. A couple of them are agented and talk about auditioning and booking jobs, which makes me yearn for representation, too. I say I’ve submitted, but haven’t heard. What makes them agent worthy?
Finally, someone on the crew runs in.
“Ok, extras, I’m Joe, the AD. We’ll be going....” He stares at a clipboard in his hand. Then he looks at us with an expression of horror. “Didn’t they tell you this was a sleazy bar? You’re supposed to look grungy.” He talks into his headset. “I’m at extras holding. They’re upscale. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Ok. People, Wardrobe’s on her way to see what else you’ve got. Meanwhile, try to look less nice.”
The hair lady waves me over to her chair.
“Here goes my handiwork,” she mumbles, echoing my thoughts.
She smushes in some thick cream. Instantly the shine is gone. Greasy clumps replace the fluff. I look like I haven’t washed my hair in days. Maybe weeks.
“Line up here, please. Bring all of your clothes.” The wardrobe lady flips through the choices offered by the first few people. “No good. Go to the wardrobe trailer and get something else to wear. What? Shit.” This into her microphone, not to us. “They need you on set. Right now. Drop everything and run, I mean RUN with me to the trailer.”
We run. Well, at least the wardrobe lady, another woman about my age and I do. The elderly do the best they can, hobbling down the street as fast as their aged legs will carry them. I hope no one has a heart attack or falls and breaks a hip.
“Hurry! Hurry up!” screams the AD. “They’re on their way. ETA two minutes.”
Out of breath, the wardrobe lady lumbers up the metal stairs to the huge white trailer and opens the door. Dark clothes start flying.
“No time to go somewhere to change, just put these on.”
I catch a shirt and slip it on over the one I’m wearing. The woman catches a sweater and pulls it on as we run to the AD.
My eyes adjust to the darkness of the bar we’re led into. Another AD takes one look at us and shakes his head. “Where are the rest? These ones are too young. You two, go sit over there.”
We climb on bar stools. In the back.
They line up the older people closer to the main actor, someone I don’t recognize, and take a reaction shot of them.
We’re released at midnight. The country roads are so dark and deserted I can barely see to drive. My heart’s in my throat as I slow my car to a crawl. Am I still in my lane?
More stress.
I can’t wait until I get a real acting job and do less extra work.
The next night after a long, frustrating day at WZRJ—nary a sale despite five appointments with lots of public transportation in between, I grab a bag of pretzels and check out online auditions. I’ll find at least three things to submit to every day. I start with chgoperformer.com and scroll down the list of non-equity auditions. That’s what I need, the close-knit kinship and intense focus of a play. And another credit for my thin resume.
I scroll, trying not to get crumbs in my keyboard.
Blah, blah, blah...aha. A theatre company I admire is auditioning for Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus next week. Great play, great movie. “Prepare a one minute classical monologue and one from the play,” the listing reads.
I get my copy of Amadeus from one of my stuffed bookshelves and scan the pages, looking for scenes with Constanze, Mozart’s wife. I’m much too old for her, unfortunately, and I see that there aren’t many women’s parts in general.
I skim the scene where Costanze shows court composer Antonio Salieri some of Mozart’s scores. The next scene draws me in. Salieri realizes the magnificence of the music before him only to know he himself is merely mediocre.
I choke on a pretzel. I burst into loud, wrenching sobs I can’t control.
My life has been exactly this. I, too, am forced to recognize and appreciate talent all around me even as I suffer with
the knowing of others’ greatness and the knowledge that I’ll never compare.
How many plays, musicals and operas have I seen, how many books have I read that made me cry, not because the material was sad or moving but because the force of the talent was so great? Because I feared I’d never have the joy of creating anything that good? Yet I want to, need to see such shows, because of the privilege, the thrill of experiencing the best.
And that, as my life coach had helped me accept, is why no “real” job will satisfy me. Because I still want to be an actress as much as I did in first grade when I was the littlest billy goat in Billy Goat’s Gruff and people laughed because my paper beard kept falling off. In fourth grade as Princess Lonelyheart in the Valentine’s Day play. In eighth when I starred in Annie Get Your Gun, in college when I performed as a tap dancing Angel in Anything Goes. And on and on through various parts on various stages.
Why do I yearn to be an actress, a career where success depends on other people’s judgment and approval of my abilities and appearance? Why do I keep wanting to write a romance novel, because I’ve read so many and think I could come up with a great story and would enjoy the writing process, or because I want reader accolades? What draws me to careers bound to be rife with rejections?
On any given day, I could get rejected by an agent, casting director, director, producer, WZRJ or acting client, or a man. Am I hindering my search for happiness by pursuing activities over which I have such limited control, or do I just need to learn how to handle setbacks better?
I blow my nose into a Puffs. I cry so hard I can’t breathe. I think of calling Catherine or my friend Andrea, but don’t want to be a downer.
A few days later, I’m not doing much better than I was Amadeus night.
My second session with Dr. Smythe is a bit less emotional, but no less raw. He makes me—encourages me—to talk about my childhood.
“My parents never had a good marriage, at least when I was old enough to notice. Why they stay married is a mystery to us all. Maybe over the years they’ve become so accustomed to the way they live they’ve melded into one crotchety, I’m-always-right person. If you ask either of them a question, you get the same answer.”