Chapter 12
“I met Kaveh on a dating app,” I begin. “I didn’t think it would turn into anything. I’d been single for a long time. I went on a lot of first dates, and most of the time, it just fizzled out. They just weren’t interesting enough, or funny enough, or … something.”
“But Kaveh was different,” Martina says.
“Yeah,” I say. “He always makes me…” I pretend to correct myself, shaking my head. This is another thing I have practiced: the heartbroken tend to speak in accidental present tense.
“I mean, he made me feel safe. But not in a dull way. And he never seemed to judge me. He never pried when I didn’t feel like talking about something, but he was always ready to listen when I was ready to talk.
It just felt … easy. I thought we were it.
I thought we were going to get married and spend the rest of our lives together. ”
“And the sexual connection?” Martina asks.
I keep my face still.
There is a challenge in her voice.
Can she tell there is something just slightly off about my story? Are her psychological Spidey senses tingling?
Or is it a power play?
“I don’t think I’m ready to talk about that,” I say, casting my eyes down, feigning shyness. “I’m a pretty private person.”
“Sex is an important part of romantic relationships,” Martina says. “Don’t you agree, Isobel?”
She pushes my name, putting the emphasis on the first syllable.
It’s funny. None of it is real, and I still feel a pang of real discomfort, the social pressure like a physical sensation.
I can’t imagine how I’d feel if it was all real. If I was actually dissecting a recently dissolved relationship.
I clear my throat.
“It was good,” I say. “Maybe not as frequent toward the end as it was in the beginning, but it was always … good.”
“You were attracted to him,” Martina says. It’s not a question.
When I look up again, she’s staring at me.
“Of course I am,” I say. “I mean, of course I was.”
“How long did you wait to have sex?”
Jesus, I feel like a bug pinned to a table for examination. As though she’s forcing my wings apart and peeling my exoskeleton off, studying every detail, looking for irregularities.
“We slept together on the second date,” I say.
“And how was it, the first time?” Martina tilts her head to the side.
I didn’t prepare much about my fictional sex life for my backstory.
I’ve got Isobel Anderssen’s entire work and family history clear to me, but not so much her sex life, other than having decided that she doesn’t have any major kinks or fetishes, that she’s a solidly vanilla heterosexual who would consider pink handcuffs scandalous.
I thought that would be enough. I was more worried about getting caught on irregularities, years and dates, things that could be memorized and verified. I didn’t expect to be questioned in detail like this in the first session.
But maybe I should have been.
Forum posts and anonymous reviews of Himlafall swirl in my head. Boundary-crossing. Disrespectful. I felt violated.
Suddenly, I can feel the others staring at me, their undivided attention like an itch. I can’t wait too long; I have to say something.
“It was…” I search through memories of sex, a hazy vortex of sweaty skin and faces that blend together. Finally, I land on a memory of Poor Linus, the only proper boyfriend I’ve ever had, and I grasp onto it.
“It was clumsy,” I finally say. “We didn’t know each other well enough yet. And we were a bit drunk.”
“Did you have an orgasm?” Martina asks immediately.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, in genuine shock.
“Answer the question, Isobel.” The softness has gone from her voice.
I want, so badly, to push back, to show anger; to tell her that she can’t talk to me like this, that she’s not entitled to this kind of information from me, or from anyone. That these are vulnerable people in this room, people who trust her, and that this is a disgusting way to treat that trust.
But I have to swallow it down. I have to play along. See what comes next, what comes after this.
The memory of Poor Linus rubbing the space between my left labia and my thigh until I faked a satisfied sigh pops in my head.
“No,” I respond. “No, okay? I didn’t.”
“Yet you say your sex life was good,” Martina says.
A faint smile is playing on her lips now.
Stress and frustration get the better of me.
“What do you want me to say?” I blurt out.
“How did you feel, when you were having sex?” Martina leans back in her chair.
“I felt … powerful,” I say, surprising myself.
I didn’t mean to say that; I don’t know where it came from.
“Because of his attraction to you?” Martina says.
“Yes,” I say. “It felt good, to know that I could…”
“To know that you could have that effect on another person,” Martina finishes my sentence. “And to know that you could be that close to someone and still withhold that part of yourself.”
I stare at her, the shock of recognition making my fingertips tingle.
“Yes,” I say, feeling oddly breathless. “Exactly.”
Martina nods slowly.
“How many of your relationships have functioned that way?” she asks me. “Sexually, that is.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
“How many of the people you have slept with have you actually been attracted to?” Martina elaborates. “How many of them did you sleep with because you were simply drawn to the fact that they were attracted to you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. My voice sounds weak and far away.
“I think you do know, Isobel.” Martina shakes her head. “I think it’s quite clear to everyone in this room.”
I can feel the weight of the stares on my face like something physical, like heat, or pressure, both light and utterly unbearable, all at the same time.
I feel dizzy.
I have to pull back, have to regain control.
I’m not supposed to be telling her about myself. I’m not supposed to be talking about Isobel Lindschold. I’m supposed to be talking about Isobel Anderssen, the woman who falls too fast and too easily, the woman who is still dreaming about the ex-boyfriend who left her and blocked her phone number.
“How did you feel when he left you?” Martina asks, snapping me back to attention.
I think the sudden change in direction is meant to disorient me, but this is better. This part, I’ve practiced.
“Horrible.” I draw a deep breath. “I felt lost. I felt … like I’d never be whole again. I felt like he’d taken the rest of my life away. All those plans, for our wedding, for our family, just … gone. In an instant.”
Martina’s gaze lingers on me.
Then she smiles and looks over at Pernilla.
“Do you believe her, Pernilla?” she asks. “Do you think she’s being truthful?”
“No,” Pernilla says. Her voice is higher now than it was, some of the polish having come off it. “She’s just saying what you want to hear.”
I open my mouth to respond, fake outrage mixing with real anger, but Martina holds up a hand in my direction, stopping me cold.
I feel like a child being scolded, decades-old shame rising to my cheeks.
“Keep going,” Martina says.
“You’re just saying words,” Pernilla spits at me, like she’s been waiting for the opportunity.
“I don’t even think you loved him. How could you have?
Look at you. I don’t even think you cared about this man.
You say you wanted to marry him, but you didn’t think about what that would mean.
You didn’t think about the sacrifices you would have to make.
You just wanted to wear a pretty dress, and take some pretty pictures, and this man was nothing but a placeholder.
Someone to stand next to you and look pretty.
You never cared about him. You never cared about him! ”
Her voice rises until it’s a screech; small, red dots are burning high up on her cheeks. Her hands are closed so tightly her knuckles have gone completely white.
Once she goes quiet, Pernilla is panting, her lips pale and trembling.
Martina stands up from her chair.
“Thank you,” she says, sincerity dripping from her words, “for sharing that, Pernilla. Thank you for being truthful with us.”
Martina throws me a look.
It’s only for a second, but it feels longer. Like she can see through not only Isobel Anderssen but Isobel Lindschold as well.
All the way down to the rottenness under the skin.
“I think we should take a little break now,” Martina says, and looks away, at the others. “There’s tea and snacks in the lounge at the end of the hallway. If you want, please feel free to go outside and walk around for a bit. The fresh air is nice.”
I hurry to stand up and begin to walk toward the door, but then I hear Martina’s voice:
“Hold on a second.”
I start to turn slowly, like in a nightmare, but then I see she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at Pernilla.
“Pernilla, would you mind staying here with me a little while longer?”
It’s only when I get outside, in the hallway, that I realize I’ve clenched my jaws, my shoulders, my hands; when I force them to release, my muscles are shaking.
I remember what Sandra said, back when this all started.
“I don’t know what she tells them in those therapy sessions. But it’s not good. She’s got some kind of strange hold over them. It’s scary.
“You have to see it to believe it.”
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doctormartinahastings I’ve been thinking a lot about change lately.
Most people seem to think about winter as a time to hunker down, batten down the hatches, and hold out until spring.
But it’s also a wonderful time for reflection—for taking stock of your life and trying to figure out whether or not this is what you really want.
I decided to divorce my husband in the winter.
I remember the exact moment when I realized it was over.
It was 2020, the first year of the pandemic (I know, a covid divorce—such a cliché), a few weeks before Christmas.
We had both been working from home for eight months.
Henrik took his meetings in the office, and I took mine in the bathroom.
We had dinner together every night, and we took turns cooking.
There was nothing especially awful about that evening.
From the outside looking in, it would have seemed charming, maybe even perfect.
I made stroganoff, and Henrik set the table.
He asked me how my new book was coming along.
I asked him when he thought the market would begin to recover.
We chatted a little about Christmas, and about whether or not it would be worth the risk to have his sister and her two boys over on Christmas Eve.
We were two charming, attractive (it’s not cute to pretend like you don’t know you’re cute), highly accomplished professionals. We still had sex on a regular basis. By all objective metrics, we were doing great.
But I remember looking at him over our beautiful, refurbished dinner table, the one we had gotten from his parents as a wedding present, and feeling my heart sinking. Because I couldn’t deny the feelings I had been pushing away for so long anymore.
We were divorced six months later. It was the hardest thing I have ever done. And the best thing. Henrik and I are still friends, and we both agree the divorce was the right decision. One of us just had to be brave enough to speak up.
Times of cold and quiet can be times for reflection as well. It can show us who we really are, when we are removed from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. It can resurface old dreams and desires.
That is what I love most about winter. You look around, and everything seems dormant. But under that layer of snow and ice, rebirth is growing.
If you want to hear more about how I made the decision to divorce my husband, you can sign up for my online course on how to know whether your relationship is really right for you. Link in profile!
1007 comments
mmmmarie001 You’re book changed my life <3
ztrongnotzkinny Have you considered collaborating with a dietician? I have a new free e-book out on how gut health affects sexual health and libido and I think you’d find it really interesting!
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clarabellavida You are SUCH an inspiration!!! Also, looking fab! Loving the snowflake earrings, where did you buy them?
dianainstilettos merry Christmas! do u celebrate?? i thougt you were hindu
ljhefnhvbjgbvmb You make me sick. People should know what you’ve done. You’ve ruined so many lives. You are a fucking fraud.