Page 424 - WhyAsInY

Why (as in yaverbaum)
Now that we were really splitting, I went to seek guidance from our “counselor.” She would not speak to me. As far as she was concerned, she said, Phyllis was her client; I wasn’t. That was news to me. If I didn’t feel alone before I tried to meet with her, I certainly did now. I was beyond fury but too sad to let that woman know how highly unprofes- sional I felt her conduct had been, not that that would have changed anything. But she did do one good thing: she recommended that I call Dr. Richard Kresch in New York City, which I ultimately did.
I found an apartment to sublet and proceeded to pack a car on May 7. Marcel helped me, and, as he and I were lifting the bike into the auto, I was stunned to see that he, Superman, was crying.
My last words to Phyllis as she closed the front door of 31 Farragut Road on May 7, 1985, and I slowly shook my head in sadness, fear, and disbelief were a plaintive “But you were my best friend.”
Before the week was out, I found my way to Dr. Kresch’s office after work. I hadn’t seen a psychiatrist since I visited one during law school before I became engaged to Phyllis, and I didn’t know what to expect or if—notwithstanding how depressed I felt—he would be what I needed. I know that I needed something. I made my way to his street-level office on East 89th Street, right off Fifth Avenue, and entered after he, a taller man of about my age, with a gentle and accepting mien, nodded to greet me and pointed to the chair adjacent to his. We sat facing each other, assessing each other, in initial silence.
Finally, I described the circumstances that had brought me to his office. He listened attentively and responded with totally unexpected words, a question that I will never forget: “Why did you leave?”
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