was appealingâan atheist. But first, to the outpatient wing for a binding up of wounds. Back to the couch. Back to Dr. V.
During the five years I spent redesigning myself on Dr. Vâs couch, I did what analysands are supposed to do. (Debate over this is current.) I transferred my feelings for my father to my doctor, thereby gaining the opportunity of (forcibly) examining those emotions and coming to some kind of rational assessment of them. While I did this to good effect, I went beyond and fell in love with Dr. V. At least, I think thatâs what I did. And, if I thought I did, then I did. People who say âOh, you just think youâre in loveâ donât know what theyâre talking about.
Dr. V was perfect for me. (Are you laughing?) He understood me. (Now youâre laughing.) He was like me (sort of), well, gosh, we had similar interests! Bach, for instance. And, more obscure, Trollope. I learned this not because Dr. V told me butâwell, listen.
Dr. Vâs office is a small, brown-shingle cottage at the end of his own personal driveway, not unlike a primrose path. Inside is a small waiting room, a bathroom, and the inner office. The walls of the inner office are lined with books. On the table are beautiful miniatures from Africa or South America or Alaska, or Albuquerque, what do I know? Freudâs desk held artifacts, too, ancient, small, intriguing, though not so colorful as these. In both offices, they sat where the doctors could see them. I think they helped keep the doctors from strangling their patients or just plain falling asleep.
In the room is a fireplace. One time, during the cold of winter, the heat stopped, and Dr. V lit a fire in the fireplace. From the couch I watched this sexiest of all men (him), wearing a herringbone jacket with leather elbow patches, urging sticks of wood (me) to blazing light (him and me). Now, I ask you.
During another fifty-minute hour I am lying on that damn couch, which looks pretty much like Freudâs, and groaning about a passage from Trollopeâs Miss MacKenzie. In the passage Miss MacKenzie is lamenting the passing of her good looks. She is getting old. She is forty. I, age sixty, am wailing. And Dr. V says this amazing thing: âI think youâre forgetting how that scene ends. It ends with Miss MacKenzie seeing her image in a mirror and kissing her reflection.â Oh god, of course, he is right. But imagine! I held my breath. Trollopeâs novels, certainly this one, are long. How could anyone recall the end of a particular scene? We were meant to be, Dr. V and me. (Bear with me, dear reader, especially if you are Dr. V.)
So, of course, this man, this doctor, this scholar, this lover of music and literature, was perfect for me. Plus, he was Jewish! And I was pretty sure he read the
New York Review.
The only problem was, he wouldnât cooperate. Finally, I had to accept the fact that he was my doctor. Period. Goddamn professionalism gets in the way all the time. At the end of the five years I was still in love with this man who had had the good timing to get a divorce himself during my tenure as his patient. I was sure it was because of me. (I blush as I write this.) But he wouldnât come across even figuratively. Finally, I realized that analysis had done all it could for meâa lotâand that staying on would only prolong my misery over unrequited passion.
One year later, I wrote that ad for him. One year posttherapy and I wasnât cured. After I sent the ad in to the
New York Review,
I wrote in my journal, âIâm still looking for the likes of you.â And now I was going back. Because I didnât know where else to go, what else to do, and I hurt something awful.
So I am lying on the couchâagainâfeeling like a failure and I am telling him about the ad and I tell him about getting sixty-three responses and suddenly I hear these strangled sounds from behind me, from Dr. V in his chair
During the five years I spent redesigning myself on Dr. Vâs couch, I did what analysands are supposed to do. (Debate over this is current.) I transferred my feelings for my father to my doctor, thereby gaining the opportunity of (forcibly) examining those emotions and coming to some kind of rational assessment of them. While I did this to good effect, I went beyond and fell in love with Dr. V. At least, I think thatâs what I did. And, if I thought I did, then I did. People who say âOh, you just think youâre in loveâ donât know what theyâre talking about.
Dr. V was perfect for me. (Are you laughing?) He understood me. (Now youâre laughing.) He was like me (sort of), well, gosh, we had similar interests! Bach, for instance. And, more obscure, Trollope. I learned this not because Dr. V told me butâwell, listen.
Dr. Vâs office is a small, brown-shingle cottage at the end of his own personal driveway, not unlike a primrose path. Inside is a small waiting room, a bathroom, and the inner office. The walls of the inner office are lined with books. On the table are beautiful miniatures from Africa or South America or Alaska, or Albuquerque, what do I know? Freudâs desk held artifacts, too, ancient, small, intriguing, though not so colorful as these. In both offices, they sat where the doctors could see them. I think they helped keep the doctors from strangling their patients or just plain falling asleep.
In the room is a fireplace. One time, during the cold of winter, the heat stopped, and Dr. V lit a fire in the fireplace. From the couch I watched this sexiest of all men (him), wearing a herringbone jacket with leather elbow patches, urging sticks of wood (me) to blazing light (him and me). Now, I ask you.
During another fifty-minute hour I am lying on that damn couch, which looks pretty much like Freudâs, and groaning about a passage from Trollopeâs Miss MacKenzie. In the passage Miss MacKenzie is lamenting the passing of her good looks. She is getting old. She is forty. I, age sixty, am wailing. And Dr. V says this amazing thing: âI think youâre forgetting how that scene ends. It ends with Miss MacKenzie seeing her image in a mirror and kissing her reflection.â Oh god, of course, he is right. But imagine! I held my breath. Trollopeâs novels, certainly this one, are long. How could anyone recall the end of a particular scene? We were meant to be, Dr. V and me. (Bear with me, dear reader, especially if you are Dr. V.)
So, of course, this man, this doctor, this scholar, this lover of music and literature, was perfect for me. Plus, he was Jewish! And I was pretty sure he read the
New York Review.
The only problem was, he wouldnât cooperate. Finally, I had to accept the fact that he was my doctor. Period. Goddamn professionalism gets in the way all the time. At the end of the five years I was still in love with this man who had had the good timing to get a divorce himself during my tenure as his patient. I was sure it was because of me. (I blush as I write this.) But he wouldnât come across even figuratively. Finally, I realized that analysis had done all it could for meâa lotâand that staying on would only prolong my misery over unrequited passion.
One year later, I wrote that ad for him. One year posttherapy and I wasnât cured. After I sent the ad in to the
New York Review,
I wrote in my journal, âIâm still looking for the likes of you.â And now I was going back. Because I didnât know where else to go, what else to do, and I hurt something awful.
So I am lying on the couchâagainâfeeling like a failure and I am telling him about the ad and I tell him about getting sixty-three responses and suddenly I hear these strangled sounds from behind me, from Dr. V in his chair
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