We Can Work It Out

When things became more tricky in our separation saga (it lasted 8 years in all), we sought the help of marriage counsellors. 

The first was a somatic psycotherapist. She lived in Lilyfield, between Balmain and Rozelle, so conveniently also feminist. Somatic therapists have a wholistic approach that involves a mind/body/spirit approach and uses body techniques to deal with trauma and other states. Our state was one of confusion, not trauma, or so we thought —just a regular run of the mill marriage breakdown. 

We talked our socks off for a few sessions, but the meetings were irregular and difficult to schedule. My ex had to take time off work and drive two hours to get there and we had to prevail upon kind friends to mind the kids in a nearby playground. Which meant we didn't really have time to process the session together afterwards before rushing back into our busy lives. 

When we didn't seem to be making much progress the therapist suggested we try a session in the safe room. My memory may be playing tricks on me here, but I remember it as an empty padded room where under guidance of the therapist, the clients could explore and express their feelings (vocally, bodily or otherwise) without fear of harming themselves or others. A bit like screaming into a cushion.

And that's what I did. I don't remember much except being shocked at the level of violence that came  out of my mouth. I knew I was angry but now I'm not sure how helpful it was to express it in this way. Maybe I also pounded a bean bag or two. I don't know what my ex did, but he was definitely standing firm.

At the end of the hour the therapist, who looked as shocked as I felt, said she was sorry, she didn't think she could help us anymore.           

 We struggled on by ourselves for a while — long phone convos into the night, arguments in children's playgrounds at our halfway pick up/drop off points on the highway between our cities, not to mention letters declaring our ongoing love for each other and our little family. 

When someone recommended a male therapist who was excellent with couples, who didn't live in the feminist belt but way out near Ryde, I thought it was worth a chance. It was a bit of a trek to get there, across numerous bridges and freeway interchanges, but filled with the hope of a new perspective, we began again.

I don't remember much about these sessions either. The therapist was a bit older than us which had to be a good thing. We were in our early 40s so maybe he was mid 50s. He had a slim build and curly hair,  wore a white open enecked shirt and grey ill-fitting trousers with a too-loose belt. I remember thinking he was quite sexy and how nice it would feel to be having one-on ones with him instead of coming along as a duelling couple. His consulting room was around the back of his house with long windows that looked out onto a garden. Everytime I rounded the corner of his house, I wished that garden was mine.

But the problem was the same, not only the problem we were having, but it took time for the new therapist to get to know us and when we finally got cracking in a session, suddenly it was time to finish. 

The last time we went, afterwards we had a blazing row out the front of his house next to the busy four lane highway. Whether we were raising our voices because of the deafening traffic noise I'm not sure. Later I wondered how many arguments happened on that same spot. 

I guess the neighbours were used to it.

 

(c) Jan Cornall 2021