The Schopenhauer Cure(109)
Bonnie volunteered, “I wonder, Pam, if you keep your distance from Tony because you fear he will interpret a friendly overture as a sexual invitation.”
“Yeah, exactly—there is that—that’s an important part of it. Tony does get a bit single-minded.”
“Well,” said Gill, “there’s an obvious remedy: just clear the air. Be straight with him. Ambiguity makes things worse. Couple of weeks ago I heard you raise the possibility that maybe the two of you can get together later after the group ends—is that real or just a phony way of softening the let-down? It just muddies the waters. Keeps Tony hanging.”
“Yep, right on!” said Tony. “That statement a couple weeks ago about our possibly continuing sometime in the future was big for me. I’m trying to keep everything on an even keel so I can keep that possibility open.”
“And,” said Julius, “in so doing, you forfeit the opportunity of doing some work on yourself while this group and I are still available to you.”
“You know, Tony,” said Rebecca, “getting laid is not the most important thing, not the only thing, in the world.”
“I know, I know, that’s why I’m bringing this up today. Give me a break.”
After a short silence Julius said, “So, Tony, keep working on this.”
Tony faced Pam. “Let’s do what Gill said—clear the air—as adults. What do you want?”
“What I want is to go back to where we were before. I want you to forgive me for embarrassing you by springing the confession. You’re a dear man, Tony, and I care for you. The other day I overheard my undergraduate students using this new term, fuck-buddies—perhaps that’s what we were and it was fun then but it’s a bad idea now or in the future—the group takes precedence. Let’s concentrate on working on our stuff.”
“Okay by me. I’m up for it.”
“So, Tony,” said Julius, “you’re liberated—you’re now free to talk about all the thoughts you’ve been holding back lately—about yourself, Pam, or the group.”
In the remaining meetings the liberated Tony returned to his instrumental role in the group. He urged Pam to deal with her feelings about Philip. When the potential breakthrough following her praise of Philip as a teacher never materialized, he pressed her to work harder on why she kept her resentment of Philip red-hot yet could find forgiveness for others in the group.
“I’ve already said,” Pam answered, “that obviously it’s much easier to forgive others, like Rebecca, or Stuart, or Gill, because I was not a personal victim of their offense. My life wasn’t altered by what they did. But there’s more. I can forgive others here because they’ve shown remorse and, above all, because they’ve changed.
“I’ve changed. I do believe, now, it’s possible to forgive the person but not the act. I think I might be capable of forgiving a changed Philip. But he hasn’t changed. You ask why I can forgive Julius—well, look at him: he never stops giving. And, as I’m sure you’ve all figured out, he’s been giving us a final gift of love: he’s teaching us how to die. I knew the old Philip, and I can attest he’s the same man you see sitting here. If anything, he’s colder and more arrogant.”
After a short pause she added, “And an apology from him wouldn’t hurt.”
“Philip, not changed?” said Tony. “I think you’re seeing what you want to see. All those women he used to chase—that’s changed.” Tony turned to Philip. “You haven’t really spelled it out, but it’s different. Right?”
Philip nodded. “My life has been very different—I have been with no woman in twelve years.”
“You don’t call that change?” Tony asked Pam.
“Or reform?” said Gill.
Before Pam could respond, Philip interjected, “Reform? No, that’s inaccurate. The idea of reformation played no role. Let me clarify: I have not changed my life, or, as it’s been put here, my sex addiction, by virtue of some moral resolution. I changed because my life was agony—no longer bearable.”
“How did you take that final step? Was there a last-straw event?” asked Julius.
Philip hesitated as he considered whether to answer Julius. Then he inhaled deeply and began, speaking mechanically as though wound up with a key: “One night I was driving home after a long orgy with an exceptionally beautiful woman and thought that now, if ever in my life, I had gotten all I wanted. I had had my surfeit. The aroma of sexual juices in the car was overpowering. Everything reeked of fetid flesh: the air, my hands, my hair, my clothes, my breath. It was as though I had just bathed in a tub of female musk. And then, on the horizon of my mind I could spot it—desire was gathering strength, readying to rear its head again. That was the moment. Suddenly my life made me sick, and I began to vomit. And it was then,” Philip turned to Julius, “when your comment about my epitaph came to mind. And that was when I realized that Schopenhauer was right: life is forever a torment, and desire is unquenchable. The wheel of torment would spin forever; I had to find a way to get off the wheel, and it was then I deliberately set about patterning my life after his.”
“And it’s worked for you all these years?” said Julius.
“Until now, until this group.”