Author's note: Title inspired by the book, "The Gift of Therapy," by Irvin Yalom. Trigger warnings for self-harm, mentions of sexual abuse, and psychiatric hospitalization. The story will switch back and forth between Regina and Ruby's point of view, which will be indicated by chapter headings. Hope you all enjoy the ride!
Chapter 1: Regina
My first impressions of Ruby are that she is all confidence and beauty. Her long dark hair hangs just below her shoulders, and her playful smile seems to light up the waiting room. The two gentlemen sitting near her are staring, nearly slack-jawed, obviously enthralled by her appearance. The low-cut tank top that accentuates her breasts and biceps helps maintain their attention, at least until I interrupt.
"Ms. Lucas?" I ask, to confirm that this is, in fact, the patient I'm supposed to be seeing.
Her smile grows, and she stands up, immediately extending her hand. Her handshake is firm, but what startles me most is how long she holds onto my hand. It catches me off guard for just a moment before she lets go abruptly.
"My office is this way," I say calmly, offering her a warm smile in return for her own as I lead her down the hallway.
"So," she says, upon entering the room. "The famous question: where do I sit?"
"That's quite up to you," I tell her, still smiling.
She grins at me and announces, "I want to sit behind your desk."
I try not to laugh at this. Her chart says she's twenty-eight. My wife's age. But she seems so much younger, based on her broad smile, playful eyes, and carefree aura. Not to mention, the childish desire to sit behind my desk. But I allow it, of course, as it really doesn't matter to me where she sits, so long as she feels comfortable.
"By all means," I offer, moving across the room to sit in the chair across from the desk.
She takes a seat and bounces enthusiastically, then helps herself to the chair's height adjustment lever, lifting the seat so that she's sitting higher up than I am in the other chair. I know she's waiting for me to start the conversation, but this is not a practice of mine. I prefer to let the patient initiate the therapeutic discussion during each session, especially the first one.
Eventually, Ruby asks, "So, how does this work? Like… do I just say whatever, or…?"
I put her question on the back burner and ask her, "Is this your first time in therapy?"
"Yeah. I mean, no. I saw a shrink when I was young, after my mom and dad died, but I don't remember it at all. There were toys and stuff but… I dunno. Anyway, this is the first adulty therapy I've had, so… Tell me what to do."
"Well, to begin with, you're welcome to say whatever it is you'd like to me. This is a safe place for you to share any of your thoughts or feelings. I know you completed an intake interview last week where they asked you quite a few probing questions that may have been uncomfortable to answer, but at this point, I generally like to ask and hear for myself what brings you in."
"Oh. Well, shit. Okay. I mean, my gran basically just told me if I didn't get control of my anger issues and stop sleeping around, she'd kick me out, so… here I am."
Oddly, she's still smiling, as though what she's said was a joke. There's something else behind her eyes, though. Something I can't quite place.
"Alright," I say gently. "I'd also like to know what you would like me to help you with."
"Well, like I said, I guess I'm an angry slut or whatever, according to my gran, so—"
"Forgive me for interrupting you, Ms. Lucas, but I am more interested in what matters to you."
She blinks at me, stunned, like she's never been asked this kind of question before. Like she's never considered what she really wants in life. I'm instantly intrigued by this, astoundingly alert to her apparent negative self-image and her reluctance to speak for herself.
"I guess I'd kind of like to stop being so angry, too, honestly. But the sleeping around thing… that's really none of her business. And besides, I sleep with whoever I want, whenever I want, because I want to. And that works for me."
I pause, wondering exactly how it works for her and imagine – confidently – that it doesn't.
"Well?" she presses, anxious to hear my interpretation of what she's offered.
"How does that work for you?"
"What… What do you mean?"
"'Sleeping around,' as you put it. You said it works for you. How? What do you gain from it?"
Again, she blinks at me, silent.
Eventually, she insists, "It just does."
"Alright," I concede, knowing from experience that pressing the issue at this stage in our relationship would likely push her out the door immediately. "Could you tell me what makes you angry?"
"I don't know," she snaps, clearly irritated that I haven't read her mind yet. "Everything."
Ah, here it is. She's reluctant to share with me. Resistant to treatment. She wants a quick, one-stop shop where I magically 'fix' all her problems. Most people do, and I'm used that kind of attitude from those just starting therapy. But that's not a subject I'm willing to drop. At least not completely.
"When was the last time you felt angry?"
"When my gran told me she was going to kick me out if I didn't go to therapy," she grumbles, her smile dropping.
"Yes, it seems that was distressing for you. It sounds like you're somewhat reluctant to talk to me. That perhaps you have some reservations about therapy. Would you say that's correct?"
"Well, yeah. Sure. No one wants to be in therapy."
Something about this statement irks me, even though she's mostly right about it. As a therapist, it's hard to hear. But I'm determined to combat her negativity.
"On the contrary," I tell her. "I quite enjoy it."
I'm shocked by my own words, realizing that they're only true about 50 percent of the time. The other 50 percent of the time, it's fucking excruciating.
"You're in therapy?" she gapes. "I thought you were supposed to be the one fixing people."
"It's generally recommended that all therapists participate in their own psychotherapy and undergo psychoanalysis, and most people benefit from therapy anyway. Also, I should be clear that I am not in the business of 'fixing people,' as you put it. I don't believe that people are broken, only that they're going through some experience that can benefit from an experienced, unbiased set of eyes. It is the patient who ultimately comes to their own epiphanies about their lives. Should you remain in therapy, I think you'll find that you are the one empowered to find the answers within yourself."
"Well, that's bullshit," Ruby laughs, leaning back and spinning the chair around several times before stopping.
"So," I say, after a pause, ignoring her expletive. "What, other than feeling forced to go to therapy, makes you angry?"
"Everyone. Everything."
"How about your friends?"
"Sure. They piss me off all the time."
"Lovers?"
She laughs loudly, telling me, "I don't keep 'em around long enough for them to piss me off."
Chapter 2: Ruby
"How'd it go?" my gran asks, as soon as I open the front door.
Why does she always have to attack me with questions the second I get home?
"It was fine," I lie. Then, I decide to be honest, "It was bullshit."
"Ruby Lucas. Watch your mouth!"
"I don't need therapy! I'm fine!"
"You threatened to beat one of our customers with a frying pan last week!"
"He grabbed my ass, Gran!"
She sighs, and I roll my eyes, pushing past her to ascend the stairs to my room.
"No boys over, you hear?" she calls up after me. "Or girls, for that matter! You have to work in the morning!"
Of course, later that night, I sneak my current partner into my room anyway. We have my favorite kind of sex: rough, angry, and quick. He tries to stay the night, but I tell him I'll call him tomorrow and make him leave.
I won't call him.
Chapter 3: Regina
I usually leave my work at the office, but this night, thoughts of my new patient follow me home.
My wife is waiting for me in the parlor when I arrive home, which surprises me and catches me off guard, as she's usually still at work when I get there. Emma is the local sheriff, and she works far more shifts than are necessary. She's obsessed with her work. She would probably say the same about me, but I would deny it.
"How was work?" she asks, taking my hand and gently leading me into the dining room.
"It was… fine…" I say, still taken aback by her presence. "Why are you home early?"
"Not happy to see me, eh?" Emma jokes, pulling me in close and wrapping her arms around me. "Want me to go back to work?"
"Emma," I sigh, pulling her in tighter. "You know that's not what I meant."
"Graham took my shift," she explains. "I made dinner."
She's not the best cook I've ever met, but when I look down at the table, which is set for two, I see that she's made an incredible effort. Emma pulls out a chair for me to sit in at the dinner table. She's served the meal on our good plates, complete with burning candles in the middle of the table.
"This… This is…" I start, but find myself at a loss for words as I slowly take my seat.
This isn't like her at all, and I'm wondering if something bad has happened.
"Look, I know I'm not the best cook, and I'm sorry for that, but I figured you deserve a hot meal when you get home from a long day of work."
I stare at my plate, mumbling, "Thank you, Emma," as she serves me a few slices of the roast that seems to be cooked to perfection. When I take my first bite, after she's served herself as well, I tell her, "This is wonderful, sweetheart. Where'd you learn to make this?"
"Uhhh… Long story. Anyway, I'm glad you like it. I just wish I was home early enough to do this more often," she says sincerely, resting her hand on top of mine. "I want you to know that I appreciate all that you do for me." I look up and meet her gaze, but when she sees how confused I look – she's not usually this sentimental – she asks, "Are you alright? Did something happen at work?"
"No. No, I'm fine."
Emma looks at me curiously before shrugging her shoulders and turning her attention to the hot meal in front of her. Our food is finished slowly in silence, until I stand up and gather our empty plates.
"Wait, let me—" she tries, but I'm already in the doorway to the kitchen.
To my surprise, she follows me, and as I rinse the dishes, she approaches from behind and puts her hands on my hips, leaning in to place a gentle kiss at the base of my neck.
"This dress looks good on you," Emma whispers.
I can hear the smile in her voice as I reply, "Thank you."
I'm not used to this much attention, so I'm not sure how to respond to it. We're both too busy for intimacy – at least, that's what we tell each other and ourselves – so her effort to be close to me seems out of place. I'm ashamed for it, but I'm suspicious of her motive.
"Where is all this coming from?" I ask, a little too harshly.
My wife steps away, dropping her hands to her sides, and looks at me sadly as I turn around. I think she's embarrassed that this has become such an oddity, and that she hasn't made more of an effort previously. I don't resent her for it, but I certainly never expected this kind of attention from her. Okay… Maybe I resent her a little.
Eventually, she answers, "I've just been thinking. A lot. And… I've been a really shitty wife. And I'm sorry. I want to make it up to you."
"There's something you're not telling me…" I say slowly, staring her down with suspicion.
Emma sighs and pushes a hand through her hair, finally admitting, "I started going to counseling."
"You what?" I gape.
Surely, she's fucking with me. This woman has never believed in therapy – never – (although she's always supported me in my career) and despite some of our martial issues, she's refused to engage in the practice herself. I've even brought it up a few times, during fights, and she's always refused, so obviously, she's joking.
"I said, 'I started going to counseling.'"
She stares me down, her eyes becoming steel, and I'm still gaping at her.
When I finally ask, "Why?" she sighs again.
"Because I'm a shitty person, okay? You've been right the whole time, and I—"
Quickly, I interject, "You're not a shitty person."
"Well, I've been a shitty wife."
"That's not true."
"Regina," she huffs, clearly frustrated. "Look, I'm really sorry. I should have listened to you a long time ago, and I didn't. I fucked up."
"Emma…"
"Don't make excuses for me."
"I haven't been a perfect wife either."
Another sigh.
"Anyway, the point is, I want to make it up to you. I want things to be… different…"
Slowly, she approaches me, then puts her hands on my waist again.
"Can I kiss you?" Emma asks, after a long pause.
I can't help my obvious reaction, and my eyes go wide. I remember the last time she asked me this. It was after our first date, years ago. She was standing in my doorway. I can still smell her perfume when I think about it…
"Yes," I finally answer.
She leans in slowly, pressing her lips to mine, and the kiss is so sweet, so tender, that I almost gasp from the surge of affection that bursts through me.
Chapter 4: Ruby
My next appointment with Doctor Mills begins with her warm, welcoming smile. For some reason, it's off putting, but I smile back as enthusiastically as I can – like I normally do in social situations – and follow her into her office.
There is a painful silence at first that I can hardly sit through. In fact, I literally can't sit through it, so finally, I talk first.
"So. Now what?"
"That's up to you, Ms. Lucas," she says simply.
I wish she'd just tell me what the fuck I'm supposed to say so I can get this over with, but she's obviously refusing to feed me answers. She's going to make me work for it.
After a pause, I just say, "Oh."
She replies by asking, "What is it that you'd like me to help you with first? Let's start there."
"I want you to make me less angry," I admit, shrugging my shoulders to soften the seriousness of my confession.
"Well, I can't make you anything, but I can certainly try to help you get to the bottom of where those feelings are coming from."
"Fine," I grumble, crossing my arms.
I'm sitting in her chair again. I know my request to sit here caught her off guard, and I'm enjoying the sense of control it gives me. I hate the power differential, and I'll do almost anything to break it. It's too uncomfortable to be serious.
Jesus. What the fuck am I doing here?
"Ruby," Doctor Mills sighs. "Do you really want to be here?"
I let out a loud, forced breath of frustration.
"No," I confess. "Not really."
"What made you come back then?"
"I told you already. My gran threatened to kick me out."
"Do you enjoy living with her?"
"Well, no, but it's free, so…"
"Do you have a good relationship with your grandmother, or would you say that it's strained?"
"Well, obviously it's strained if she's threatening to kick me out!" I snap, scowling at her.
Is she obtuse or what? This is going to be painful.
"I apologize, Ruby. I simply try not to assume that I understand people's situations until they explain them fully. I don't want to put words in your mouth."
Well, that's fair. Actually, I kind of appreciate it. She's letting me speak for myself, unlike everyone else in my life.
"I love my gran," I explain, sighing. "It's just hard when she's on my ass all the time, you know?"
"I can imagine that might make it uncomfortable to be around her as much as you are."
"Yeah. I dunno. Maybe I should move out."
"Do you think you'd be happier living on your own?"
"Well, I'd be broke, so probably not. Besides, if anything happened to her and I wasn't there…"
"Does that scare you at all? That something might happen when you're not there?"
"Well, yeah. Of course it does."
"Ruby," she says gently. "What would you say that you get most angry about?"
"Men," I confess.
I'm shocked that I've said this. I'm shocked that I could even verbalize the subconscious fear inside of me.
"In what way?"
"They just piss me off, okay? They're only good for one thing, and that's sex. And most of them aren't even good for that."
"I'm going to challenge you to dig a little deeper here, Ruby. What is it about men in general that 'pisses you off,' as you put it?"
"They're pigs. I guess that's why I'm such a slut. If I initiate, it doesn't feel like I'm being taken advantage of. If a guy walks up to me at a bar and talks to me first? Fuck that guy, man. Fuck him. And not in the sexy way. Just literally he can go die in a hole."
I can tell she's stunned by my words, and I feel sort of triumphant for shocking her.
"So, just to be sure I'm understanding, you get angry when a man initiates romantic contact?"
"Yes."
"What about women?"
"Oh, no. I love when women hit on me. It's sexy. It's appealing. I love a girl with confidence."
"Why is it different for men?"
I consider this carefully. I know exactly why, but I'm not going to tell her.
"I don't know," I lie, shrugging my shoulders.
"Alright," she says. "Maybe we can explore that more sometime. For now, let's just work on some of your behaviors that stem from anger."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, as much as I love talk therapy and psychoanalysis, I think cognitive behavioral therapy is critical to changing behaviors, and if that's really what you want, we should work on it. I want you to feel you're making progress." I don't say anything, so she keeps talking, "But I want you to understand something, Ruby. Anger is a substitute for other emotions. It is not organic. It is never alone. And generally, what anger covers up is sadness."
I'm silent. Fuck that.
"I'm not sad," I finally counter, sensing the implications of what she's trying to say. "Why would I be sad?"
"I don't know, Ruby, but I'd love to explore it and find out."
"Yeah, well. No."
"Okay. We can just work on the behaviors then, for now."
For now, she says. Fuck this bitch. Who the hell does she think she is, trying to tell me I'm fucking sad?
"I'm not sad," I repeat angrily.
"Are you angered by what I've just said?" she asks me.
I definitely am. Not saddened. Angered.
"Yes."
"Then I apologize. I didn't mean to upset you. Where would you like to go next?"
"Home."
"Our time is just about up. Let me get you scheduled for next week, if you'd like, and I'll see you then, and we can discuss where you want to take this next at that time. Would that be alright?"
She called me sad, which pisses me off, but what's worse is that fact that she's so fucking nice. Why does she have to be so nice?
"Yeah, whatever. Same time next week then?"
"That will be fine. Thank you for coming in, Ruby. I look forward to seeing you next week."
Ugh. Too damn nice.