The next night Colin and I had dinner at a Cajun place on the east side. The lighting was low; the booths were cozy and warm. We both ordered martinis, straight up, two olives. My head went light early; I let the warmth from the cocktail sink deep. There was a nice hum about the place. The bar was busy, but not overly busy; the acoustics were leveled out so that you could actually talk. The food I saw coming out of the kitchen looked fantastic, colorful, and plentiful on the plates. I was surprised by my own good mood.
Colin talked, and I had to remind myself to look at his face generally and not keep getting lost in his eyes. I’m not a sentimental person, and I was aware of the superficial things I found myself thinking: He’s gorgeous. Great hair. Nice teeth—so white. I watched his lips open and close and entertained thoughts that were entirely inappropriate given the complexity of my life.
He’d been divorced four years and had two daughters, one nearly six, the other eight; he couldn’t help but smile when he mentioned his girls. He took out a picture from his wallet, but the lights were too low for me to see their faces very clearly. I nodded appreciation, moved by how tenderly he placed the photo back in his wallet.
“Adorable.” I stopped chiding the schoolgirl in myself and let my shoulders fall, listening to him chat about his work (high-tech), his kids, the toll of a bitter divorce. It felt good to fall silent; I talked all day for a living. I liked his voice—deep, but not too baritone, and he enunciated his vowels and consonants like a trained singer.
He also straightened his silverware. That combined with his precise look—shaven except for a soul patch, baby blue shirt tucked neatly in black Italian pants, shined shoes, moisturized skin—were distinct clues to perfectionism.
Was he too controlling? Was he a player? I was performing mental gymnastics to accommodate the position I’d put myself in. I imagined myself bolting to the door and then fantasized about reaching over to touch his hand. The kind of normalcy Colin seemed to embody was so infectious. I placed both of my hands at my side. Slow down.
“So, what’s your story?” he said, unaware of the minefield he’d just entered.
“Ahh, where do I start?” I said, editing myself. “One daughter, Sophie. She’s nine.”
“How long have you been divorced?” he asked, toying with the toothpick in his martini.
“I’m not divorced.”
There was a long pause on both sides of the booth. I couldn’t lie; I’d rationalized a life for Sophie that didn’t include divorce.
“Wow, you seemed really unmarried last night.” He looked at my ring finger.
“Yeah, I took it off three years ago.”
I’d had one brief but intense affair within those three years. Richard was an out-of-town businessman, someone whom I knew could be discreet. He was passionate and smart, and he helped me reclaim buried desire. I explained the relationship to Colin with as much brevity and honesty as I could. “He was not a long-term boyfriend,” I said. He was an ember to a much larger fire.
Colin nodded. There were deep wrinkles around his eyes, and I liked that he’d let his hair go salt-and-pepper. But there was something deeper about Colin than his drop-dead good looks. He seemed completely comfortable with himself; his gaze and his breathing were steady and deep. I’d been around David’s volatile energy for so long I’d forgotten what it was like to be with someone so calm.
“We pretty much live separate lives,” I said, surprising myself with my own candidness.
“Three years is a long time to be separated,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” I said. So that was it. I gathered my purse and started to stand.
“Wait, whoa, wait a minute.” He reached for my hand. “Please sit down.”
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t be here. My life—or what’s left of it—is totally screwed up.” There was a part of me that couldn’t believe I’d shown up in the first place. What the hell was I doing here? Why would I want to take on more complication now?
He looked at me without flinching. “And?” he laughed. “Does that mean you skip dessert?”
After hot fudge brownies and coffee, we stood outside the restaurant, one of those places that plops itself down in a residential neighborhood and manages to thrive despite its less-than-perfect location. People’s homes were lit up with evening activities. In some windows you could see the glow of the television. From others, you could hear the low thump of music.
It was ten thirty, the time when many couples look at each other and either find comfort or something to ignore. David and I had taken the routine to a whole new level of ambivalence. How lovely it would feel to be touched again by any man, but especially this one. The loneliness and restlessness I’d felt for so many years welled up inside me.
“Um, I should go,” I said.
“I’d like to see you again.” Colin leaned into me, almost pressing me up against my car door.
The whites of his eyes were even brighter in this light.
Oh, for God’s sake, I found myself thinking, this ridiculously strong attraction is purely biological. I put my forehead on his chest and allowed myself to appreciate his smell—the cleanest, freshest masculine smell I’d smelled in a long time. I tried to place his shampoo, his lotion, whatever it was that made this man so enticing, but no labels came to mind. He leaned down to kiss me, hovering just above my lips until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I pulled him in and kissed him long and hard.
The combination of feelings was too much to process out loud. Colin’s kiss had amplified every emotion world-weary adults are trained to be wary of. The dopamine raced through my body, electrifying the moment. I wanted the simplicity of romance and the exuberance of desire. I wrapped my arms around his waist. He was built like a lean pyramid, wide shoulders, narrow hips, the kind of body swimmers develop after months in the pool. He looked down at me and smiled.
The leaves above us crackled when the wind blew through them. I’d always loved fall for its profound changes in color and temperature. There was something shifting in the air.
David called from Canada when I was packing boxes in Sophie’s room. I’d found a loft in the Pearl District that would do—temporarily. It wasn’t the greatest place to raise a nine-year-old, but it was close to work, there was lots of light, and the rent was affordable. I planned to move in with Sophie until we could find a small house I could afford.
David’s voice sounded higher than I’d ever heard it, supercharged by nerves and grief and the side effects the drugs were having on his body. He was angry with his father.
“I tried to talk to him,” he said. “He’s just the same—judgmental, unforgiving. Christ, he’s the most stubborn man I’ve ever met.”
David’s father was notoriously moody; sometimes David would make the long drive to Canada only to have his father retire to his room upon his arrival.
“I am so very sorry. Your dad is a really good man in his heart,” I said.
Then, David began to wail. I could hear him open the door to the outside, pacing the big green lawn his father had insisted on keeping, even with advanced heart disease. David’s mother would need her only son, but he was of no help now.
“You can’t leave me,” David cried. “I can’t take it. I can’t.”
“David, we don’t need to talk about it now,” I said. “This isn’t the time.”
He let out a sound like an animal’s cry, a combination of grief and longing and bone-chilling madness.
“David, please, you’re scaring me. Is Sophie okay?”
He sniffed, the door creaked back open, and his voice was nearly normal again.
“Sophie, your mom wants to talk to you.”
“Hey, Mommy!” Sophie’s voice said into the phone. “I miss you soooooo much.”
“How are you, sweetheart? Is Aunt Jill taking good care of you? Are you and your dad okay?”
I asked the questions as if they were code, a secret way for her to tell the truth. What was happening up there?
“Oh, yeah, Daddy’s really sad. But we went to Grandpa Lew’s favorite beach, and Dad built a big fire. You know how Dad gets carried away.”
David had always been a bit of a pyromaniac. He loved watching flame dance. He built big fires in the winter and huge bonfires on the beach, but I always wondered what it was about the flame that seduced him.
“Sophie, promise me you’ll stay with Aunt Jill during this trip,” I said. “I don’t want you alone with Daddy.”
“Why not?” she said, innocently.
“Because. Because, honey, he’s too sad to take care of you alone.”
My legs were falling asleep, the circulation cut off by sitting for so long on a hard moving box. My shoulders ached; I arched my back to try to find some relief.
“Okay. We’re going to have dessert now, Mommy. I love you. Gotta go, bye!”
The phone went dead. Jill would drive Sophie, David, and her son home the next day, and then I could take Sophie to the new apartment.
I pushed myself off the box and picked up another knickknack from her dresser. The photo, bedazzled in white and red jewels, showed Sophie as a toddler, dressed in a big sun hat and baby blue sundress. We were vacationing that year at my sister’s second home in Capitol Reef National Park, the place where the lightning show and new love had electrified our romance.
Sophie was resting her chin on David’s head, completely relaxed, looking intently into the camera. He was staring into the camera as well, not smiling, disturbed. No, distracted. He looked completely distracted, as if his mind was racing away from the moment. There was a pink and blazing orange sun setting behind them, but David was completely unfazed by it. The photo had always stood out to me, maybe because Sophie’s gaze was so intense, and maybe because I could see the beginning of David’s illness in that shot.
Did he always know he was different? I wondered. Did he know that he harbored the beginning of a mental illness? Did his family know and minimize its importance, or even worse, keep a diagnosis from me? I often caught David mumbling, a habit I used to think was charming. Other times, I’d catch him staring off into the distance, troubleshooting what I thought was a problem at work. Had he always been working to sublimate his feelings of anxiety and madness? Had the mere act of living been a burden, one made worse by a child, a family, a mortgage? My heart ached for him, for the man in that photo, the David I’d fallen in love with.
The phone rang again, startling me. David’s voice was filled with rage. “You know what?” he screamed. “Fuck you and your fucking life. Go ahead and leave. I could give a shit.” He started to hang up, and then he screamed so viciously it scared me to my core. “You’re a real bitch, you know?”
I held the phone in my hand, stunned by David’s vicious attack. Who was he? I was too paralyzed to move. I must have sat for hours on that box, its seams cutting into the skin of my legs.
No sooner had David returned with Sophie than we received news of Lew’s death. I had prepared myself to tell Sophie that we were leaving, and now there was another crisis that made me feel miserable for even considering my own needs. David didn’t even bother unpacking his bag—he returned home to attend a small funeral for his father. First, the divorce. And now this.
I weighed my plans for moving. How would Sophie remember this? Mom left Dad the weekend after Grandpa died? Heartless. And yet, I knew if I didn’t leave soon, I might not survive. I was losing weight, emotionally drained, emptied of energy and joy. The night with Colin had changed something for sure. He had reminded me what it was like to be alive, not just living, not just going through the motions.
But the notion of abandoning someone who was doomed now loomed over every choice I made. I knew if I left David in this state he wouldn’t make it. I’d held on ten years. Surely, I could wait a few more weeks until he was stronger.
David returned from Canada more distant than ever before. He ignored me when I spoke to him about the details of the funeral, of Sophie’s life, of his grief. He paced the house at all hours of the night. He refused to eat anything I’d cook.
After David’s mother settled Lew’s affairs, she agreed to come to Portland to help take care of David. I rushed from work to pick her up from the 6:10 train. Alice was a willow of a woman made even frailer by the death of her husband. As I drove up, I could see the tan slacks that bagged around her and the red scarf around her head that covered thinning, stressed hair. She was standing on the corner by the train station in the red coat I’d bought her eight years earlier for her birthday. She was in her early seventies now. She was still gorgeous, with the bone structure of a movie star and a mind that was lightning fast.
She was also English, no nonsense, brisk about her business and the order of life. “Hello, dear.” She kissed me on the side of the cheek. “Thank you for picking me up.” She folded her scarf into neat triangles before placing it in a plastic bag inside her purse.
As we drove, the wiper blades thumped against the windshield. I tried to give her the most direct version of what had happened. “It’s been really bad the last year, Alice. David refused to get help.”
She blinked when I told her this.
“I think he’s been sick a long time.”
“Well, it would seem to me losing your father and your marriage all in one month might send any of us a little crazy.” She sighed. “Psychiatrists, all just a bunch of nonsense, if you ask me. Suggesting you look at your navel for the answers to problems. I understand David’s resistance completely.”
Psychiatrists, nonsense? Alice had just dismissed Adele’s field of expertise and given me far more understanding into David’s refusal to get help.
She looked out the window at the homeless people lining up outside the soup kitchen. “What a shame,” she said absentmindedly. There was an order Alice expected from the world, and it occurred to me that the world often disappointed her. We drove the rest of the way home in silence. I clutched the steering wheel until my knuckles were white.
We drove past the Pearl district, where I’d met Colin for the first time. How odd it must have been for her to learn the details of our crumbling marriage now. Ten years she’d missed. David never really shared his life with anyone. As she straightened her back in her seat, Alice’s way in the world reminded me of my marital obligations.
We pulled into the driveway, and I said, “I’m really sorry about Lew, Alice. I liked him very much.”
She opened the car door, got halfway out, and then turned. “I know you did, dear. He liked you too.” She paused. “Everyone goes through hard times in a marriage. It wasn’t always easy. But you work on it; you work for it. That’s how you have a good marriage.”
Before I could respond to Alice’s philosophy on how to make a good marriage, a good life, she opened the door to my house and hauled her bag upstairs.
That night, David came to my bedroom. “Can I lay down with you?” he asked.
“What is it?” I slid to the opposite edge of the bed.
“I think about us all the time,” he whispered. “I let you go, didn’t I. I let you go?”
He touched my arm, then my face. “Please don’t, David.” I turned away from him. My body ached, but not for him.
“I don’t know if I can make it without you,” he said.
I was so tired and irritated by his erratic nighttime sojourns. I whispered, not wanting to wake his mother. “It seems to me if you’d wanted to save our marriage you might have made an effort to get help, to see a doctor, before now.”
“I was fucked up.” He sat up in bed, his hair askew and his beard much longer than I’d ever seen before. “But I’m getting better now, I am. I’m going to go to counseling, too. I’m not giving up on us, Sheila; please don’t give up on me.” His eyes were glassy, bloodshot from lack of sleep.
I sighed and sat up to face him. My jaw was tense; I’d been grinding my teeth at night. “David, maybe you haven’t realized how I’ve been suffering too. This isn’t a life for me—it’s not one for Sophie. I don’t want to have her grow up thinking she doesn’t deserve affection and respect from her husband. I don’t want her to believe adults sleep apart.”
I hugged him, and my heart broke for the little boy in him, the kid who’d been shipped off to boarding school, the kid who was bullied every day because he was shy. He’d turned the anger inside and never really let me in.
“No, no, I won’t go.” He started to raise his voice. I knew his mother would hear us fighting.
Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the anxiety I had over worrying about Sophie’s safety. I was really, finally done. I wanted to jolt him into reality, into seeing the seriousness of our situation. “I’m seeing someone else,” I said. “Just a couple of times, but I like him.”
David laughed a mocking laugh. “How charming,” he said. “Is he younger than me?”
“Why does that matter?” I said. “Why does any of it matter? You never cared before.” We hadn’t slept together in two years, and neither of us questioned one another about how we survived the physical isolation of a marriage that existed solely for our daughter.
The beige-and-black law offices of Jody Stahancyk were designed in tones meant to neither soothe nor evoke emotion. Jody was Oregon’s best-known attorney, a big woman, six foot two, with a voice that boomed through the hallway. The stories of her courtroom antics were widely circulated. She could intimidate judges. She could make male lawyers cry. I’d heard all the stories, but I really needed her help. It had been a long shot to get in, and I’d obviously waited far too long before calling, but she’d agreed, thanks to a series of interviews I’d done with her when I reported for the ABC affiliate.
We talked about shoes for ten minutes. Her daughter knew of a place in Chicago that sold designer brands at cost. How much was this costing me? I’d heard stories of people not being able to afford her after the first meeting.
When she finally asked, “What can I do for you?” I wasted no time.
I told her about David’s illness, how I didn’t want to make it worse by getting a contentious divorce. “I want to know the best way to work this out. And I know this sounds absurd, but I really don’t even want him to know I’ve seen you.”
She peered at me over red horn-rimmed glasses. “How long have you been married?”
“Ten years.”
“Then you’ll give him half of everything you own. Do you have savings?”
“Yes, a 401(k), a pension, a few hundred thousand dollars in savings and from investing in apartments,” I said. My own shoes were bought on closeout from a warehouse sale. I’d worked so hard to save. Now I was going to give away half of it. “And the house.”
“Do you both own the house?” Her female assistant, a young Asian lawyer dressed in a beautiful black suit, took notes as we talked.
“No, David didn’t believe in buying on credit. I bought it. It’s in my name.”
“Well, whatever you do, don’t leave the house,” she said flatly.
I sat back in my chair, floored. “What do you mean? I’m packed. I’ve signed a lease on an apartment. I’m halfway moved in.” My silk blouse was stained with sweat.
“Well, unpack, and get back in that house. If things get ugly, and you’ve abandoned your primary residence, that house will be his, along with half of everything else you own.” She started scribbling on a paper and then addressed her assistant. “Krista, get Sheila the papers for a no-fault divorce. Fill them out for her. We’ll have an asset sheet drawn up tomorrow.”
She turned to me. “Here’s how it’s going to go down. You’re going to buy him out of the house and offer him half of everything you own. He gets to keep the assets from his business.” She looked up, struck by her own curiosity, “He does have assets, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you an officer of his company?” She leaned back in her leather chair, which looked custom-made to fit her frame.
“No, I’ve never signed checks; I know nothing about how he runs his financials.”
“Try to find out in the next few days, would you?” She smiled. “On the one hand, your ignorance may have protected you from some nasty corporate debt. On the other hand, your ignorance could cost you mightily if he’s run up a bunch of personal debt. Does he have credit cards? A mistress? A secret place in Vegas? Is he a drug dealer, a drug user? You need to know these things.”
This was her territory. There wasn’t a scenario or scheme she didn’t already know forward and back.
“No, none of that,” I said quickly. I had long suspected his infidelity, but I didn’t know anything for certain about David’s private life.
Two more hours passed in her office as I laid out the entire story of our marriage and my worry about preserving what little mental health he still had. I was spent, as if the energy had been squeezed out of me in drops, question by question. At the end of the session, she handed me some chicken scratch on some paper.
“Okay, this is a rough guess, but based on what you’ve told me, here’s how you’d make the split.” She handed me the paper. The numbers looked completely devastating. My savings would be virtually wiped out. In my twenties, I’d worked two jobs, anchoring and reporting. In my thirties, I’d invested in apartments with an attorney friend of mine. All the missed nights from Sophie, all the weekends showing and renting apartments—it was all for nothing.
“What about custody?” she asked. “You want your daughter full-time?” I had never, ever considered taking Sophie from David. Ever.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “Sophie is all that David has left. I want her to be with him, at least half of the time.”
“And can he take care of her?” she asked.
My shoulders fell. “I don’t know. I really don’t know anymore.” As bad as David’s condition had become, he managed to hold it together around Sophie. He was his best self with her. It was an irrational assumption, but I believed he would never harm her intentionally.
Jody’s phone was lit up on all five ringers, people on hold, other divorces, other marriages crashing in around her, and yet she was perfectly composed, booming orders to her assistant like a four-star general in a theater of war. “Okay, that’s a good start,” she said, wrapping up. “Look, I do this all the time. You are in a better position than 98 percent of the women who come through here. You’re a smart cookie. You’ll earn it back. You’ve got your kid. We can keep you out of court. You can count on me. Now, go convince David to settle this quickly.”
I shook her hand, the firmest shake I’d encountered in weeks. I liked this woman; I didn’t care what people said about her. She really did pull out all the stops for her clients.
Before I left, she added, “We’ll help you file the divorce. The media doesn’t have to know.”
This was the news I welcomed most. I’d read other local personalities’ divorces unfold on the pages of local gossip sites. None of them had Jody as a lawyer.
“Thanks, Jody,” I said, the bones of my knees knocking. Standing next to her I felt pathetic, incompetent, tiny.
She softened. “Remember to breathe, would you?”
Brian Goff is a gifted therapist in Portland, Oregon, whose specialty is suicide. He’s seen more than 500 significantly suicidal patients. Goff says, “A large percentage of survivors I work with say they regret the choice of attempting suicide. Rarely have people actually wanted to die. They just didn’t want to live the way they were living.”
Goff has worked at the forefront of several therapies that offer promise for the most deeply troubled patients. Intensive therapies, such as dialectical behavior therapy (DBT) and cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), have reduced rates of repetition of deliberate self-harm. Goff cofounded a DBT clinic and has used that technique successfully with hundreds and hundreds of patients. Now, he’s combined what he sees as the best elements of both in a treatment that uses mindfulness blended with cognitive behavioral psychotherapies.
Goff begins with this premise: people want to live a life worth living. And if they can be given the tools to help them ease the struggle of their present condition, they can begin building a life worth living. The new hybrid therapy developed by Goff, acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT), focuses on modifying the functions rather than the forms of symptoms, using acceptance and mindfulness strategies.
“Western medicine moves the locus of control so that the solution is no longer inside of us,” Goff says. “Someone else will take care of it. ACT puts the construction of one’s life and the reorientation of one’s experience back in the hands of the individual.
“We teach people to experience their thoughts as thoughts. When they think, ‘I’m going crazy,’ we teach them to change the thought to “I’m having the thought I’m going crazy.” Thus participants develop a different relationship with the thoughts, feelings, and bodily sensations that would normally form a toxic spiral, deepening hopelessness and the sense of entrapment and opening the way to another suicidal crisis.”
With ACT, people learn to move beyond the thought that “my situation is hopeless” by changing it to this: “I notice a thought that my situation is hopeless.” “ACT therapists are giving people tools to put these thoughts in context,” says Goff. “So much of traditional CBT focuses on symptom reduction. So often, people are doing the things they do to avoid unwanted internal experiences (i.e., thoughts and feelings) rather than doing things that are important and meaningful to them.”
In ACT, there is something more worthy of one’s time than reducing discomfort (which often backfires like trying to get out of quicksand): that is, learning to be flexible enough psychologically so that you can do the things that feel meaningful, vital, and important to you. It is often said, “Living well is better than feeling good.”
Goff asks his patients a theoretical question that provides insight into the behavioral component of suicidal ideation: “If I had a magic wand and I could do something, anything, for you, would you say, ‘Please kill me’? In all the years I’ve asked it, I’ve never heard ‘Yes, please kill me,’” Goff says. “The answer is, ‘Cure my Parkinson’s.’ ‘End my depression.’ ‘Save my marriage.’ ‘Prevent my bankruptcy.’”
“Most people who suffer from mental illness begin with a host of vulnerabilities: environmental, genetic predisposition, early trauma, nutritional deficiencies etc.,” says Goff. “You inherit certain qualities of your internal world, among them sensitivity, reactivity, the ability to return to a normal mood.”
Goff says with the right mix of circumstances that are toxic—physical or sexual abuse, neglect or a detached parent, early childhood trauma, environmental toxins—you are much more vulnerable to mental disorders. In an ACT approach, the focus is not on reducing the frequency or changing the content of inner experiences, but rather on changing the patient’s relationship to the behavior. ACT is successful in the psychological treatment of a wide range of problems, including drug dependence, chronic pain, epilepsy, depression, social phobia, work stress, and borderline personality disorder.