“C’mon,” he said, “it’s bound to be fun, beyond its obvious value as an outlet for venting.”

“I don’t know,” she said, “it sounds so silly. Like that laughter one I went to last year. I just felt awkward and foolish, like I was surrounded by a bunch of wack jobs.”

“C’mon, I’ll be right there with you. You can keep your eyes locked on my face the whole time.”

Her immediate response to this suggestion, she didn’t utter aloud. She’d been learning which things to say and which not to say. Which could be useful and which could not. She didn’t like the idea, but finally gave in. A part of her wanted her eyes locked on him the whole time. And a part of her thought, how would this be different from business as usual? Don’t we do enough of this at home? The difference, of course, was that it would happen in the company of others. And that it would feature inarticulate expression, instead of the very specific articulations that cut like knives and left permanent scars. So she gave in, thinking oh what the hell. It couldn’t hurt. No more than what we’ve been doing.

“Well, here we are,” she said, after they’d arrived and stood facing each other, in a basement room in a local church, where Sunday School classes were clearly held for children each week. Where suns with smiley faces shone from the walls, along with admonitions to “Love One Another” and hopeful assertions like “Be the Change You’d Like to See in Others.” Her favorite was “A Soft Answer Turns Away Wrath, but a Harsh Word Stirs Up Anger.” The irony.

They stood there in the midst of others, all couples except for one thin, long-faced man wearing orange pants and a white shirt with elaborate ruffles. He was probably in his early thirties, but looked sadder than an old basset hound, as though he had a long lifetime of regrets behind him.

The facilitator was a perky fortyish blonde who probably had more regrets than the thin man, but cleverly concealed them with unbridled enthusiasm and too much makeup. She explained the philosophy behind the discipline that everyone was there to practice, laid down the rules, and then, when she gave the signal (abruptly lowering her upraised arm), everyone began. Screaming. As loudly as possible.

As planned, they stared into each other’s faces the whole time. Like they did at home all the time. But this time, there were no hurtful words. No accusations. No swearing. Or were there?

Was it her imagination, or was she in fact reading all of those hateful words in her husband’s eyes as he screamed in her face. Was he reading the same in hers as she screamed back at him? At first, they both betrayed the self-conscious smiles, the inevitable feelings of foolishness for being there and doing what they doing: Scream Therapy, the very phrase was embarrassing. So there was a little bit of giggling and smirking during the first minute or so. But then the inhibitions fell away, remarkably quickly, in fact, and they were really letting go, pouring it all out, not holding back.

It didn’t take long for her to begin regretting this decision, to start wondering why in God’s name she would welcome an opportunity to hear him scream at her; didn’t she hear it enough? She was so sick of the sound of his screaming voice that hearing it again, even without words, only made her feel sick in the pit of her stomach. There was nothing to do but scream back. And once she began, she couldn’t stop. Those initial giggles and smiles and smirks gave way to ugly sneers and hateful snarling, bared teeth and eyes that shot laser beams of enmity.

Was there a part of it all that felt good? That felt relieving to just let it all out?

Sure, there was a little of that. But it was purely physical relief, like the feelings of relief and bodily cleansing that follow a good healthy bowel movement. On an emotional level, she felt she had evacuated nothing. On the contrary, she felt the exercise had only served to reinforce the legitimacy of her emotions, deepening and intensifying her contempt for him. By the time the session ended, she knew without a doubt that it was all over.

Walking out of the building, she caught a glimpse of both of them in a mirror. Their expressions reflected anything but relief. Each looked as though they had just consumed the most bitter of fruits, their expressions ugly and disgusted. And then she noticed the thin man in the orange pants. In fact, he nodded farewell to her in passing, a pleased expression on his face, smiling from ear to ear, as though the experience had cured whatever had ailed him and he was ready to face the day.

D.E. Sievers