That we were able to see him remains surprising, as does the fact that I can now watch it unfold before me. Early last year Jess got an email from a fellow therapist saying that Real would provide affordable therapy to a couple if they agreed to do the sessions on Zoom, before an audience of therapists, recorded for his training library. Despite some misgivings, we volunteered, waiving confidentiality.
It was an offer we didn’t feel we had the luxury to refuse. After so many years, and so much earnest effort, we had a good marriage, on balance, but not always a good-enough one. Our relationship was a mélange of genres. Sometimes we were like Alvy and Annie in Woody Allen’s “Annie Hall,” witty and sophisticated but unable to reach across the emotional chasm between us. At our best, we were a Judd Apatow comedy: bawdy, silly, earnest and full of affection for each other. At our worst, we were a cold indie film about two people mired in distance and reproach.
I didn’t think too deeply about Real when he first crept into our lives around 2020. Jess read his book “The New Rules of Marriage,” then “Us: Getting Past You & Me to Build a More Loving Relationship,” and pushed him on me with real urgency. His earthiness spoke to her, as did his belief that we have a right to expect far more from our partners than just solidity and empathy. We should want, and demand, deep connection and honesty. I also suspect that he validated her sense that, in the grand ledger of our marriage, I was the balance of the problem. To Jess, I am, at my worst, too angry, too withdrawn, too talky about the small things and too inarticulate about the big ones. Real is known for his skill in handling men who cope using anger and withdrawal.
In the footage from that first session, I look anxious. I rumple my hair and smoosh my chin in my hand. I’m always looking up and offscreen, as though what’s happening in front of me is a bit too much to face head on. I remember the discomfort in the moment, as Real drew me out. I also know, looking back, what’s in store for me: He is establishing the crime scene for which I will need to take responsibility. I’m cognizant now too of Jess’s uncomfortable smile, which I couldn’t see when we were sitting side by side. She’s more private than I am, less practiced in performing her distress for an audience, and she is acutely aware of the therapists watching us. We’re there because Jess wanted Real’s help more than she feared the public vulnerability, but it’s hard on her.
Toward the end of the session, Real gives me a verdict.
“That’s a T-shirt you’re wearing in your marriage,” he says. “‘No matter what I fucking do, it’s never going to be enough for you.’” I’ve been wearing it, he says, since before I met Jess, and unless I take a hard look at myself and get to work, I’ll die with it on.