Wrecked. Charlotte Roche
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there should never be more than one in the office at a time. Not like at a normal doctor’s office, where all the patients sit in a waiting room together. When I’m in her office, I can be sure that the only other person there is Frau Drescher.
She’s furnished the place oddly. I hope it doesn’t reflect her true taste. I hope she’s furnished the place this way just to meet patients’ expectations and make them comfortable opening up. If not—if this is how she actually wants it to look—it would be really tragic.
I ring the bell now that the other lunatic is gone. A buzzer lets me in. As usual, she is hiding in her office, a room I’ve never seen. Through the frosted glass I can see only that she’s sitting at a desk in there. It’s very fuzzy, but there’s a large desk, and I can make out the shape of a person dressed in pastel clothing. She likes to wear pastel-colored sweaters, often cable-knit. I can also vaguely make out her blonde head of hair. She looks very feminine and friendly. She’s got a 1970s kind of sexiness to her. Sometimes I worry that she’s a lesbian, but I’ll never find out. I wouldn’t like it if she were a lesbian. I want her to have all the same difficulties in life that I have: husband, child, the whole shebang.
I have to wait until she’s ready. She always needs ten minutes between patients to clear her head and cleanse her soul—which, of course, does not exist. I have no idea what she does for those ten minutes. I suspect she looks over her notes, because it doesn’t seem possible that she could remember all the mothers-in-law and ex-husbands and children’s and pets’ names that people jabber on about all day. In eight years with her, she’s never made a single mistake about things like that with me. I keep waiting for her to refer to my husband as Oliver or whatever. Or to say “your son” instead of “your daughter.” That’s why I think she hoards notes about all of us loons behind that frosted glass—notes she quickly updates after each hour with the various new names that have come up. I imagine her partner—hopefully a man—quizzing her about all the names of her patients’ family members.
I have my choice of sitting on a chair in the hall or going into the room where she hosts group sessions. There are probably a dozen chairs in that room. It’s where the group marriage counseling takes place. Back when we went to marriage counseling to save our relationship, my husband and I chose to do it privately, just us two, rather than with a group. My husband is very much opposed to groups—whether it’s tai chi, therapy, or whatever. Only when it comes to sex is he not opposed to groups.
There are pictures on the walls that I think Frau Drescher painted herself. They depict naked people in the Garden of Eden. Snakes are wrapped around the bodies. There are brightly colored flowers all over the place. The people aren’t fully visible—they’re more like silhouettes. In the group room is a well-stocked bookcase, which I find reassuring. It’s proof that she did study the stuff she uses to fiddle around with my head. It shows she’s clever, and if she doesn’t manage to make progress on something she can consult her books. When I arrive much too early, I grab a random book off the shelf, open it to a random page, and try to understand what’s written. But it never works. It’s insanely complicated stuff.
At the top of the hour she quietly emerges from her office and comes to look for me. I hear her footsteps, always following the same route: first she looks in the hall, then she comes down to the group room. She stands in the doorway and says, “Right.” She smiles encouragingly.
I stand up, go confidently toward her, look her in the eyes—as my parents taught me to do—shake her hand, and say, “Guten Tag.”
I find it uncomfortable making physical contact with her. But it’s part of being a member of society. Still, I’d rather not touch her. Not because I find her disgusting, but because I feel as if we should have a strictly mental connection, and physical contact of any kind disturbs that. Disturbs me, anyway. I’ve never talked about it with her. Maybe I should sometime. Then perhaps we could forgo the handshake. A lot of what I think I want to talk about vanishes from my mind once I’ve had to use the elevator or see Frau Drescher. Things usually go in a completely different direction than I anticipated.
“Guten Tag,” she replies, and we release each other’s hands from the handshake. It’s all rather embarrassing.
She’s usually wearing a pantsuit. Or a masculine blouse with a V-neck sweater over it. She likes pastel colors. Pink, lilac, salmon, light blue, mint green. She has long blonde hair. And breasts. Big ones. A nice body—not too thin, not too chunky. She looks very healthy. Thank goodness—I want her to live a long time. Did I mention her breasts? She has breasts. And breasts are a major theme of my therapy. My breast complex runs my life. I complain to her regularly about women with big breasts and blonde hair. And she has big breasts—at least from my perspective, as a tadpole in the breast department—and platinum blonde hair. Sometimes I feel funny saying what I want to about it. I ask her if I’m not going too far for her. But she’s totally supportive. It’s not about her feelings or sensitivities. She’s a doctor. She stays above the fray. I have to be able to say anything in therapy without thinking about how she will feel about my breast comments.
She’s also a lot bigger than I am, which I like. She wears a lot of mascara, jet-black, and light blue eye shadow. It works perfectly with her dark blue eyes. Her whole face reminds me of Agnetha from ABBA. She always smiles at me so knowingly and kindly. She’s on my side. It’s nice. That’s the way it works with therapy—the therapist is on the patient’s side. She puts a lot of effort into understanding me.
She lets me enter the sacred space of the consultation room ahead of her. There’s the couch where I’ve already spent so many hours. The room has been nicely aired out so it doesn’t smell like another patient. We wouldn’t want that. The idea is to pretend that other patients do not exist. But I don’t let myself be fooled. Not even by Frau Drescher. She closes the window, and I wrap myself in the fleece blanket with the strange pattern on it—to protect myself from all the forces of nature about to be released upon me. Then I lie down. She always puts a freshly washed light blue cloth on the pillow where I put my head. Sometimes, when I show up with freshly washed hair, I get it all wet. She says it’s no big deal—that each patient gets a new one anyway. A thin piece of cotton prevents any direct contact between the oils of the various patients’ hair. Where Frau Drescher stores these cloths is still a riddle to me. At the foot end of the black leather couch is the type of mat you would usually place just outside the door of your apartment. It has hard bristles. Frau Drescher knows that it scratches me and she’s said I can remove it from the couch. But I never do. I want to get right down to business. So for the entire hour I just hide the fact that the mat bugs me. Especially in summer, when my legs are bare.
Once I’m lying there, I wait for her to close the door and sit down behind me. The door is soundproofed, which, being paranoid, I like. I lie there in my usual funereal position, with my arms outside the fleece blanket—don’t want anyone to think I’m secretly playing with myself. I put my hands together and interlock my fingers the way people do when they’re praying. Despite the fact that I’m totally against prayer. I look up at the ceiling: white wood chip. And at the wall to my left: white wood chip.
When I look past my feet, there is a huge painting leaning against the wall. No idea why it’s propped against the wall instead of hanging from it. What is Agnetha—as I like to think of her—trying to signal to me with that? I always think she’s trying to tell me something. But in the case of the painting, I have no idea what. Maybe it’s something like, Hey, check it out, dear patient, I’m human, too, and don’t always follow through on everything.
The poorly painted image is of a colossal devil figure. He’s a naked man, and he’s squatting on the ground. I keep looking at his crotch, but his balls aren’t hanging down. A bunch of kitschy little birds are flying around his head. As I’m talking about my latest problems, I keep racking my brain for a reason she might have for putting this image right at the feet of her patients. She’s probably crazy herself. Anyway, I’ve stared at that painting for hours upon hours. I’ve seen it blurry, at times when I’ve been crying. And I’ve seen it shaking, when I’ve had a panic attack. I’ve had to look at that image of the devil with little birds flying around his head in every imaginable emotional state. What is she trying to tell