CHAPTER ONE
Love on the Ropes: Men and Women in Crisis
Women marry men hoping they will change. They donât. Men marry women hoping they wonât change. They do.
âBETTIN ARNDT
âIâve always felt our relationship was a threesome,â says Steve Conroy, crossing thin legs sheathed in worsted wool, black socks reaching not quite high enough, cordovan loafers with tassels. His style is pure Beacon Hill, his voice soft, modulated. âOur little mĂ©nage Ă trois has consisted of me, Mag, and Maggieâs misery.â
âOh, nice, Steve,â Maggie snorts, on cue. Short, blond, muscular, she seems coiled for action.
Steve stares down at his hands folded together in helplessness; his forehead puckers with concern.
My wife, Belinda, also a family therapist, has a saying: âBeware of âniceâ men with âbitchyâ wives.â
âHer misery?â I pursue.
Steve nods, ruefully. âItâs rare to see my wife happy.â
âItâs rare to see her happy with you, maybe.â Maggie takes the bait.
âAsshole,â I finish for her.
âPardon me?â Maggie turns to me, flushed.
âItâs rare to see me happy with you, maybe, asshole,ââ I paraphrase. Maggie pulls her head back a few inches, as if smelling something disagreeable. âI never said that,â she tells me softly.
I nod, turning to Steve. âIs she always this easy?â
âIâm not sure I take your meaning âŠâ
âThis goad-able?â
âLook.â The concerned frown reappears. âI have no interest here in âŠâ
I take a breath, regroup. The covert hostility flying around the room is getting to me. When I ask Steve how his wifeâs âmiseryâ manifests itself, he hesitates, and, studying him for a moment, I sense that his reluctance is more than a move in their game. He really is afraid of her. On the other side, Steveâs negative image of Maggie traps her like tarpaper. The more violently she protests, the more he stands confirmed as the victim of her irrationality. For eighteen years, Steve has managed to outflank his wife like this. Enormously successful in the world, ever reasonable at home, often beleaguered by his wifeâs high emotions, steadfast, patient Steve has only one problemâMaggie wants to leave him.
âI love Steve,â Maggie declares. âIâll always love him. But not in the way I need to, not anymore,â she trails off, seeming more worn out than angry.
Steve has no idea why his wife wants to quit their marriage, even thoughâwatching from the outsideâI can recognize their troubled dance within a few minutes of our first encounter.
âI just donât feel connected,â Maggie tries to explain. âI used to fight it. Years ago. Iâd try to talk. Iâd arrange little dinners. Iâd beg Steve to open up âŠâ
âYouâd throw things,â Steve adds helpfully.
Maggie looks at Steve sideways and then sighs. âSometimes Iâd be measured, sometimes Iâd be wild,â she says, like a nursery rhyme. âSometimes Iâd be seductive, sometimes Iâd be cold.â
âThere was a little girl who had a little curl,â I chime in.
âYes, but then one day the little woman looked at herself in the mirror and came to a big realization.â
âWhich was?â I ask.
Maggie leans toward me in her chair and confides in a stage whisper, âIt doesnât matter. It doesnât matter what I do. With Steve, what you see is what you get. This is as open as my husband is going to become.â She leans back again. âI donât know what I am to Steve. I donât know who he thinks he needs to ward off. To be honest, at this point, I donât care. Iâm just tired of it, whatever it is. All right, Doctor?â
âCall me Terry.â
âYou win, Steve.â She pushes right through me. âHereâs the white flag, okay? âUncle.â I surrender. Iâm a bitch, okay? I admit it. There. Can we all go home now?â
I raise an eyebrow toward Steve.
âWhat am I supposed to do?â he complains. âForgive me if I donât feel quite as vile as her portrait suggests. For years now Maggie has complained that I am âshut down.â But, frankly, I just donât buy it. Actually,â Steve says, crossing his legs, âfor a guy, I think Iâm pretty romantic.â
Maggie laughs.
âYou want to put that into words?â I ask her.
âBy romantic âŠâ Maggie looks at her husband. âSteve means flowers and music whenever he feels like having sex.â
âYou know, that really is unfair âŠâ Steve begins.
âAnyway, whatâs wrong with that?â I ask Maggie, heading him off.
âNothing,â she says, âas long as it doesnât take the place of other ways to be close.â
âLike?â I prompt.
Maggieâs eyes dart over the room, anywhere but at Steve. âLike listening to me!â she says.
âBut Maggie,â Steve whines, âonce again, you simply donât âŠâ
âLike,â I ask Maggie, âas in now, for example?â
âNow, just hold on a second.â Steveâs voice rises.
âIs this how it is at home?â I ask her, ignoring him. âHow itâs been?â
Maggieâs head drops; she nods. I canât tell if sheâs crying.
Finally, Steveâs reasonableness cracks. âDo I get to speak here?â
He vibrates with indignation, hands outstretched, warding off the two of us. âDo I have a voice?â
âNot yet,â I answer softly, trying to catch Maggieâs eye. âSo,â I continue, âthis is how it is?â She nods, beginning to cry while Steve fumes.
âIf I push him,â she says, her voice small, âwhich I donât anymore.â
âHow long?â I ask. Steve impatiently shifts in his chair.
âSteve,â I say, an aside. âI can be nice to you right now, or I can do my best to salvage your marriage. Whatâs your preference?â
He opens his mouth, shuts it, and then waves me on.
âHow long?â I resume, turning to Maggie.
âHow long has he been treating me like this?â she asks.
âHow long since you gave up?â
âYears.â Maggie begins to cry in earnest. âYears.â
I lean back, sobered, sad. âIâm sorry,â I tell them both. âIâm sorry youâve had to go through this.â Maggie cries harder. Steve looks to the side, upset as well. âAnd you tried therapy?â I ask.
âYes.â Maggie nods vigorously. âTwice, no, three times, really. But âŠâ
âBut no one took him on.â I finish the sentence for her. She nods.
I lean toward her. âAnd if I do, Maggie?â I ask. âIf Steve changes? I mean really changes. Are you even open to it at this point, or is it a forgone conclusion thatââ
âNo!â Maggie wails. âI want this to work. I want to love him. Three children, eighteen years!â She folds in, crying hard, angry and hurt. âDonât you think Iâve tried? â
âOkay,â I soothe. âOkay, Maggie. Iâve got it. Breathe a little. Iâve got it.â
Now Steve charges in, furious, oblivious to his wifeâs tears. âShe asks me to cut back on my work. I say, Okay, I will.â And I do. She wants me to be more involved with the kids. I donât turn around like a lot ofââ
âSteve,â I interrupt, speaking gently. âAre you aware of your wife crying a few inches next to you?â
âOf course Iâm aware,â he blusters, offended. âAnd you accuse me of condescension! What kind of cretin do you take me for? I do respond to my wife. Thatâs precisely the point. I work hard. I tend to our childrenââ
âThatâs all to the good,â I stop him. âIt really is. I am not being glib about that. But it just doesnât seem to be good enough, Steve. Iâm sorry. I believe you are trying, trying hard in fact. But itâs just not the fundamental thing.â
âWhat Iâm attempting to say âŠâ Steve tries plowing on.
âThe fundamental thing,â I continue, âis that, real or imagined, your wife experiences you as someone who, though you onât mean her harm, is nevertheless in day-to-day life simply too selfish and in your own way too controlling to live with.â
Steve stops short. âI canât believe this!â he says, his voice a whisper. âYou donât even know me.â
âDo you think Iâm wrong?â I ask him. âDo you? Watch this.â Steve is speechless. I turn to Maggie, âAm I?â
She shakes her head vehemently.
âThen maybe youâd better tell him yourself.â
âSteve,â she says turning to him. âMy darling. Idiot! Iâve been telling you. Iâve used those very wordsâfor years!â
Steve contemplates us both for a long moment, eyes squinting as if in bright light. Then, to my surprise, he suddenly smiles. A shrewd businessman, Steve is, in fact, nobodyâs fool. He knows, for example, when heâs been had. I notice he stands in possession of a truly disarming grin. What causes him to back down now? Because he has correctly assessed that within minutes I have gained access to something he has been living without and very much wantsâMaggieâs goodwill.
âNice smile,â I say, breathing again. âSo, what are you feeling?â
âLike Iâve just lost controlling interest of the board.â His smile broadens.
âAnd how is that for you?â I ask.
âWell, I guess weâll just have to see, wonât we?â he replies. We let that one sit between us for a while. âSo now what?â Steve breaks the silence. âWhat do I need to do?â
I find myself matching his smile with one of my own. âNow, thatâs the most refreshing question Iâve heard so far today,â I answer. âSo, listen. I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?â
âOh, you decide,â he offers magnanimously, the tension between us dissipating.
âWhat happened to all that anger just a moment ago?â I ask.
Steve grins again. âWell,â he says, âsizing things up, I suppose I decided that it was just ⊠too irrational. You were giving me some news?â he prompts.
âFine,â I answer. âHereâs how it is. The good news is that I think I can help you, if youâre willing to do the work. Unless thereâs some curveball I donât know about, my guess is we have a fair shot at turning this around.â
âAnd?â
âThe bad news is that you have to do what I tell you.â
âWhich bridge will I need to dive off of?â
âNone, most likely. I think youâll find most of what I coach you to do eminently reasonable. But it may be uncomfortable a little, Steve. Maybe even uncomfortable a lot.â
âHey, Iâm a captured market,â he says. âBring it on.â
âAre you sure?â I ask.
âYes,â he answers simply, seriously.
Now it is my turn to contemplate him for a moment. âWhy?â I ask.
âEighteen years,â Steve replies without a pause. âMy family, my home. You donât think I care about that?â
âAnd Maggie?â I ask.
âSure Maggie,â he says. âOf course Maggie.â
âWhat about her?â
Steve turns to his wife, as she burrows and cries. For the first time in the session, he seems really to look at her. As he answers, his gaze finally matches the softness of his voice. âMaggieâs the woman I love,â he tells me, eyes shining.
She looks up at him.
âAnd those tears in your eyes, Steve,â I amplify. âIf they could speak, what would they say to her?â
âThat sheâs the most important person in the world,â he tells me, softer than ever, unable to say it to her directly. âI donât want to lose her.â
I offer him my hand. âGood work,â I tell him.
âBut this isnât that different âŠ,â he starts.
I put a finger to my lips and he stills. âThis is a nice moment,â I tell him. âLet it be.â
Maggie was right about Steve. Even though he had no idea what she was trying to tell him, and had no conscious malevolence, nevertheless, Steve would eventually push any partner to the brink his wife now stood upon. And, while some other wife might have gone down quietly instead of swinging, like Maggie, sooner or later, most women would have gone down. And with them, the marriage, the real marriage, their passion, no matter if the conjugal shell remained intact or imploded, as it was about to do here. And the saddest part of it all was how much Steve really did love her, not even âdeep down,â but all the way through. Maggie knew her husband loved her, suspected how devastated he would be if she left. But she could no longer feel his love. He would not let her. Their marriage was like a beautiful garden Steve adored but rarely tended. Their enemy was not blatant violence, other women, or alcohol. Their enemy was simple rot.
The medieval alchemists said, âTo make gold, one must first have a drop of gold.â Within minutes of our initial session, Steve and Maggie were able to shift from helpless recrimination to a shared moment of tenderness. Fragile, fleeting, as dependent upon the therapy as someone on a respirator, their capacity to touch and be touched had survived, buried perhaps, but not extinguished. The sheen in Steveâs eyes as he professed his love, and the way Maggieâs body relaxed when she heard itâthese were the drops of gold I was looking for. I call this process âmoving the couple back into connection.â No one could predict the fate of their marriage, but these early signs augured well. There is another old saying, âHope is the remembrance of the future.â Steve and Maggie had it in them to remember a future, their love, at least for an instant. If they could do that, then the odds were that with hard work, they could remember it for an hour or two, perhaps a whole day. This is how couples heal, building up from such small instances of recovery. Finding these moments, sometimes creating themâthrough teaching, encouraging, exhortingâis the essence of my job. In the trenches with Maggie and Steve I have one paramount question: How can I help them recover? But, after twenty years as a coupleâs therapist, after meeting hundreds of pairs who struggle like Maggie and Steve, a broader question presents itself. What is it exactly that must be recovered, and how did it come to be lost to begin with?
Like most couples I see, Maggie and Steve did not start off in such disrepair. Quite the contrary, their earliest days were spent in that marvelous state of joy called âfalling in love.â âThe first time I saw Maggie,â Steve tells me in one session, âI thought I was looking at a thousand-watt chandelier. I mean, look at her. Does she light up a room or what?â
âYou sure havenât been treating her like a thousand-watt chandelier lately,â I observe.
âNo.â He looks down, sheepish. âNo, I guess not.â âI loved Steveâs energy, I just loved it,â Maggie says in another session, glancing fondly at him. âHe literally swept me off my feet.Right into the dustbin.â
The answer to the question âWhat must Maggie and Steve recover?â is simpleâtheir love. They each still love one another inside, but in the wear and tear of everyday life, that crucial emotion is rapidly becoming too bruised to be of much use to them. Maggie might still love Steve even on the day she files for divorce; she just wonât love him enough to live with him any longer. Were that day to arrive, Steve would probably feel, like so many of the men I treat, confused, angry, and betrayed.
In his relationship to Maggie, Steve reminds me of an ancient Sumerian poet who once complained to his gods, âI would gladly do what it is you require of meâif only I knew what it was!â And Maggie brings to mind the angry wife in a New Yorker cartoon who exclaims to her puzzled husband in front of their marriage counselor, âOf course you donât know why weâre here. Thatâs why weâre here!â
âHe doesnât get it!â cries Maggie. âWhat does she want from me?â complains Steve. Their essential lines are so familiar, so quintessentially male and female, it is all I can do not to smile, until I recall how high the stakes are; their marriage, three children.
One of the few stable statistics in our fast-changing world is our rate of divorce, which has hovered between 40 and 50 percent for the last thirty years. Any two people who marry face a grim 50 to 60 percent chance of survival. And if that werenât sobering enough, one needs to ask further: Of those who remain together, how many do so happily, as opposed to those who stay for external reasons, like their chil...