Lying on the Couch by Irvin D. Yalom Page A
Authors: Irvin D. Yalom
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Mystery & Detective, Psychotherapists, Therapist and patient
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catch her gaze. But she always looked away.
hree times a week for the past five years, Justin Astrid had started his day with a visit to Dr. Ernest Lash. His visit today had begun Uke any of the previous seven hundred therapy sessions: at 7:50 A.M. up the outdoor stairs of the Sacramento Street Victorian, handsomely painted in mauve and mahogany, through the vestibule, up to the second floor, into Ernest's dimly lit waiting room, permeated with the rich, moist aroma of Italian dark roast. Justin inhaled deeply, then poured coffee into a Japanese mug adorned with a hand-painted persimmon, and sat on the stiff green leather sofa and opened the San Francisco Chronicle sports section.
But Justin could not read about yesterday's baseball game. Not on this day. Something momentous had happened—something that demanded commemoration. He folded his newspaper and stared at Ernest's door.
At eight A.M. Ernest put Seymour Trotter's folder into his file cab-
34
Lying on the Couch ^ 3 5
inet, glanced quickly at Justin's chart, straightened his desk, placed his newspaper in a drawer, put his coffee cup out of sight, rose, and, just before opening his office door, looked back to scan his office. No visible signs of habitation. Good.
He opened his door and for a moment the two men looked at each other. Healer and patient. Justin with his Chronicle in hand, Ernest's newspaper hidden deeply in his desk. Justin in his dark blue suit and Italian striped silk tie. Ernest in a navy blue blazer and Liberty flowered tie. Both were fifteen pounds overweight, Justin's flesh spilling into chins and jowls, Ernest's belly bulging over his belt. Justin's mustache curled upward, stretching for his nostrils. Ernest's manicured beard was his tidiest feature. Justin's face was mobile, fidgety, his eyes jittery. Ernest wore large goggle spectacles and could go for long periods without blinking.
"I've left my wife," Justin began, after taking a seat in the office. "Yesterday evening. Just moved out. Spent the night with Laura." He offered these first words calmly and dispassionately, then stopped and peered at Ernest.
"Just like that?" Ernest asked quietly. No blinking.
"Just like that." Justin smiled. "When I see what has to be done, I don't waste time."
A little humor had entered their interaction over the past few months. Ordinarily, Ernest welcomed it. His supervisor. Marshal Streider, had said that the appearance of humorous byplay in therapy was often a propitious sign.
But Ernest's "just like that" comment had not been good-natured byplay. He was unsettled by Justin's announcement. And irritated! He had been treating Justin for five years—five years of busting his ass trying to help him leave his wife! And today Justin casually informs him that he left his wife.
Ernest thought back to their very first session, to Justin's opening words: "I need help getting out of my marriage!" For months Ernest had painstakingly investigated the situation. Finally he concurred: Justin should get out—it was one of the worst marriages Ernest had ever seen. And for the next five years Ernest had used every known psychotherapy device to enable Justin to leave. Every one had failed.
Ernest was an obstinate therapist. No one had ever accused him of not trying hard enough. Most of his colleagues considered him too active, too ambitious in his therapy. His supervisor was forever remonstrating him with, "Whoa, cowboy, slow down! Prepare the
3 6 ^ Lying on the Couch
soil. You can't force people to change." But, finally, even Ernest was forced to give up hope. Though he never stopped liking Justin and never stopped hoping for better things for him, he gradually grew convinced that Justin would never leave his wife, that he was immovable, rooted, that he would be stuck for life in a tormented marriage.
Ernest then set more limited goals for Justin: to make the best of a bad marriage, to become more autonomous at work, to develop better social skills. Ernest
hree times a week for the past five years, Justin Astrid had started his day with a visit to Dr. Ernest Lash. His visit today had begun Uke any of the previous seven hundred therapy sessions: at 7:50 A.M. up the outdoor stairs of the Sacramento Street Victorian, handsomely painted in mauve and mahogany, through the vestibule, up to the second floor, into Ernest's dimly lit waiting room, permeated with the rich, moist aroma of Italian dark roast. Justin inhaled deeply, then poured coffee into a Japanese mug adorned with a hand-painted persimmon, and sat on the stiff green leather sofa and opened the San Francisco Chronicle sports section.
But Justin could not read about yesterday's baseball game. Not on this day. Something momentous had happened—something that demanded commemoration. He folded his newspaper and stared at Ernest's door.
At eight A.M. Ernest put Seymour Trotter's folder into his file cab-
34
Lying on the Couch ^ 3 5
inet, glanced quickly at Justin's chart, straightened his desk, placed his newspaper in a drawer, put his coffee cup out of sight, rose, and, just before opening his office door, looked back to scan his office. No visible signs of habitation. Good.
He opened his door and for a moment the two men looked at each other. Healer and patient. Justin with his Chronicle in hand, Ernest's newspaper hidden deeply in his desk. Justin in his dark blue suit and Italian striped silk tie. Ernest in a navy blue blazer and Liberty flowered tie. Both were fifteen pounds overweight, Justin's flesh spilling into chins and jowls, Ernest's belly bulging over his belt. Justin's mustache curled upward, stretching for his nostrils. Ernest's manicured beard was his tidiest feature. Justin's face was mobile, fidgety, his eyes jittery. Ernest wore large goggle spectacles and could go for long periods without blinking.
"I've left my wife," Justin began, after taking a seat in the office. "Yesterday evening. Just moved out. Spent the night with Laura." He offered these first words calmly and dispassionately, then stopped and peered at Ernest.
"Just like that?" Ernest asked quietly. No blinking.
"Just like that." Justin smiled. "When I see what has to be done, I don't waste time."
A little humor had entered their interaction over the past few months. Ordinarily, Ernest welcomed it. His supervisor. Marshal Streider, had said that the appearance of humorous byplay in therapy was often a propitious sign.
But Ernest's "just like that" comment had not been good-natured byplay. He was unsettled by Justin's announcement. And irritated! He had been treating Justin for five years—five years of busting his ass trying to help him leave his wife! And today Justin casually informs him that he left his wife.
Ernest thought back to their very first session, to Justin's opening words: "I need help getting out of my marriage!" For months Ernest had painstakingly investigated the situation. Finally he concurred: Justin should get out—it was one of the worst marriages Ernest had ever seen. And for the next five years Ernest had used every known psychotherapy device to enable Justin to leave. Every one had failed.
Ernest was an obstinate therapist. No one had ever accused him of not trying hard enough. Most of his colleagues considered him too active, too ambitious in his therapy. His supervisor was forever remonstrating him with, "Whoa, cowboy, slow down! Prepare the
3 6 ^ Lying on the Couch
soil. You can't force people to change." But, finally, even Ernest was forced to give up hope. Though he never stopped liking Justin and never stopped hoping for better things for him, he gradually grew convinced that Justin would never leave his wife, that he was immovable, rooted, that he would be stuck for life in a tormented marriage.
Ernest then set more limited goals for Justin: to make the best of a bad marriage, to become more autonomous at work, to develop better social skills. Ernest
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