The Washington Post reporter sought me out when he learned by reading the police blotter about the criminal charges Skylar filed. I agreed to the interview because I knew I could control the narrative better than anyone else. The reporter and I sat in my living room on two consecutive afternoons, and I shared the evolution of my ten-sessions system. He asked questions and jotted my answers in his notebook, like a kind of reverse therapy.
I recounted some of my story, but not everything. When the reporter asked how I came up with my protocal, I told him I’d had a burst of inspiration during a long run, and that even though my unorthodox methods meant I could no longer be a licensed therapist, my results spoke for themselves.
In his provocative, mostly flattering profile the reporter dubbed me “D.C.’s Maverick Therapist.”
I answered all of his questions without lying; I just omitted pieces of the truth. I need to do the same thing now to earn Matthew’s confidence.
“I’m glad you brought up the article, Matthew. It’s important for us to be direct with each other. You can ask me anything. I’m not promising I will answer, but you can ask.”
He nods. “Okay. How is talking for ten sessions—actually, eight and a half more sessions—going to fix me and Marissa?”
I smile. The second session is Disruption, and I’ve been waiting for this opening to introduce it. “You’re right. Talking alone won’t help. We could sit here for dozens of hours and not solve anything. So, I’m going to have free rein in your lives—to a reasonable degree. I’m not going to read your diaries or plant a camera in your house or spy on Bennett. But in order to help you, I need to really know you. Not just what you tell me.”
“Free rein?” Marissa echoes. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“I just came from the outdoor patio at La Ferme.”
Marissa’s brow creases. She doesn’t get it yet. “We go there all the time!”
“I’ve never been there before, but I thought I should check it out. The truffle popcorn really is delicious.”
There’s a moment of silence. I watch their confused expressions morph as they get my underlying meaning. Matthew half rises from his seat, immediately on the defensive. “What the—！”
“Matthew’s addicted to that popcorn!” Marissa says. “But how—”
“Most therapists only know what you tell them,” I say. “Even if you try to be one hundred percent honest, you create an illusion based on your perceptions and unconscious biases. I need to access who you are when I’m not around in order to learn the truth, and for our work together to be effective.”
Clients understand they’re in for something different when they come to see me. But they don’t realize the full scope until they learn I’ll be scrutinizing their lives on my own time and on my own terms. Some of them terminate our contract on the spot. But most stay; sometimes even the ones I least expect.
Matthew’s a private man. Unlike his wife, he leaves almost no footprint on social media. His body language is resistant; his arms are now folded across his chest.
This might be too much for him.
What’s more interesting to me, though, is that Marissa’s body has also stiffened. She’s the public one, with her charity meetings and boutique located on a busy stretch of Connecticut Avenue and annual Halloween bash at their home, which is always transformed into an elaborate haunted house.
Matthew sinks back into his seat. His anger flares quickly, but his control over it is impressive. “I’ve had a lot of time to think these past couple of days. I’m not sure I can truly forgive Marissa. But I want to give it a try. So, I’m on board with this. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Gratitude crashes across Marissa’s face. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“Let’s talk about your families,” I direct them. “Matthew, you mentioned in our first session that your mother died as a result of leukemia a few years ago. How was your parents’ marriage before then?”
Matthew exhales. “Let’s put it this way: I’m nothing like my father and I made sure to marry a woman who was nothing like my mother.”
Marissa looks at her husband with wide eyes, almost as if he is dropping bread crumbs that lead to a place she has not been before.
“I have no idea why—or how—they stayed together.” Matthew shakes his head. “They were toxic. If my father decided to get out the barbecue and grill some steaks, that would be the night my mother proclaimed she no longer ate red meat. If my mother bought my father a nice shirt for Christmas—she hated the clothes he wore, so she was making a point with the gift—he’d return it.”