From the Castle

I am reading an article in a week-old New York Times that a fellow latte-dependent left behind in the funky coffee shop in this Delaware beach town. It is about the renovation of Belvedere Castle in Central Park; a miniature Disney-like folly resembling something Mad King Ludwig might have built on the Rhine. The Belvedere is 200 miles away and thirty years, four jobs, nine driver’s licenses, one very messy and expensive divorce, seventeen cars, nine real estate closings, four passports crammed with stamps and visas from dozens of countries, and the death of a treasured partner later. The burning acid in my stomach erupts, I can’t swallow. My body can’t decide to vomit or have diarrhea or both. The memory of that horrible time floods me and I feel the dreaded and familiar pounding behind my eyes; and recall the time that was almost my end .

During the Reagan junk bond ‘80s, when laptops were thirty-pound personal computers, I walked past the folly every morning on my way to work. I had climbed the slippery stone spiral staircase up the tower dozens of times to admire the panorama of New York’s skyscrapers, and stately apartment buildings.

There was one that I always found myself searching for: 1065 Park Avenue, a twenty-story 1960s luxury co-op. For six years, twice a week, I was in that building, on the 20th floor, bleeding emotionally, prostate on a psychiatrist’s couch; ostensibly to save my marriage. Dr. Ildiko, a ninety-pound, five-foot tall Hungarian Freudian psychiatrist, who had been expelled by the Communists and sometimes wore little bells on her shoelaces, would wait patiently as week after week, month after month, year after year, I stared down at Belvedere Castle as one layer of anger or frustration or self-hate was peeled off, one at a time. Like peeling an onion.

Six weeks after the society wedding Linda and I were in marriage counseling. That lasted one session. The counsellor insisted Linda take an anti-depressant and for that we’d need to see a medical doctor; a psychiatrist. Enter bell lady.

Within ten excruciating minutes Dr. Ildiko shredded Linda’s polished Junior League/Radcliffe/Investment Banker persona in one sentence; ripping open what Linda thought she had so successfully hidden for her thirty-two years. That pissed Linda off something wicked.

Outside, waiting for a taxi, she would not compromise. She would take Elavil and to go to her therapist only if I would go to the Jewish Doctor and suffer what she felt certain would be even worse pain and humiliation.

I fell into a pattern almost immediately. A maid in a pink uniform would open the door. Dr. Ildiko would greet me in her office and ask me to sit, handing me a paper napkin to put behind my head as to not stain the couch. For six years she would walk behind me, sit down, and ask, “How are you feeling?”

Linda was correct in that there was pain and there were tears, but there was no humiliation. We talked about my dreams. We discussed my worries, the foster homes, my self-doubts, my self-imposed isolation from my mother, who was never unhappy alone – but mostly we talked about why I stayed in the marriage. But rarely about Linda.

About a year into the marriage Linda had hit rock bottom. There was nothing I could do that would make her happy. She would either explode over the slightest provocation (as in not hanging the toilet paper roll properly) or sit in a chair and read Proust for hours and ignore me. She would disappear for a weekend and refuse to talk about where she had been.

For the first time in my life I felt defeated and trapped. When I decided that the only solution was to end it all I actually felt relief for the first time in months. It would make Linda happy and would end the bone deep sick feeling of despair and the pounding behind my eyes that the Belvedere article resurrected.

Dr. Ildiko sensed something was up, so I told her; in detail. I would wait until after rush hour to avoid making people late for work. I would stand at the end of the subway platform at the 86th Street station, and when the hot blast of air that preceded the rushing train came I would walk into my relief.

Dr. Ildiko got out of her chair and came around to face me. She told me that she would be very sad if I did this; she greatly enjoyed our sessions. I said nothing. She then asked how did I think she would feel if I did this, all her work with me would be wasted, and how all the people who loved me would feel. I stared down at the Castle saying nothing. As I stood up to leave I finally spoke and told her that I was sorry, but I just didn’t care.

She stood between me and the door. Her face went white and she stared up at me for what seemed like minutes and slowly said “but you always care – always.” She paused, bit her lip and continued, “Will you do me a favor? I nodded. “There will be a prescription for you at the front desk, it will help you if you decide this is not the path you wish to take.” I said goodbye.

On the night of the D-Day, at the corner of 90th and Park, I bumped into Alex, my vivacious neighbor who always seemed happy to see me. I said I was sorry, that Linda and I could not come for dinner on Saturday. At 86th and Lexington I gave a quarter to my Chanel-clad, homeless bag lady Clara, who always responded with the sign of the cross. Coming up the stairs was Eleanor. She asked about the Deacons’s Breakfasts at church that we were in charge of.

A minute or so later I stood frozen at the turnstile with my token in hand, an inch from the slot. Someone tried to push me through. I went through but then turned around and walked out of the station to 1065 Park, got the prescription, went to Duane Reade, had it filled and took one on the spot.

The article ended with the note that the Belvedere would now be illuminated. One could glory its magic at night. Slowly, but surely, after I commenced with the medication and continued the twice-weekly emotional blood-letting, I emerged from the dark. Like the Belvedere, all these years later.