Unexpected Fear

 “I’m so terribly nervous I can’t stand myself,” Kaleigh begins wringing her hands, jiggling her right foot. “I thought I was going to be so excited about going back to Chicago after my first semester at school. But I’m not! I’m suddenly terrified of flying. I was never afraid of flying before. Maybe it’s because of the Israeli-Palestinian war and I’m afraid of terrorism, like of my plane being shot down. I don’t know.”

“Are you afraid of your plane being shot down?” I ask.

“I don’t know. It sounds ridiculous. But there was 9/11. Of course I wasn’t even born then, but still… It feels like anything can happen.”

“Anything can happen, but it is interesting to wonder why you suddenly developed a fear you never had before. Do you feel especially frightened because you’re Jewish?”

“I asked myself that. I guess someone could bomb the plane because they thought there’d be lots of Jews on it, but it’s not like I think someone’s specifically coming to get me because I’m Jewish.”

“Any other thoughts come to mind?”

“I just had a flash of my older sister. She’s not supposed to be there this holiday… But what if she is? That would be pretty scary.” Pause. “Oh God! It would be so terrible if she’s there. She ruins everything. She ruined my whole childhood! She ruined my family,” Kaleigh says crying. Pause. “I’m pretty sure my father told her not to come. But that doesn’t mean she won’t. And then everything would be ruined! All there would be is screaming and more screaming and tantrums and threats!! I can’t stand it.” Pause. “Do you think that’s why I developed a fear of flying? Like maybe I really don’t want to go home. Like maybe I’m afraid of what’s waiting for me.”

“Have you asked your parents if she’ll be there.”

“No, I haven’t. I feel scared about that too. Scared there will be this big scene about my even asking.”

“Why?”

“My mother will immediately get mad at me for being so afraid of my sister. And she’ll be mad that I might bring up the abuse again. She’s never believed me about the sexual abuse. She knows my sister used to beat the shit out of me, but she always dismissed the sexual abuse as two kids just playing around,” Kaleigh says crying. “I don’t know what’s more painful, the abuse or my mother just dismissing it. No, that’s not true. The sexual abuse was way more painful. I haven’t even told you all of it.” 

“Maybe it would be helpful if you did,” I say gently.

“She used to take things, mostly sticks, sometimes a vase or whatever else she found around and put it inside me. A few times she even threatened to use a knife, but she never did.” Pause. “Usually she put it in… in my vagina, but sometimes she’d put it in the other place. That really hurt,” she says crying.

“That’s so awful Kaleigh. I’m so sorry you had to endure that, it sounds like torture. No wonder you’re scared to go home. And I’m so sorry your mother doesn’t believe you. What your sister did is certainly not just ‘playing doctor.’ What about your Dad?”

“I’m so glad you believe me! I was afraid you wouldn’t. Afraid you’d think I was just making it up.”

“Of course I believe you Kaleigh. I can’t imagine why you’d want to make up something like that.”

“I’m so ashamed of it. I even lied to my boyfriend and said I’d had sex with one guy before him. It was better than telling him about what my sister did to me!”

“Shame is a very common in sexual abuse victims, but that doesn’t mean you have anything to be ashamed of. You were the victim. She was bigger and stronger and abused you.”

“I know. But that’s not how I feel.”

“I understand. And we’ll have lots of time to deal with those feelings. I notice you didn’t say anything about your Dad.”

“I’m pretty sure he believes me, but he’s not about to argue with my mother. It was hard enough for him to tell my sister that she wasn’t welcome in their house anymore after she hit him and trashed the entire living room.”

“I am so sorry, Kaleigh. Are you sure you do want to go home? Or maybe there’s someplace you can go where you can feel safe if your sister is there?”

“I can’t imagine announcing that I’m leaving to stay with Brad or even with one of my girlfriends. That would create an uproar in itself.”

“I know we don’t have time to discuss this further today, but we do need to work on you’re not being so afraid of your fear that you’re willing to sacrifice yourself. Obviously you have good reason to be afraid, but you do need to first and foremost take care of yourself.”

Beyond Afraid II

Frank rushes into my office, words tumbling out of his mouth as he walks. “The doctors keep telling my Mom she’s going to be all right. But she’s still scared. I am too. How do we know fibroids can’t turn into cancer? But now I’m scared about something else, I’m scared you’re going to take my Mom away from me, like you said in our last session.”

“Stop a moment, Frank. Take a breath. I remember saying I have neither the power nor the wish to take your Mom away from you,” I say, feeling as though I’m talking to a young child rather than a 36 year old man.

“But you said we’re too close!”

“And what do you think? It’s way more important what you think than what I think.” 

“That’s impossible. You’re the professional.”

“And you’re a person who gets to think for himself.”

Frank looks at me confusedly. 

I continue. “I think you said last week that your Mom didn’t want you to think differently from her. Is that correct?”

He nods.

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Well, I do usually think the same as my Mom.”

“Can you tell me some of the things you agree on?”

“We both like funny movies, not sad ones. We like Italian food but not Indian food.” Pause. “We believe in being good to people.” Pause. “We wish my sister would come home from India.”

“Can you think of anything you don’t agree on?”

Silence. 

Frank fidgets in his chair. “Aren’t you going to say something? I don’t like just sitting here. Makes me even more nervous.”

“Can you say what you feel nervous about?”

“The silence.”

“What about the silence.”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking.” Pause. “I’m afraid I’m not being a good patient. I’m afraid you won’t like me.”

“You know, Frank, right now I find myself feeling really sad for you, sad that you’re so afraid of not being liked or accepted, that you’ll turn yourself into a pretzel trying to please.”

“And that makes you sad for me?” he asks incredulously.

“It does. Why does that surprise you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone ever said they were sad for me. Except maybe when my father died.” 

 “Do you ever feel sad for you?”

“No. Except when my father died. But even then I felt more sorry for my mother.”

“When you do feel sad, for yourself or whomever, do you feel less anxious?”

“Gosh, I’d have to think about that. Should I feel less anxious?”

“I can’t tell you how you should feel. Your feelings are all yours and you get to feel however you feel.”

“That’s not what my Mom says. She says there are right and wrong ways to feel and that I should always feel the right way.”

“So would that mean if you didn’t feel the so-called right way you were being bad?”

“Definitely.”

“I imagine that always trying to feel the supposedly right way could make you really anxious since you’d be constantly worried about trying to control feelings you can’t control. There are no right or wrong feelings. We feel whatever we feel. So it’s like you’re trying to do the impossible, trying to make sure you don’t feel anything you think you’re not supposed to.”

“You don’t believe there are good or bad feelings?!” he asks, shocked.

“No, I don’t.”

“What if I … if I … if I felt I wanted to scream at you right now?”

“You can scream at me whenever you like. But that’s not a feeling. Maybe you’re saying what if you felt really, really angry with me.”

“I can’t be angry.”

“So that’s one of those bad feelings according to your mother.”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Well, I disagree. I think you can feel as angry as you feel, as long as you don’t put those feelings into an action that hurts me, like slapping me.”

“I would never, never do anything like that!!”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. And because you wouldn’t you’ve just said why feelings aren’t bad. They’re your internal feelings, inside you. No one ever has to know they exist unless you choose to tell them.”

“I feel really nervous right now.”

“I believe you and I apologize for making you so anxious. I’ve said a lot of things today that are very different from what you’re used to hearing and thinking, and that can certainly threaten your sense of both yourself and the world. That can be pretty scary.”

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“For understanding. For not getting mad at me for being anxious.”

“Here, Frank, you get to feel whatever you feel – sad, angry, anxious. I hope we can help you to feel less anxious and I believe that will happen as you become more comfortable with all your other feelings. But change doesn’t happen overnight, so neither of us should expect more from you than you’re comfortable with.”

 “Thanks again. I do feel a little better.”

Beyond Afraid

 I open my waiting room door to a mid-thirtyish man pacing back and forth in front of the couch. “Frank?” I ask.

He startles and turns to face me. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Did I frighten you? I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just can’t sit still. I’m so jittery. I just…”

I note that he’s afraid of having frightened me when he’s clearly the one who’s terrified. “It’s all right,” I interrupt. “Why don’t we go into my office and sit down.” 

He sits, but perches at the edge of the chair, as though posed for flight.

“What has you so frightened?” I ask.

“My, my, mother,” he stammers. “I’m afraid she’s going to die. My father died a year ago. He was fine, came home from work, went upstairs and died. Doctors said something about his heart. I couldn’t understand it. My Mom started screaming and screaming. I guess I did too. It still all a blur. But now I’m worried about my Mom. They say she has something in her uterus. I’m afraid she’s going to die. I couldn’t make it if she died. I couldn’t make it,” he says starting to cry. 

“What does she have in her uterus? Are her doctors concerned? Is she concerned?”

“She’s a wreck. Her doctors say it’s nothing, just something to watch. I don’t know, fibrosus?”

“Fibroids?” I ask.

“That’s it! Can that kill you?”

“I’m not a medical doctor, but my understanding is that fibroids aren’t usually a problem.”

“Are you sure?”

“Frank, do you think anyone can sufficiently reassure you?”

Still crying, he says, “I’ve always been this way. Everything scares me. Mom’s like that too. Dad was also kind of anxious. Only my sister isn’t. She’s the opposite. She’s in something like the Peace Corps. In India. My parents flipped out when she joined. But she was determined. And now she married an Indian guy so I guess she’s never coming home. I worry about her dying too, but it’s not as bad as with my Mom.”

“Can you tell me a little about your growing up, Frank. What was it like being a kid in your family?”

“It was great. I didn’t worry about anyone dying then.” Pause. “But I was always afraid. Hard not to be. My Mom worried about everything, about us being kidnapped, about us driving. I didn’t drive ‘til I was 20 or something. She’d take us to the doctor for the least little sniffle. Make us stay home from school.” Pause. “That was okay with me. I didn’t like school. I mean it wasn’t school I minded. I just didn’t like being away from home. I always felt scared being away from home. The other kids made fun of me, called me a Momma’s boy. I guess I was. Guess I still am.”

“Have you ever lived away from home?”

“I tried. Went away to college, but didn’t last a semester.  I came home, got a degree in accounting. Dad was an accountant. But I’m an assistant accountant. I didn’t want all that responsibility. I didn’t want the work to kill me like it killed Dad. I work mostly from home, especially since Covid, and especially since my Dad died. I want to be around for my Mom. She’s my responsibility now that he’s gone.”

“Have you been in therapy before?”

“I may have gone awhile when I was a little kid. But not really, no, not since I’m grown.”

“How do you feel about being in therapy? And how do you feel being with me?” 

“I guess I need it. I’d like to not be so scared all the time.” Pause. “And I like you. You’re nice. Sort of like my Mom, except not as nervous.” Pause. “Can you help me be less scared?”

“I certainly hope so. But I do want to say, Frank, that you may not always think I’m so nice. There are times therapy can be hard and painful. Like one of the things I suspect you and I are going to look at is your relationship with your mother.”

“Why? I have a great relationship with my mother.”

“Except it’s hard for you to have a life apart from her.”

“Are you going to take Mom away from me?” Frank asks, panic seeping into his voice.

“No, Frank. I don’t have the power to do that nor would I want to. But having part of your life be separate from your mother seems like something an adult child might want.”

“I guess.”

“You can always disagree with me, Frank. My saying something doesn’t make it so.”

“That’s not like my mother! She always wants me to think the same way as her.”

“Well, maybe that’s one thing we’ll get to look at together, how you feel about always needing to think like your Mom.”

Undecided

“I appreciate your willingness to see me, even virtually,” Stan begins. He’s a nice looking man who seems anxious, unsure, fidgeting with his fingers, moving in his seat.

“How can I help you?” I ask.

“I just hope you can help me. I want to leave my wife. No, no, that’s not exactly true. I don’t want to leave my wife. I love Paulette. But I have to leave her. I love her and I love my two boys, but I just can’t go on like this. I’m sorry, I know I’m not making any sense.”

“You can say whatever you need to say, however you need to say it.”

“I’m in love with someone else. A man! I can’t believe it. I don’t even know how this happened. I’ve never been attracted to a man before. Or, or maybe I have. I don’t know. But all I know is that I love Frank. I never expected to love Frank, I mean I don’t know if I even liked Frank at first, but then, there it was, he kissed me and I don’t know if I ever felt anything so powerful in my life. So that’s it. I love Frank and I love Paulette. But I can’t keep lying to Paulette. I don’t even know how she hasn’t figured it out. I do everything I can to avoid having sex with her. Not that I mind having sex with her, but it feels like I’m being unfaithful to Frank! Which I know is completely crazy”’ Stan takes a breath. “So that’s the story. Do you think I’m awful?”

“No, of course not. I think you’re in a lot of pain. Can you to tell me a little more about yourself?”

“I’m 38. I’ve been married for 12 years. I have two boys, six and ten. I was supposed to be a physical therapist, but I ended up selling solar panels. I like it. Makes me feel I’m helping people. And the environment. That’s how I ended up in Florida. It’s a good place to sell solar panels. My wife and I are actually from a small town in Ohio west of Cleveland, conservative, Christian area. South Florida was an adjustment, but we’ve learned to love it.” Pause. “‘We’ve learned to love it.’ That’s the problem, ‘we’ has always meant me and my wife. I don’t know. I don’t know if I can leave that ‘we,’ break up my family, have to explain all this to my wife. And to my parents. I don’t even want to think about them.”

 “And if you do think about your parents…?”“They’ll never accept it. I don’t think they’d say they didn’t want to see me again, but I know my mother would cry hysterically and my father would preach endlessly about my going to hell.” Pause. “This whole thing is such a mess. What would I tell my kids? Would my wife keep me from seeing them? No, I don’t think she’d do that. You know, the more I talk about this the more I wonder if I should just leave things as they are, keep lying, keep seeing Frank on the side. Maybe this thing with Frank will just burn itself out. Maybe it’s not love, maybe it’s just lust.”

“Can we talk a little about your sexuality? You said Frank was the first man you’d been attracted to and then you didn’t seem sure of that.”

“I played football in high school. And you know, we’d all be in the locker room, showering, trying to see whose was bigger while pretending we weren’t looking. Sometimes there would be a guy and, I don’t know, I guess you could say I might have been attracted to him, but I didn’t think much about it. I dated girls. I had sex with girls. I met my wife in college, we had sex, we dated a while, we got married and here we are.”

“And how was the sex with girls? With your wife?”

“Good. Good. It was good.”

“But not as good as with Frank?”
“Nowhere near. I never had sex like with Frank. I can see with across the room and all I want to do is jump into bed with him. He was my customer, buying solar panels for his house. At first I thought he was stuck-up, arrogant. Seemed like an awfully big house for one person. When I came by he started asking me to have a glass a wine. And that led to lunch. And that led to sex and where I am today.” Pause. “What do you think I should do?”

“I can’t possibly answer that…”

“What would you say if I was your son?” Stan asks, interrupting.

“What makes you ask that?”

 

“I don’t know. I guess you’re probably about my parent’s age.”

“It sounds as though your concern about what others think makes it hard for you to sort out what you want for you.”

“That’s definitely true.”

“I know you feel a lot of pressure to try and make a decision right now, but I’d suggest that you give yourself some time and that you give us some time to figure out what you really want.”

Stalked by Death

 

“I know I keep saying the same thing over and over,” David says, his despair and anxiety apparent even over the telephone, as all our therapy sessions are conducted these days. “I feel scared all the time. I’m sure Covid is going to get me. I’m sure I’m going to die. Yet it helps me to tell you. I mean I know you can’t keep the virus from killing me, but telling you makes me feel at least a little better.”

“Do you know why telling me helps?”

“You’re the only person I can tell. My wife doesn’t want to hear it any more. She says I’m a 48 year old man who rarely leaves the house, so how likely am I to get Covid. She’s just fed up with me. And I try not to talk about it in front of the kids. I don’t want to scare them. But I’m so glad they’re not going back to in-person school. I don’t know if I could have tolerated having them go into a classroom every day and then came back home.”

“So is it that you feel less alone when you talk with me?”

“Definitely.” Pause. “I’ve always been afraid of dying. Even when I was a kid. If I saw a dead bird, I’d cry and cry and not be able to sleep for days. I was sure that would be me. And when my cousin enlisted in the army, I was in shock. I couldn’t imagine how anyone would volunteer to be killed. But this, this is the worst it’s ever been. There’s this disease that’s killing hundreds of thousands of people. It makes complete sense that I’ll be one of them.”

“It makes complete sense because…?”

“Because I know I’m going to die.”

“And what does knowing you’re going to die mean to you?”

“What!?”

“What does knowing you’re going to die mean to you?” I repeat. “We are, after all, all going to die.”

“You say that so calmly.” Pause. “Of course I know we’re all going to die, but that terrifies me. And it removes all meaning from life. Why bother being in a marriage, having kids, being successful? In the end it all goes away.” Pause. “I know we always go back to my father’s heart attack when I was seven, but even then I was amazed that he was able to come back from that and throw himself back into the business as if he hadn’t been on death’s door.”

“But that wasn’t your mother’s reaction.”

“Oh no, not at all. She hovered around him like he was about to die at any second.”

“Just like she hovered around you when you were sick,” I add.

“That’s for sure. She was an anxious mess. All I had to do is run a slight fever and you’d think I was dying.” Pause. “I know we’ve talked about this before. You think that my mother’s over-reaction to my being sick is why I always think I’m going to die.”

“Well, maybe it’s not quite that simple. How did you feel about your mother’s reaction to your being sick?”

“I don’t know. I guess I kind of liked it. Made me feel like she really loved me.” Pause. “Especially after my father’s heart attack, she paid way less attention to me, so it was nice having her focus on me again. And actually it drove my father crazy. He’d say that she was babying me, that all I had was a cold or a sore throat or whatever and that I’d be fine. I remember, he’d say, ‘Stop treating him like a baby.’”

“So when your wife doesn’t want you to talk about your fears, what do you feel?”

“Ignored, I guess.”

“Unloved?” I ask.

“I suppose. But I’m not really sure how much my wife loves me. Ever since we’ve had kids, she’s way more focused on them than on me.”

“So you felt you lost your mother to your father and now you feel you’re losing your wife to your kids.”

“Yeah! That’s right.”

“And what about me?”

“You?”

“Um hmm. You said I’m the only person you can talk with about your fears.”

“Certainly the only person who will listen.”

“And that makes you feel how?”

“I guess it makes me feel like you care.”

 “So maybe you learned early on that the only way to feel loved was to be sick.”

“But I could be sick without dying.”

Silence.

“I just thought of something,” David says. “Maybe dying is my punishment, my punishment for being such a baby and wanting Mommy’s attention.”

“That’s a great insight, David. We’ll talk about that more next time.”

Starting Therapy Remotely

“Hello,” I say to an attractive, dark-haired woman who appears before me on FaceTime. “I’m glad to meet you.” And so begins my first experience beginning therapy remotely.

I practice in Florida, one of the states that is seeing a sharp uptick in Covid-19. Although I have toyed with the idea of returning to in-office sessions, I continue to find myself reluctant to do so. During the initial phase of the pandemic, I turned away new referrals, uncomfortable starting treatment with anyone I could not meet at least once in person. But as my time away from the office continues, I decide I need to go beyond my comfort zone.

“Hi,” Jennifer replies. “This already feels weird. I’ve been in a lot of therapy, but obviously in person. I kept thinking I’d wait until I could go to your office, but who knows when that will be, and I’m having a really hard time.”

“It feels strange to me too,” I say, “But why don’t you tell me how I can help you.”

I watch her take a deep breath. “I’m 49, I’m alone, I’m terrified of the virus and I just found out that my ex-husband has lung cancer. And that he hasn’t told our daughter yet. I’m so anxious I can’t stand myself.”

“That is a lot.”

“I’ve always been afraid of being alone and now I’m alone all the time. I mean, I talk to my daughter, but she’s in New York and she’s had a really hard time so I don’t want to lay all my stuff on her. And I worry about how she’ll respond to the news about Greg, that’s my ex.”

“Lots of people have been struggling with their aloneness during the pandemic, can you talk about what it’s like for you.”

“I’ve always hated being alone, ever since I was a little girl. I was the kid who was afraid of monsters under the bed, always had to have a light on, and would run into my parent’s room in the middle of the night. That’s why it took me so long to leave Greg, even though I knew about his affairs for years. And when he moved out I put way too much pressure on my daughter to be my companion, just as my Mom did to me. I mean, my parents stayed married, but they had a lousy relationship and I was my mother’s confidant. My Mom’s still alive. She remarried after my father died and she’s much happier now. We’re close, but not like it was when I was a kid.”

“Are you saying you miss your childhood relationship with your Mom or that you’re relieved?”

“I don’t know. Maybe both. When I’m happy, I’m relieved. But now that I’m so anxious, I guess I want my Mommy. I know that sounds silly.”

“Not at all. I totally understand.”

“I did tell my Mom about Greg, but she didn’t get it at all, thought I’d be happy that something really bad happened to him.”

“And is a part of you happy?”

“Oh no! I mean he certainly wasn’t a good husband but I could never be glad he got cancer.”

“So you’d feel guilty if you felt glad?”

“Definitely. I was brought up to be the good girl and the good girl I remain.”

“Can I ask you how this is feeling to you right now?”

“I guess it still feels weird. And I’m still anxious. I’m used to having my anxiety get better when I’m in

a therapist’s office. But I guess I’m not in your office. It’s like you’re here and not here. It’s similar to how I feel talking to my New York friends on the phone. They don’t feel really present to me so I’ve pretty much let most of those relationships kind of peter out.”

“Oh oh,” I say. “Does that mean you’re likely to do the same thing with us?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe you yearn for relationships that duplicate the early connection you felt with your mother, perhaps that’s the connection that reduces your anxiety, makes you feel safe, and that without that kind of connection you feel afraid.”

“I guess that’s true. But I thought I wanted to get away from my mother.”

“I suspect that a part of you does want to get away, but the scared little girl part of you still yearns for what you experience as safe.”

“I suppose.”

“I feel as though you’re less engaged with me right now.”

“Yeah. It’s not you. I just don’t know if this is going to work.”

“I suppose the question is whether you’re willing to give it a chance. We’ve actually talked about quite a bit today: anxiety, guilt, your need to be a good girl and, I suspect, although we haven’t talked about it, your difficulty allowing yourself to feel angry.”

Jennifer brightens. “That’s right! I feel really bad when I get angry.” Pause. “But right this minute I feel a little less anxious.”

“Maybe it helped that I figured something out about you, and that made you feel more connected, less alone.”

“Could be.”

“I can’t guarantee I’ll do that every session, but if you’re willing to give this a try, maybe our work together could be helpful, despite not being in person.”