When I found out that my friend high school friend Meryl had taught an art class for the kids in her neighborhood, I decided try to earn some money doing the same. I put up fliers and wound up teaching two classes, with a handful of elementary-age students. Besides drawing, we did all kinds of craft projects, some of my own invention. For one assignment, I showed them photos of colorful beetles and asked them to draw one of their own. Their beetles were so spectacular, I wish I had copies of them to showcase on my blog, but back in those days we didn’t have Copymats. My very favorite, done by the one boy in my classes, I replicated and have kept all these years. I only wish I could remember his name so I could give credit where it’s due.

His creation is the one above. Below is one of mine.

After Dr. G, I started therapy with Dr. A, president of the American Psychiatric Association. Who could be more of an expert? I reasoned.

He was gray-haired, grandfatherly, and smoked a pipe, his office in a comfortable room in a beautiful Victorian house in San Francisco, which, unfortunately, was a forty-five minute drive from Concord. I have little memory of what our sessions were like in the ten months that followed because I never wrote about them.

I do remember I had such a desperate need to be heard—and believed!—that, since I could only afford one session a week, I spent the days in between unburdening myself in fantasy sessions in the run up to the real ones. But while I was voluble in my imaginary scenarios, face-to-face with Dr. A I felt anxious and constrained, though he seemed amiable enough—at first. I remember him saying on one occasion that I had the makings of a strong ego, which gave me hope. On another occasion, however, when I heard him in a phone conversation with another patient and I remarked (no doubt a little wistfully) how comfortable their relationship seemed, he told me that such a relationship had to be earned.

As I mentioned in my vignette “Shame,” for the longest time I didn’t dare ask him any personal questions because I was afraid if he told me he was divorced, it would be proof to me that love didn’t really exist—which I felt at the time would be more than I could bear. If such a prominent expert on mental health couldn’t make marriage work, what hope was there for me?

So it was many months before I found the courage to ask if he was married and if he had any children. In the interim I’d spotted his spotless black Mercedes Benz behind a chain link fence in the back of the building and seen him walking a frou-frou little dog— and I’d wondered if he wasn’t a bit of a snob. He said yes to my first question—and that his wife was an interior decorator—but no to the second. On the drive home I found myself wishing I had a therapist with four kids, a mutt for a dog, and a beat-up station wagon—someone who seemed more approachable.

I also remember that when I put up fliers all over my neighborhood and started teaching an art class for kids in my mother’s home, he was singularly unimpressed, though to me it seemed like a huge leap forward. I had always felt so constricted by the institutions that had structured my existence from as far back as I could remember—the educational system and the jobs I’d had—that the idea of being self-employed, even modestly so, felt…revolutionary!

Then one day he told me he didn’t believe that the wonderful, empowering conversation I’d just had with Ella about our friendship had happened the way I said it did. When I asked why, he said, “Because I don’t believe you’re capable of intimacy.”

If your therapist doesn’t believe you when you’re telling the truth, my advice is to head for the nearest exit.

Coincidentally, I’d just received a letter from my father announcing he wouldn’t be sending me any more money—this despite the fact that I was still struggling with depression. For all he knew, I was at a critical stage in my therapy, just as I had been with my voice lessons. My take-away was that my father didn’t care if I lived or died. And though Dr. A offered to lower his fee, I did head for the exit.

When I first came home, my mother treated me better for a time—because of my abortion, I believe, realizing that it had been a painful experience for me. She even allowed me to keep the cockatiel I’d bought in southern California—“Mutty,” for “muttonchops,” because when he fluffed up his neck feathers, it looked like that old-fashioned style of beard. But it wasn’t long before she lapsed into abusiveness again. As for my brother, he was as hostile towards me as ever. When I went out of my way to be nice to him, he snarled, “Leave me alone. I don’t want to be your friend!”

They’d moved to a new condominium in Concord, only a few blocks away from my grandmother and Uncle Rob. It had cream carpeting and mostly cream upholstery—and one wall of the living room was a mirror, which made the place look bigger. My mother always sat in a blue velvet chair facing the mirror—and when she caught a glimpse of herself, she would adjust her mouth into an odd, artificial-looking smile, apparently trying to look prettier or put on a more pleasant expression.

I slept on the living room sectional, while my mother and brother occupied the two bedrooms upstairs. Most of the few possessions I’d packed into a trunk before my move to southern California wound up in a cramped storage closet off the tiny back patio.

When I’d visited my dad, I’d told him how depressed I was and asked if he would help me financially to resume therapy with someone I chose, rather than someone who was assigned to me. He agreed—but said he would pay only as much as my mother did. Mom also agreed and recommended Dr. G, who had impressed her when he spoke at a conference she’d attended.

It was clear to me from our first session that Dr. G engaged far more with his clients than either of my psychiatrists had—and I left feeling a rush of hope. After the second session, however, I wrote:

I’d hoped that therapy would be different this time, that I’d find a therapist who would be a friend—someone who would like me, believe in me, trust me. I wanted a place to pour out everything that was inside—good and bad— and be able to trust my therapist to understand, to forgive the bad and appreciate the good.

But today when I walked out of Dr. Goren’s office and headed for the john, I felt a storm of tears threatening. And later I thought about committing suicide again. I feel I need empathy and understanding from a therapist—and that if I can’t find these things, the only alternative is suicide because I can’t go on living with these feelings—either half-dead with a desolating emptiness or in the throes of wild despair.

The main purpose of the session today was to find out why I was so excited after the last one and why I walked in so scared today. It was his theory that I became excited because I thought I was going to be remade by him in therapy. “A beautiful fantasy,” he said, “being remade.” But I think I was elated because, when he guided me in his questioning last week, it gave me a feeling of partnership. I imagined that I’d found the rapport I’ve been so starved for there aren’t even words to express it.

I saw Dr G only a few times, deciding to quit therapy with him after a session in which he tried to bully me into an admission that I was a lesbian. I’d gone home and cried bitterly, afraid he might be right, when all I’d ever wanted was a man to share my life with. I was so suggestible at the time I couldn’t even factor in what should have been obvious to me—that I was attracted to Dr. G himself.

Mom’s friend Arlen was pretty, with a lilting voice and very precise diction (her parents were immigrants, and she didn’t learn to speak English until she was six); she was graceful—even taught ballroom dancing at an Arthur Murray studio at one time—and musical, with a clear soprano voice and sophisticated taste that embraced everything from Gregorian chant to Philip Glass…

For years she’d been a stay-at-home mom, married to a world-class mathematician, though she’d never finished college herself, and they’d entertained the academic elite in their beautiful architect-designed home—that is, until her husband left her for a neighbor woman, who abandoned her children to marry him.

I’ve already written about what an inviting home she turned her run-down little cottage into. In winter she always had a fire burning in the fireplace; in summer her flowering shrubs ran riot in the yard. Eventually their household included two Siamese cats—shrewd, temperamental Liesle and an easy-going male whose name eludes me—as well as Barik, a beautiful samoyed who was eventually run over by a car.

She surrounded herself with plants, including exotic ones I’d never seen before, and always had new cuttings she’d snipped from public and private gardens sprouting roots in jars in the kitchen. She was forever tinkering with recipes, too, or trying to duplicate dishes she’d had in restaurants. She taught me to make an easy oil piecrust and crepes with lemon syrup, explaining that the secret to making anything sweet flavorful was salt.

She dabbled at painting and was always full of ideas for creative projects. She collected postcards and pictures from magazines of anything that caught her eye: fine art—she had a connoisseur’s appreciation—elegant interiors, photographs of nature, animals, children…  

After my return to the Bay Area, Arlen would become—and for many years remain—a mentor, whose opinion I sought about all things artistic, as well as the friend who was most appreciative of my own creative endeavors and singing voice.

Dear Ella,

Sorry for the hasty departure and for burdening you with the trunk! The last couple of days have been a mind-blowing experience. Though I’m sad and bewildered—and anxious to start seeing a good therapist—I’m feeling more “together” than I have for several months. This mind shift started within twenty-four hours of breaking up with Jack. I wondered how I could feel so devastated—but stronger at the same time. Strange, isn’t it? I wish I could talk to you at length the way we’ve always done in our marathons. In case you don’t already know it, you’re a very compassionate listener—a beautiful quality, I think.

I know you’re having a lot of problems now as well. I hope things get better for you. I’m sorry (for my sake!) I’m not going to be there to share in your life. I don’t imagine I’ll ever live in southern California again.

Right now, everything seems so precarious, not knowing what the future will bring—living with my mother for a time, working on my leather project, seeing a therapist, and doing volunteer work to help structure my time—those are the things I’ll be doing in the near future, I guess.

The trip back to Berkeley was as enjoyable as it could be under the circumstances. Arlen and I spent the night in San Luis Obispo in a fleabag hotel that cost $8.50. I was horrified. Didn’t it cost only $4 or $5 when you and I went to Santa Barbara? (At least this hotel didn’t catch on fire!) The next day we drove up Highway 1 and spent several hours in Carmel, window-shopping and having Swiss pastry in a little European-type coffee shop.

I wish you had been there. I think it would have done you good to hear Arlen talk about her love life. Her relationship with Harry (who’s only thirty) is turning into a beautiful one. With all her problems and all his, they are having a relationship that is really nurturing for both of them. With plump, easy-going Harry, Arlen is finally getting over her handsome, debonair ex-husband, who made her miserable during fifteen (?) years of marriage. She finds Harry both “dear” and “fascinating,” and she thinks she wants to marry him. Wow! Does that make me feel better…just knowing that such a thing is possible.

Well, the talk-machine has run down. It’s evening now, and I should make some dinner. It makes me sad to think that from now on I’ll be writing you. Take care and try to demand the best of people and life. It’s your due.