Anger Management

"Sure."

Jon hit the mute button and was listening, but saying nothing.

"Have you noticed a change in your mother in the last year?" I asked carefully.

Jon immediately looked at Marion, and her at him. I had hit a responsive chord.

"So you have then," I continued.

"Yah ... she's ... changed. She doesn't seem to be very happy any more," Marion volunteered.

"Yes ... that's exactly what I noticed, and what I wanted to talk to her about tonight," I said.

"What did she say?" Jon finally asked.

"She denied there was any problem and refused to talk about it. When I persisted, she got angry and finally got up and went to the bedroom," I explained.

"That's weird," Marion said.

"Yah ... she isn't like the mom we used to have," Jon said solemnly. "Dad ... do you think she's ... I mean ... maybe ... using drugs or something?" he asked tentatively.

"You mean pills or alcohol?" I asked, surprised at the question.

"Yah ... I guess so."

I looked at my son, and shook my head. "I don't think so."

But the question was a good one. Was Rebecca using drugs as an escape? It couldn't be alcohol. I would have smelled it, or she would have demonstrated some symptoms. Was I the fool who couldn't see what was going on? I wasn't sure I wanted the answers to these questions, but I knew they had to be asked.

Rebecca finally came out of the bedroom at ten that evening. She had changed to her usual nightdress and dressing gown. She had removed all her makeup as she usually did. However, her hair was quite untidy, which was unusual. She looked every one of her thirty six years and maybe even more. I don't think I had ever seen her so dejected.

She sat in her usual chair, avoiding me until she finally turned and spoke.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go off like that. I'm sorry," she said quietly and contritely.

"Me too. I didn't intend to confront you. I was worried. The kids are worried," I said softly.

"The kids? What do you mean?" she said, suddenly alert.

"They've seen the same things that I have. They don't understand it either," I continued, trying to keep my words non-confrontational.

She buried her head in her hands. In a moment, I knew she was weeping. I rose and went to her side, my arm around her shoulders, saying nothing.

When she began to regain her composure, she tried to push me away. I was reluctant, but finally I knew I had to let her handle this in her own way. I returned to my chair and sat, silently waiting.

"Oh, Warren. I don't want to be like this. I can't seem to help it. I feel lonely and lost." she cried.

I returned to her side and held her again.

"I love you, Rebecca. You know that. Your children love you. You know that too. We will help you get through this, I promise." I was beginning to sense that there was something that I could do. It wasn't so hopeless that I couldn't give support to my wife.

We went to bed not long after that. I lay there, wondering what had happened to my lovely wife. My mind began to construct all kinds of scenarios. It took me a couple of hours to finally get to sleep, but it was a restless sleep. I awoke several times during the night, my thoughts alive with questions.

The next morning, I stopped in at my company's human resources department and asked to see Pat Johnson.

"Pat, Rebecca is having a problem. I'm not sure, but it seems like a mental problem. Do we have any coverage with our health insurance for treatment of this sort of thing?"

"Yes ... absolutely. I'm sorry to hear about it, Warren. What seems to be the problem she's having?"

"I wish I knew. She's unhappy and miserable and ... oh ... I don't know ... just not herself. It's been coming on for about a year now. Slowly, she's been getting more and more ... moody. You know what I mean?"

"I guess so. But, anyway, you need to find a doctor who can help her. I can give you a list of doctors that we have approved," she offered.

"Yah, but which one is the right one?" I asked, not sure of where to go from here.

"Well, I can't tell you that. I suggest you call a couple of them and see what they say. It almost sounds like you need a psychiatrist," she said carefully.

"A psychiatrist?"

"That's what it sounds like. But then again, I don't know enough to be sure, Warren. You have to decide that," she said apologetically.

"OK ... well, if you'll give me the list, I'll start calling," I said.

I made about a half-dozen calls and got nowhere. None of the doctors wanted to talk to me on the phone. They all insisted that I make an appointment. I decided to find out which of them would see me the soonest. It turned out to be Dr. Gabriel Chomsky. I made an appointment for myself, and one week later I was in his office.

"Well, Dr. Chomsky, I've told you what's been going on. What do you think?" I asked.

"I think I need to talk to Mrs. Browne. I can't tell from your description just what the problem is, but something is definitely wrong. I suggest you make an appointment for her as soon as possible," he said, no longer looking at me. I had been dismissed. I rose and turned to leave his office.

"Oh, Mr. Browne, is this covered by your company health insurance?" he asked. I nodded and then left. Thanks for the personal service, doctor.

I went home with a feeling of dread. How was I going to get Rebecca to see this doctor? How would she react? When was I going to talk to her? It was gnawing at my guts, and I knew I couldn't put if off or I'd be the one in Chomsky's chair. I decided that I would talk to her that night.

The blow-up had happened almost two weeks earlier. Aside from my looking for a doctor, things had returned to normal around the house. Normal, of course, continued to be the downbeat attitude of Rebecca. I wasn't looking forward to the conversation I knew I had to have with her. However, putting it off wasn't going to make things easier, or so I thought.

"You did what?" she almost screamed. "You made an appointment for me with a 'shrink.'" She was livid, and wasn't trying to temper it. "How dare you!" she spat. She stood in front of me with fire in her eyes, her face beet-red with anger. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"No ... No," I protested. "You said yourself you didn't want to be unhappy ... that you wanted to feel better. I just thought ..." I didn't get a chance to finish.

"It'll be a cold day in hell when I see a psychiatrist, buster. You can take that idea and stick it you know where!" She turned and once again stomped upstairs to the bedroom and repeated her door-slamming from the previous episode.

I let my breath out. I had been holding it for most of my attempt to convince her to see the doctor. I was overcome with a sense of defeat. She made it clear there would be no visit to Dr. Chomsky, or any other doctor for that matter. It also meant that her problem would not disappear. Worse, it may become more acute. I slumped in the chair and buried my head in my hands, searching for something that would turn this around.

I caught a glimpse of Marion peeking around the corner of the hall, and I waved her in. Jon was out playing touch football with his friends.

"I gather you heard that," I said sadly.

"Yah ... she didn't take it very well," Marion said quietly.

"That's an understatement," I smiled wearily. "I don't know what to do now."

"You want me to talk to her?" Marion asked. My head came up. Maybe, just maybe, she would respond better to her daughter than to me. "Are you sure you want to?"

"Yah ... somebody has to ... she can't go on like this. It's getting worse, isn't it?" she said seriously.

"Yes ... it's getting worse," I admitted. "If you think you can reach her, please try."

"OK, I'll go up and see if she'll talk to me." She turned to go upstairs to our bedroom.

"Marion," I called after her. She glanced back at me with the saddest look I had ever seen on her. It almost brought me to tears. "Thank you." She nodded and began to climb the stairs.

I heard her knock on the bedroom door and then something mumbled. She must have been allowed into the bedroom because she was no longer on the landing when I looked. I sat in my chair and was completely drained. This was the worst day of my life, I thought. I was losing Rebecca, I was sure. She was mentally leaving me ... us ... all of us. Was this the beginning of the end of our marriage? Maybe it was already over and I just didn't recognize it.

Marion came downstairs about thirty minutes later with a long face and slowly came to sit beside me.

"She said she'd come down in a while and talk to you."

"How is she?"

"She was crying and I had a hard time talking to her. Something is bugging her, but she won't tell me what it is."

I could see the tears forming in Marion's eyes. I pulled her to me, hugging her.

"Thank you for trying, darling. You are the best daughter any father could have," I said sincerely.

She was sobbing and sniffling into my shoulder. I continued to hold her until she calmed down. I was completely devoid of any idea of what to do or say to Rebecca that would bring our relationship back into some kind of balance. At least she was willing to talk to me, but about what I couldn't guess.

Marion went to bed, a sad and lonely figure as she climbed the stairs to her room. Fourteen-year-old girls shouldn't have to be the go-between in adult problems. I was angry with myself for putting her in that situation. I was angry with Rebecca for creating the problems in the first place. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to keep my temper if she started in on me again.

Jon came home a few minutes after nine and immediately sized up the situation.

"Where's Mom?" he asked, looking upstairs.

"In the bedroom. She had another ... blowup tonight," I explained sheepishly.

"Again?"

"Yah ... I wanted her to see a doctor about her ... problem, but she wouldn't have any part of it."

Jon looked at me with a forlorn face, nodded and then turned. He slowly went upstairs to his room. He hadn't even said "Goodnight."

Just as she had a month earlier, Rebecca came downstairs from the bedroom just after ten. Again, I was depressed just seeing her look this unhappy. I had made a decision to say nothing. She would have to explain her actions and attitude. I was no longer going to try and pull it out of her.

She sat in the chair she usually did. It was near enough to me that she wouldn't have to raise her voice to be heard. I waited for her to begin.

"I ... I ... I'll try and tell you what you want to know. It's going to hurt, Warren. I'm sorry, but it's going to hurt," she began.

I sat still, trying not to show any emotion.

"About a year ago ... I ... I had sex with a man," she said in a low voice, looking down at her hands.

If she had told me that she murdered someone, I wouldn't have been any more shocked. It was the furthest thing from my mind. But now, she was admitting to adultery. She had been unfaithful, and she was confessing - a year later. I could feel the anger beginning to grow. I fought like hell to control it.

"Go on," I said in the calmest voice I could manage.

She was quiet for a while as she tried to compose herself, but finally:

"He was someone I met ... when I was having coffee with some of our neighbors. He was just visiting, and I was introduced to him. He was very nice and complimented me, and we talked a bit." She stopped and looked up at me. My stare must have intimidated her because her eyes dropped. She stammered and stuttered, trying to continue.

"I guess I found him interesting and I paid a lot of attention to him. He told me I was beautiful and that he wanted to see me again. I told him that I was married and that it wouldn't be proper, but he was very persistent.

"One of the girls must have given him our phone number because the next day he called me and asked me to have coffee with him. I wasn't going to, but he almost begged me, and I finally relented. I was just going to have coffee with him. Nothing more."

She had stopped again and her head was shaking as if she was denying something, but I heard nothing. Again, I steeled myself not to say anything and let her continue.

"He was very ... determined ... he said he had never met anyone like me. He wanted me to have dinner with him, but I refused. He wanted me to go for a walk in the park by the river, and I didn't know what to say. Finally, after he kept on asking, I said OK. Just a walk in the park. That's all.

"The next thing I knew, he was holding my hand as we walked and then ... and then ... he was kissing me. Oh god, Warren, I don't what came over me. I was kissing him back. I didn't want to, but I was. I realized what I was doing and I stopped and he looked hurt. I don't know why, but I felt sorry for him, like I had been leading him on.

"He took me back to his apartment, and ... and ... we had sex. I couldn't seem to stop it from happening, even though I knew it was wrong. I was upset when it was over, but he was so kind and gentle that I knew it wasn't his fault. I had caused it to happen. I had seduced him. I didn't even know I was doing it." Her voice was quavering and her head was shaking in denial. She had finally gotten it all out.

Her confession was like a sledge hammer hitting me in the guts. My Rebecca had been unfaithful. I didn't know where to begin, but I tried anyway.

"How many times?"

"What?" she looked up in surprise when I had finally said something.

"How many times did you ... fuck him?" My anger was beginning to build again.

She looked down at her hands, unable to look me in the eyes.

"Three times," she said in an almost inaudible voice.

"The same day?"

"No ... different days," still unable to look at me.

I sat there, the anger just barely below the surface. I had to get the whole story somehow.

"What ended it?"

"He went away somewhere. He didn't say. The apartment belonged to his company. He was just using it," she said.

"What company?"

"I don't know. Joyce might know. She was the one who knew him," she said in a lifeless voice.

"So let me get this straight, Rebecca. You fuck this guy three times and then get a guilt complex and make our entire family miserable for a year as a reward. Is that about it?" I snarled.

She shook her head, but said nothing. I could only assume that I had made the correct assessment.

"I'll be sleeping in the extra bedroom for a while. I'm not sure I want to be in the same room with you, much less the same bed."

Her head came up quickly and her face distorted with a look of horror.

"No ... please ... don't abandon me now," she pleaded.

"Rebecca, what do you expect from me ... from us? You've done everything you can to destroy this family, this marriage. Did you not think about the consequences?" My voice had risen and I wondered if Jon or Marion could hear us.

"Please, Warren. You must forgive me. I know I've been a fool and I've done you a great wrong, but I love you and I can't live without you. Yes ... I know I've made a mistake. Yes ... I know I've hurt you and made you and the children's lives miserable. But I couldn't keep it in any longer. I had to tell someone. I couldn't keep it hidden. I couldn't live with myself. I had to confess. I'm sorry Warren. I never meant to hurt you. I love you. I never meant to hurt you, I promise," she begged.

I sat there, looking at her in her disheveled state, looking older by the minute. I had no idea what to do next. She had confessed of her own free will, or at least without being confronted with an accusation. The guilt that had plagued her for the past year was now out in the open. She understood her transgression and was filled with remorse. Was that enough? Did she kill my love for her? Could I get past this and forgive her? I had no idea.

"Rebecca ... I need some time to ... absorb this. You've turned my world upside down in a matter of minutes," I said in a calm voice.

"Oh god, how will I ever live with this?" she moaned.

"I don't know, Rebecca. I just don't know."

We sat for a while and I tried to think logically about what to do. Rebecca needed direction and I needed to think through what would happen next. The children would have to be told. The time for hiding things was through. I had to take charge of this mess. I had been on the sidelines too long and allowed things to get to this stage. I had to get a grip and take charge.

"Alright, Rebecca, here's what's going to happen," I began. "We are going to get help ... help for both of us. If you won't see a psychiatrist, then you and I will see a marriage counselor. Don't bother to protest," I said as I held my hand up. "If you want this marriage to work, then it isn't optional. You don't get a vote," I finished in a quiet but stern tone.

She nodded weakly, but at least was looking at me.

"Tomorrow evening, you and I will sit down and tell our children what's been going on and why you have been so ... difficult to be around." Again, I used a direct, no-nonsense tone.

"Do I have to tell them ... what I did?" she asked in a meek voice. She was pleading for me to tell her no.

"Yes. No more hiding, Rebecca. You've done a lot of damage to all of us in the past year. I won't let you avoid facing them and telling them the truth."

"Oh, Warren ... I can't ... I don't want to tell them ... I can't ... they'll hate me," she pleaded.

"Yes you can, Rebecca, and you will. If they are the young people that I think they are, they love you. They will forgive you if you are honest with them. You must stop hiding," I said firmly. "There is no other way."

She buried her head in her hands. I could see that she was weeping again. At that point, I relented and went to her side, holding her, saying nothing. She turned into me and the sobs and shaking became more pronounced for a while until they began to subside. Finally, she leaned back and looked at me. Her face might have been that of a one hundred year-old woman.

I took pity on her. She needed me more at that moment than any other time in our married life. I changed my mind, leading her upstairs to our bedroom and helping her into bed. She watched me silently as I undressed and then climbed in beside her. There would be no love-making that night. I would hold her as she spent the rest of her tears and finally fell asleep. I was not so fortunate. I swam in and out of consciousness the entire night, my mind fixated on finding a solution to our problems.

The next night was a very difficult one for all of us. At the dinner table, I told Jon and Marion that their mother and I needed to talk to them. We finished the dinner in silence, the children clearly aware of the gravity of the forthcoming meeting. We didn't have many "family meetings," and they knew this one would be difficult.

I had decided the previous night to take charge of the proceedings from here on out, and so I began:

"Your mother has something to tell you that will help explain her behavior over the past year. I want you to listen carefully and try not to judge her too harshly. I think you will understand why when she tells what caused her problems."

I looked at Rebecca. I waited as her eyes pleaded with me one last time not to force her to do this. My gaze was steady and my mind resolved. There would be no relenting. She read that message and turned to the children.

"I have done something ... very bad ... very selfish. I have hurt your father and you, and I am very unhappy with myself." She turned to me with resignation, and then back to Jon and Marion. "I ... I had an affair with another man," she finally said in a weak voice, struggling to look at our children. "I'm ashamed of myself, and of the harm I have done to you and your father. I'm not a very nice person and I don't like myself very much right now," she said in a slightly steadier voice. She seemed to be gaining a bit more control and confidence.