A long time ago
, I was married
. It wasn't a good
marrying, I discovered that there were some very basic points my husband
I didn't agree upon, such as:
On his part:
- I wasn't Jewish
- He liked Charlie's Angels and I didn't look like Jackie
- I was no good at big hair or makeup
- He said I scared the shit out of him
I couldn't figure out what to do about this, so I went to a psychiatrist.
didn't know much about psychiatrists at the time, but it seemed like a
reasonable thing to do when you find yourself at odds with the world or
someone in it and can't figure out what to do.
The first psychiatrist I saw was a woman, recommended by someone I knew.
arrived at the appointed hour and was shown into her office by a
receptionist. There she sat, behind a huge oak desk. It was at least six
feet long and four feet wide and had nothing on it except a pad of paper, a
pen, and a box of Kleenex. Not a good sign. I took a seat opposite her
the most uncomfortable chair I have ever sat in. It was very quiet other
than the ticking of an oversized clock mounted on the wall.
That killed it for me. I don't even remember what she said or what I did. I
just remember feeling like a character in a Freudian comic book or a New
So I went to another psychiatrist. His office was on the fifteenth floor of
a building. Great view. It was very plush. Leather couch, leather
plants. He was seated in a leather chair opposite a couch. I sat down on the
slippery leather and sank. I was not pleased, sitting on an over-sized
slippery couch, unable to put my feet on the floor, sweating against the
After a pause, he looked at me with a blank expression and asked, "How are
I asked with a smile, "I am fine, how are you?"
He didn't like that, not at all. I guess that's not something you're
supposed to say to psychiatrists. Following that, he grilled me for 45
about what I thought of my mother, my father, my husband, sex, heaven, hell,
I left his office more confused than I had ever been in my life. I drove
around the city I lived in for several hours sorting through what he had
said and how I had responded.
Then I went home.
By the time my husband came home, I had placed an
advertisement in a local newspaper for a garage sale, had packed a few
with personal items and suggested that if he had difficulty with my leaving
he should see a psychiatrist.