Part III: What Happens a Cappella? (Chapter 52)

“DIET.”

Can you tell me how that word makes you feel?

Oh, Lord. Don’t tell me you’re a Gestalt...

No, Ms. Mallory. Eclectic. Dabs of Freud, Jung, Horney, Skinner, Rogers, Ellis, and ‒ yes ‒ some Perls.

I’d hate to think I’ve traveled all the way to D.C. just to find another Cuckoo in a hot tub....

I like to think that I take the best of what psychiatry has to offer and give to my clients what they need. Now, then, where were we?

“Diet.”

Ah, yes. You were going to define that word for me.

Well, maybe to ordinary people, “diet” is just another word in the English language, having one or two meanings, the primary denotative being, “to cause to take food” as a verb, and “food or drink regularly provided or consumed” as a noun. Then there is that lesser denotative meaning, a dieter’s term, which has to do with eating by prescribed rules established by doctors, nutritionists, families, peers, friends, women’s magazines, weight loss programs, and self ‒

And?

Then there’s my extended definition of “diet,” a connotative meaning: “death.” Does this surprise you?

Maybe a little.

Well, it shouldn’t. You see, every time I step on the scale or make a decision, conscious or unconscious, to deny myself food, a part of me dies, literally and figuratively. Then, as my body diminishes and becomes angular and taut, the sexual part of my will grows soft and yielding, and, and, and, uh ‒

You feel out of control.

Yes! And I cringe at the thought of what will happen when men start hitting on the thin me, as inevitably they will....

You’re afraid you’ll respond?

Well, I think I already have....

Tell me about it.

It’s so embarrassing. And I don’t know you well enough yet.

Okay. We’ll talk about that some other time. Tell me what happens when the fat lady sings.

Excuse me?

You need to understand what will happen when the fat lady in you decides to sing.

I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.

My point exactly.

You know, I think I’d feel more comfortable if you were a woman. How do I know you’re not one of those wacky shrinks who hit on helpless women?

You don’t. Let’s go back to the word “diet.”

You even look a little like my husband ‒

“Even”? What do you mean by that?

He’s a Gestalt shrink. That’s why I came from Pennsylvania. I don’t need Sheldon’s colleagues snitching on me...Hey! Shel has blond hair just like yours ‒

I see. You’re playing games, Ms. Mallory, and it’s time to get back on track, or I’m going to end this session right now.

Okay, Dr. Garrett. The truth is, I’m tired of it all. Yesterday, I seriously considered killing myself.

Um...

Is that all you have to say?

Obviously, you decided to get help instead of killing yourself.

Well, yes.

Okay, then, let’s get to work. Tell me what happens when you go on a diet.

Hummm....Well, when I diet, it’s not just a simple matter of eating or not eating certain foods. It becomes complicated.

How so?

Sounds silly, but it seems the other part of my will becomes hard and cruel ‒ unyielding. Like a computer chip, I assume a “Whore-Madonna” approach to eating: I’m either “off” or “on.” And when I’m “off,” the pressure from everyone to get “on the program” is almost too much to bear. And, so, it has been for most of my life.

You’ve become Samantha, the professional dieter.

Exactly. I’ve learned how to measure, weigh, cook “legal” dishes, create mock spaghetti from bean sprouts, squeeze out fat from my burgers, suck in my gut, thrust out my chin, stand a certain way on my bathroom scale, minimize a growing waistline by throwing on baggy clothes, and sneak and hide forbidden food into unlikely places ‒ shoe boxes, the trunk of the car (the car smells like a deli gone bad), under the bed, my purse, office drawers, in the shed, even in my Tampax boxes and in a douche bag I have never used ‒ except as a hiding place for Brach’s cinnamon disks.

So, you know what you have to do to lose weight, but you simply don’t want to do it anymore.

It’s not worth the effort anymore. But I don’t like being fat, either.

Looks like you’ve got some decisions to make, but time’s up for today. Until next session, can you give yourself permission not to beat yourself up about your weight?

I don’t know.

Well, then. We’ll try for that later. For the time being, I want you to do the mirror exercise every day. My nurse will give you instructions.