Lying on the Couch by Irvin D. Yalom Read Free Book Online Page B

lawsuit would be the least important thing the Trotter family would have to worry about. The second letter was from my wife—short and to the point, asking me not to bother to explain. I could do my talking to her lawyer. She gave me twenty-four hours to pack up and move out of the house.
    "So, Ernest, that brings us up to now. What else can I tell you?
    "How'd he get the pictures? Must've hired a private eye to tail us. What irony—that her husband chose to leave only when Belle had improved! But, who knows? Maybe he'd been looking for an escape for a long time. Maybe Belle had burned him out.
    "I never saw Belle again. All I know is hearsay from an old buddy of mine at Pacific Redwood Hospital—and it ain't good hearsay. Her husband divorced her and ultimately skipped the country with the family assets. He had been suspicious of Belle for months, ever

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    since he had spotted some condoms in her purse. That, of course, is further irony: it was only because therapy had curbed her lethal self-destructiveness that she was willing to use condoms in her affairs.
    "The last I heard. Belle's condition was terrible—back to ground zero. All the old pathology was back: two admissions for suicidal attempts—one cutting, one a serious overdose. She's going to kill herself. I know it. Apparently she tried three new therapists, fired each in turn, refuses further therapy, and is now doing hard drugs again.
    "And you know what the worst thing is.' I know I could help her, even now. I'm sure of it, but I'm forbidden to see her or speak to her by court order and under the threat of severe penalty. I got several phone messages from her, but my attorney warned me that I was in great jeopardy and ordered me, if I wanted to stay out of jail, not to respond. He contacted Belle and informed her that by court injunction I was not permitted to communicate with her. Finally she stopped calling.
    "What am I going to do? About Belle, you mean? It's a tough call. It kills me not to be able to answer her calls, but I don't like jails. I know I could do so much for her in a ten-minute conversation. Even now. Off the record—shut off the recorder, Ernest. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to just let her sink. Not sure if I could live with myself.
    "So, Ernest, that's it. The end of my tale. Finis. Let me tell you, it's not the way I wanted to end my career. Belle is the major character in this tragedy, but the situation is also catastrophic for me. Her lawyers are urging her to ask for damages—to get all she can. They will have a feeding frenzy—the malpractice suit is coming up in a couple of months.
    "Depressed! Of course I'm depressed. Who wouldn't be? I call it an appropriate depression: I'm a miserable, sad old man. Discouraged, lonely, full of self-doubts, ending my life in disgrace.
    "No, Ernest, not a drug-treatable depression. Not that kind of depression. No biological markers: psychomotor symptoms, insomnia, weight loss—none of that. Thanks for offering.
    "No, not suicidal, though I admit I'm drawn to darkness. But I'm a survivor. I crawl into the cellar and lick my wounds.
    "Yes, very much alone. My wife and I had been living together by habit for many years. I've always lived for my work; my marriage

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    has always been on the periphery of my life. My wife always said I fulfill all my desires for closeness with my patients. And she was right. But that's not why she left. My ataxia's progressing fast, and I don't think she relished the idea of becoming my full-time nurse. My hunch is that she welcomed the excuse to cut herself loose from that job. Can't blame her,
    "No, I don't need to see anyone for therapy. I told you I'm not clinically depressed. I appreciate your asking, Ernest, but I'd be a cantankerous patient. So far, as I said, I'm licking my own wounds and I'm a pretty good licker.
    "It's fine with me if you phone to check in. I'm touched by your offer. But put your