Searching for Mother

“I’ve decided to really start looking for my biological mother,” Liz says at the beginning of our session.

I have seen 27 year old Liz for a tumultuous five years, and although she has brought up trying to find her biological mother on previous occasions, today she does sound more determined.

“Did something happen that reawakened your desire to find your biological mother?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I’ve talked about it before. I just think it’s time. I know you don’t think it’s a good idea, but I want to know who she is.”

“It’s not that I think it’s a bad idea, I just want you to be prepared if the reunion with your biological mother doesn’t prove as idyllic as you hope.” I think of all the adopted people I have known – both patients and friends – who have found their biological mother only to be horribly disappointed yet again, people who have been outright rejected, others whose mother wanted to take over their lives, still others who wanted to be financially supported. Finding the perfect fantasized mother is rarely the outcome.

“What choice do I have?” she asks.

There’s a familiar edge to Liz’ voice, an underlying anger, an underlying demand. I look at her quizzically and remain silent.

“Don’t play dumb,” she says. I now definitely know that something is going on between us. “I have no mother. My so-called mother doesn’t give a shit about me. She was just thrilled when I finally moved out of the house so she could start redecorating and have my father all to herself. And then there’s you. You’re just never going to be more than my therapist. If I even move slightly towards wanting more from you, you run for the hills.”

This is a familiar refrain, one that has played out repeatedly over the time we have worked together. From the beginning, Liz wanted me to be her mother. She had fantasies of moving in with me, fantasies of traveling with me, fantasies of curling up next to me on a couch and watching a movie. Sometimes she presented these as poignant longings, at other times she lashed out at me in rage, furious at my refusal to satisfy her desire. I cared deeply about Liz, understood her longing and was able to hang in there with her during even the most difficult times. I think back on our last session and suddenly realize what has led Liz to experience me as pulling back and wanting to search for a more perfect mother.

“You were angry that I didn’t want you to take my picture,” I say.

“I don’t see what the big deal was. It was only a stupid picture! Everybody takes pictures these days, pictures of dogs, pictures of signs, pictures of themselves. So what was the big deal with taking your picture?”

“You tell me, Liz. What was the big deal about taking my picture? Obviously you have a lot of feelings about my asking you not to take my picture.”

“Yeah and you gave me some mumbo, jumbo about my needing to take you in and have a picture of you in my mind without needing to have an actual picture. So? I can do that. I have you in my mind. We worked on that for a long time and now I can do it.”

“That’s great, Liz. So the question remains, then why did you want an actual picture?”

Liz looks angry and then seems to deflate in front of my eyes. She sighs deeply and looks down at her hands. “I guess because people always have pictures of their family,” she says quietly.

“I know it’s very hard for you, Liz,” I say with compassion, “But the reality is that I will never be your mother. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, it doesn’t mean that I won’t be here for you, it doesn’t mean you’re not important to me, but it does mean that however much you may want it, I will never be your mother.”

“I hate when you say that,” Liz says, more sadly, than angrily.

“I know,” I reply.

“Can we still talk about my looking for my biological mother?”

“Of course. But as much as possible, you need to try and separate your wish to find your biological mother from your wish that I was your mother. And, as I’ve said, you also need to be prepared to be disappointed in your biological mother as well.”

“I hate when you say that, too.”

“I know.”        

Money Matters

I’m not good about money. I never have been. Managing my own finances has never been a problem, but setting patients’ fees is an entirely different matter.  

Early in my career I was treating Sharon, an artist, who told me how much she made yearly from her art. It wasn’t much. My regular fee wasn’t much in those days either. Still, I reduced my fee. Several months passed. In the course of one session she began to talk about the apartment buildings she owned that had been left to her by her now deceased parents. I was shocked, and angry, too angry to say anything at the time. The next session I was ready. 

“Sharon,” I said, “Last session you talked about being a landlord. Can you say why you didn’t tell me you owned apartment buildings when we first discussed your income and your fee?” 

“It never came up,” she replied. “We were talking about the money I made from my art.”

“That’s true. But don’t you think not mentioning your other income was dishonest?” I asked. 

“No,” Sharon replied blithely. 

“Really? You don’t feel you were hiding your rental income so that I’d reduce your fee?”

“My father used to say never offer any information you’re not asked for,” she said.

“You experienced your father as a ruthless, indifferent, uncaring man. And now you’re modeling yourself after him?”

“I never thought of it that way. It’s not something I decided to do. I guess I just do it automatically when I deal with something business related. I’m sorry. You’re right. It wasn’t fair of me.”

So that situation had a satisfactory ending both financially and therapeutically in that we were now able to explore Sharon’s identification with her father.  

More recently, the result wasn’t as positive.

I receive a call from Jackie, referred to me by a former supervisee. We set up an appointment and as we are about to get off the phone she asks my fee. Although I prefer to discuss fees in person, I answer her question and tell her my regular fee is $250 a session. She gasps. Without a moment’s hesitation, not knowing anything about her finances, I offer to see her for $150. She agrees and comes in at the designated time. 

Jackie sought treatment because she and her husband just learned that he is sterile and are now wrestling with whether or not to adopt. Jackie is also trying – not very successfully - to not be angry with her husband for a medical condition beyond his control. Being a mother has always been Jackie’s dream. Her mother died when she was only a year old, leaving her to be raised by rigid, rejecting grandparents. We discuss her desire to give her own child an experience she herself cannot remember ever having. She understands, but remains focused on her anger at her husband and his failure to give her what she has always wanted.

As the therapy progresses, I learn that their marriage has never been fulfilling for her. She describes her husband as both withholding and an inadequate lover. She stays in the marriage because she’s dependent on him. And for financial reasons. She has a seven-bedroom home on three acres of land, horses, a cook, and a housekeeper.

I am not happy. I reduced my fee for a woman with huge financial resources! And it’s my own doing. She hadn’t lied to me. She hadn’t withheld information about her wealth. All she had done was gasp and I lowered my fee! 

As we approach the new year, I tell Jackie that come January I will be raising her fee to $250. I understand that a $100 increase is a lot, but given her financial circumstances, it doesn’t seem unreasonable.

“Well,” she says, “I was planning on stopping anyway. All this talking isn’t getting me anywhere. My husband is still sterile and I just have to stop being angry at him and decide whether or not adoption will work for me.”

“Do you think your decision to stop is related to my talking about increasing your fee?” I ask.

“No, not at all. You’re right. I can afford it. But I don’t think this is helping. So why should I bother continuing?”

“Can you say, Jackie, how you felt about my raising your fee or, for that matter, how you felt when I lowered it when we talked on the phone.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.”

“Can you think about it now?”

She shrugs.

“Do you think you felt given to when I lowered your fee, given to in a way you haven’t experienced much in your life and that now you feel I’ve deprived you yet again?”

“You’re making too much of this. You always do. You over analyze. It’s just time for me to leave.”

And so I lost Jackie. As a result of my difficulty dealing with money.