Charlotte Roche - Wrecked

“You’ve told me this theory of yours before. Aren’t you underestimating the love you feel for your husband? You reduce it all to money and sex. I would posit that you’re doing this as a defense mechanism—to shield yourself from your deeper feelings in case things do eventually go bad, or he dies.”

“And I’ve heard that theory from you before, too. We’re not going to get anywhere talking about this topic. Today in town, I thought for a second that I saw my father.”

“What did you do?”

“I just kept walking. I wouldn’t say hello to him. You know that I hope I never see him again. So I couldn’t just say hi to him on the street. The same shit would just start right back up again with his fucking wife—my evil stepmother. You put it so well last time. What was it you said again? That I’d let myself remain passively at the mercy of my parents for long enough and that now I had decided to be proactive, to actively break away from them, even if it was difficult to do so. But that way they could no longer hurt me. That’s it. Exactly. And you said, ‘You can only put physical distance between you and your parents; inside they will always remain with you, because they are your parents.’ Horrible.”

“But you understand that now, don’t you, Frau Kiehl? That you can only get away from them physically, right?”

“Of course. But I still think it’s best to try to cut them off once and for all, forever. I know you don’t like the word ‘forever,’ but I’m allowed to use it because I mean it—even if you don’t like my saying it, and even if you think I can never get rid of them on the inside, like a fucking virus. One that doesn’t just go away. AIDS in parent form. And even if I do still suffer inside, I think cutting them out of my life is the right thing to do. Because I’m doing something, taking action. I’m sick of being a fucking adult and still wondering every year on my birthday whether or not my father has remembered it. He still manages to mess up my birthdays, and I still think about how he always forgot me when I was a child. Okay, sure, he didn’t forget me—like you always say, he only forgot my birthday. Sure, sure, but when you’re a child that feels as if he has completely forgotten about you.”

“Don’t you associate anything good with him?”

“I’d rather not.”

“I’m sure something good will occur to you.”

“Yeah, well, if it’s mandatory. He taught me and my dead brother to make pancakes. The whole process. One egg per person, a little seltzer in the batter to make them fluffy, how to flip them up in the air—though a lot of the time they never landed back in the frying pan. We would sit at the counter and watch him in amazement. They were our favorite thing to eat, his pancakes. Typical kids of divorce. The parent who isn’t there is a wonder, while the parent you end up living with you take for granted. Our favorite foods were the few things our father made—pancakes and curries—instead of any of the thousands of dishes our mother made. She was a much, much better cook. And the curries were really something he showed us for later in life. We wouldn’t eat just pancakes for our entire lives, he said. So he taught us how to make curry from scratch, using whole spices—not just some mix out of a jar. No, we measured out turmeric and coriander, made garam masala mixtures, everything. It was way too spicy for kids. He wanted to show us what a hard-ass he was. Although it occurs to me now how crazy that was. Showing kids he was tough—by eating spicy food! Ridiculous!”

“Still, I’m pleased you were able to say something positive. When people decide to shut someone out of their lives, they tend to limit themselves to seeing the negative aspects of that person. Like you and your best friend. It’s as if you feel bad for thinking you should quit the friendship, so you convince yourself, in retrospect, that there wasn’t a good side to it. But it couldn’t have been all bad, or else you wouldn’t have been friends in the first place.”

“I still only see the negatives.”

“That’s the way you rationalize ending the friendship. You are afraid of the vengeance of the person who is being abandoned. Because you’re actually afraid to leave anyone, no matter who.”

“Right. That’s why I have you. You help me get away from the people in my life who are bad for me.”

“If you say so. But it’s interesting nonetheless that you need help to leave people.”

“That’s the way it is. Without you I wouldn’t have left my parents, and I wouldn’t be about ready to finally get rid of my best friend.”

“I would like to point out that I did not encourage you to take such steps.”

“I know. You say that every time. I know. I know. I’m here with you but I come up with the ideas myself. Obviously you never say, ‘Do this or that.’ Tomorrow is another push-Elizabeth-to-the-limits day, by the way.”

“You’re going to a brothel with your husband again? You already know what I think of that.”

“Yes, I know. But it helps me get further away from my mother and closer to my husband. It’s proven, Frau Drescher, an empirical fact, and you can’t change my mind about it. Maybe most of your patients don’t pursue a healthy marriage that way, but I remain convinced these brothel visits are good for us. The same way that every time I make pancakes for the kids, I can feel my father sitting on my shoulder and watching. Everything has to be perfect, for Papa, so he’ll love his daughter. Everything takes effort. And just like when my mother sits on my other shoulder when I’m giving my husband a blowjob. She hates men. She hates cocks. When I was a child, she constantly told me that men were only good for procreation and that sex was never the slightest bit enjoyable for her. Unfortunately that lesson didn’t take. From that perspective, I’m definitely cheating if I go to the brothel with Georg tomorrow. And just thinking about it gives me diarrhea.”

“Would you like to go here? I’m happy to wait.”

“No, thanks. You know the story. I can’t go number two anywhere but at home.”

“We need to work on that some more, Frau Kiehl. You must obviously know there’s nothing wrong with using the toilet here. It’s human to leave odors behind.”

“Yeah, well, then I guess I don’t want to be human. Let’s not talk about it anymore—it’ll just make the situation worse. And no matter how bad it gets, I’m not going to use the toilet here. Except to pee. Anything else is out of the question.”

“How long have you been with me? Eight years. And still so little trust in the surroundings. The other patients go here.”

“That’s great, but the last thing I want to hear about is the toilet habits of your other patients. Yuck. It’s disgusting of you to even bring it up. Seriously, I’m going to be sick just thinking about it.”

“All I can do is invite you to use the facilities here and reiterate that you are very welcome to do so.”

My intestines make a horrible noise.

“That’s your fault, for talking about this. Let’s change the topic. You and your strange invitations. So, where were we? The important things!”

My intestines make more ugly noises. I attempt the ­impossible—to ignore them.

“Ah, yes, right, we were talking about the fact that I think it’s good to do a favor for my husband and in the process to betray my mother. I always feel free, relaxed, and happy when I do the opposite of what I was brought up to do. She was completely off the mark with her hatred for men. And as a result, I had to come see you for eight years before I realized that men weren’t the enemy. Or at least definitely not the only enemy. In my case, unfortunately, Mother is the enemy. My husband is a much bigger feminist than my mother.”