Standing On A Chair

Telling it like I see it…

Rants from the Chair: On What Happens When You Marry Your Shrink – Part 13

I was devastated by Andrew’s venomous verbal assault on my character.  The scary thing was I actually believed him.  So I groveled and sniveled my way back into his good graces.  And this would be the first of many such future events.

Why did I believe him?  Well for God’s sake, he was a Ph.D. psychologist, was he not?  His knowledge and experience were vast!  He made his living by helping people feel better about their neuroses, their mental illnesses, and by teaching them to love themselves, right?  He was omnipotent, I tell you!  So if he thought I was bad, I must really be bad!

Perhaps my thinking was also partly fueled by the fact that for the first time in my adult life, I was completely dependent upon another person for my survival…that, and the survival of the baby seed who was firmly implanted within me.   In my previous life I might have fled, gotten a new job and my own place to live.  But being pregnant changed everything.  Andrew Rosenberg was now in charge of my continued existence.

I would love to stop here, and just say time passed, shit happened, The End.  Because quite frankly, digging back through this period in my life is not a fun thing to do at all.  Don’t even ask me why I’m doing it.  Because now that I’m in so deep, I forgot why.

Life continued.  Andrew “forgave” me and we moved forward.  Being pregnant made me profoundly tired and I took a lot of naps. 

Andrew bought a sail boat.  A 35 ft. Ericson, in case you’re wondering.  We kept it docked at Marina del Rey at first, and then moved it to San Pedro where slip fees were much less expensive.  So smack in the middle of me suffering the early pregnancy pukes, we sailed often, mostly to Catalina.  Andrew’s patient and friend the good Dr. Cornelius Johns always came with us to help with sailing duties due to the fact that I was green-faced and useless, mostly hunched over the side of the boat.  Sometimes Cornelius would bring a date who could cook, so that was good.  Even though I couldn’t eat basically anything.  I still managed to have fun, though.  Sailing is really a beautiful pastime.  Later, as the months would progress, I would become useless because my belly would get in the way of everything.  So I guess you could say sailing was pretty much an unrealistic thing for me to be doing at that time.

Andrew’s divorce became final without incident.  Not even a ripple.  I never even met the woman who was his second wife. 

We shopped for houses, ultimately choosing to stay at the apartment.

We started to plan our wedding…or at least I did.  Andrew and I were getting along wonderfully, really, until I suddenly became the Bitch Monster of the Hollywood Hills.  Yep, the old first-trimester hormonal upheaval visited upon us with a vengeance.  As any woman who has been there knows, this is the part where you are pissed-the-fuck off at everything, and you hate everybody’s fucking guts.

I feel so sorry for husbands who have to put up with this stage, and I understand how difficult it must be for them.  But in the case of Andrew, his reaction was to suggest I have an abortion.  My reaction to his reaction was to fly into a rage of screams and sobs, whereupon he pulled over (we were driving down Ventura Blvd. at the time) and ordered me out of the car, after which he stomped on the gas pedal and peeled away.

It took me an hour to walk home.

I can’t believe I’m saying this:  I groveled and sniveled my way back to him again, promising to try to tone down my “attitude.” 

There were rumblings about Marcus.  Andrew was incredibly vague with me about what was going on, but I was able to glean from him that Marcus had in fact “hit bottom” in his reaction to all that had happened.  Apparently he was pretty furious, acting out, making threats, although I was shielded from all of it.

But it must have been pretty serious, because the next thing I knew, Andrew was stashing guns all over the place.  Rifles, pistols, automatic weapons.  I came upon them one-by-one: in a kitchen drawer, the hall closet, under the mattress, behind books, under the couch, wherever.   Andrew said we needed the protection, and so at his insistence I took lessons from him on how to use them all. 

I was four months along when we married that November in 1975.  My parents flew out from Florida, my brother and his girlfriend drove down from Santa Cruz, and my best friend from my stewardess days and her husband drove down from Marin County.  Other than that, all others in attendance, totaling probably about fifty people, were associated with Andrew.  And what with Andrews’s paranoia regarding “what Marcus might do,” he changed the ceremony venue at the last minute, only allowing a handful of people to know.  We later joined our impatiently waiting guests at the Pear Gardenon La Cienega, who were surprised and a little miffed at being left out of the loop.  All during this sit-down dinner reception Andrew had guards posted, on the lookout for Marcus possibly showing up with a slight chip on his shoulder.  Which by the way did not happen.

Just for the record, I didn’t believe for one minute that Marcus was capable of doing any violence at all, nor even wanting to do violence.  But I humored Andrew and his cronies, who seemed to get off on the whole thing, like seven-year-olds playing cops and robbers.

There were good times, like when we went a full month eating out at fabulously expensive restaurants and ate fabulously delicious food.  As my belly grew, so did Andrew’s.  I learned that was pretty normal, but Andrew seemed to be going off the deep end with the eating thing.  People started asking him if he was pregnant too.  He didn’t think it was funny.

I had the best OBGYN money could buy, one who specialized in the new LeBoyer “quiet birth” Method of delivery.  Irwin Frankel was amazingly supportive of me, and grew more so after, much to Dr. Frankel’s horror, Andrew told him to “please abort the child” should it be anything other than perfectly normal.

Although we settled into life as a married couple waiting for the arrival of a new baby, from where I was sitting we didn’t look anything like they do in those wildly popular Norman Rockwell illustrations.

Because all of a sudden, Andrew stopped bathing. 

Stay tuned for Part 14


September 20, 2011 - Posted by | Psychotherapy | , , , , ,

1 Comment »

  1. PU! and yet another cliff hanger.

    My all time favorite ex boyfriend had a distinguishable olfactory aura heightened by his reluctance to wash his polypro clothing . . , cough cough.


    Comment by geri wright | September 24, 2011 | Reply

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