A few blue days passed in which I was lonely and in despair, out of ideas. I slowly came to the conclusion that the lawyer was right about how ill equipped I was to deal with what I had gotten myself into, and that I needed to stay. I needed to give my marriage another shot. Maybe, I thought, a beacon of hope relieving me of the heaviness inside, Yossef Mendel could melt his stone wall and we could even be happy again.We talked about going for therapy. The problem was that a whole industry of self-appointed therapists existed in the community, people like Rebbetzin Chaya and her ilk who thought they were professionals of the trade by the virtue of how much louder they sobbed in the synagogue than anyone else. We wanted to go for marriage counseling, but we would only see a Hasidic person, and as the industry was shrouded in secrecy and the credentials weren’t official, there was no way of knowing whom we could turn to. I was, in general, skeptical of this demographic. I always thought people who served in the positions of authority were driven by an appetite for power—dangerous power—above all.There was a rabbi in Staten Island who was not of our sect, he was his own sect, and Yossef Mendel heard he was good. I was skeptical, but there was no way in the world I wouldn’t give it a try, even though my parents did not pay for marriage counseling and it would cost us a lot of money.