#MeToo

“I’m trying to decide whether I should join the hashtag MeToo movement and tell my story. All these courageous women are coming forward. Why shouldn’t I? I mean, I don’t have the same story. There was no famous actor or congressman, but still, I have a story.”

You most definitely have I story, I think to myself, remembering when Amber first started working with me many years ago, an almost mute thirty-five year old who held herself rigidly together, staring blankly into space. It took her over a year to tell me her story of sexual abuse by both her father and brother.

“And, after all, my brother is a pretty hot-shot business executive,” she continues.

“Is it that you’re concerned your story isn’t …” I hesitate. “…news worthy enough?” I ask, puzzled.

She pauses. “Maybe.” She pauses again. “You think that’s kind of crazy, don’t you?”

“I don’t know about crazy, Amber, but it confuses me. It’s definitely up to you whether or not you tell your story. I’d just want us to consider the consequences of your telling or not telling.  But what’s your fantasy here, that you expose your abusers and no one really cares? Is your wish that it be front page news?”

“I hadn’t thought of that but it’s a good question.” She sits in silence. “I’ve never told anyone except for that feeble attempt to tell my mother who obviously didn’t want to hear it so I immediately backed off. And you, of course. But even that took me a long time. I have considered confronting my brother.  Not my father,” she continues. “That would be way too scary. But I haven’t even said anything to my brother. What am I scared of? Having them deny it? I guess. Not having anything to do with me? That would be no great loss. But now I’m thinking of telling the world that my father and brother took turns raping me while the other one watched. It’s disgusting. I can’t even say it without feeling nauseous. How could I imagine telling the world?”

Although I have some thoughts about what might be underlying Amber’s conflict, I stay silent, waiting to see what she’ll come up with herself.  

“I would love to expose them to the world. I want the world to know how these seemingly normal upper-middle class men – boy in my brother’s case – can be brutal rapists. I was only 11 for God’s sake. And it went on and on until I finally got up the nerve to say ‘no’. And what would people say? That I could have said ‘no’ sooner? That I could have told my mother? Or somebody. I’ve certainly told myself those things often enough.”

“You say that it feels scary to confront your father, but it sounds like you find it less scary to imagine exposing him to the world.”

“I suppose I do. It feels more anonymous, like he can’t get to me. Standing in the same room with him and confronting him, I don’t know what he’d do. Scream his head off at me, for sure. Smack me across the face? Very likely. Kill me? I don’t know. Maybe.”

Feeling my anxiety rise, I say, “Amber, I don’t know whether your fear that your father might kill you is your fear as a child or your adult fear, but if the adult you is truly afraid that your father might kill you, I can’t imagine that your exposing him publically would decrease that risk.”

Amber’s eyes widen. “Now you’re scaring me.”

“I’m sorry, but when I said I thought we should consider the consequences of your speaking out, I wasn’t thinking about your placing yourself in physical harm.”

“But how do I know whether my fear is coming from my child self or my adult self?”

“I don’t know. We definitely need to talk about it more. And I should ask you if you’ve ever known your father to physically taken revenge on anyone.”

“I know I told you that he beat up my first boyfriend. I guess he didn’t want the competition. And that he sometimes beat up gay guys in bars. I know he has guns, but I’ve never known him to use them. Used to say it was for our protection. That’s a joke.”   

“Let’s step back a minute. Let’s for a moment ignore the possibility of your father retaliating and look at what you’d feel about publically telling your story.”

“Scared.” Pause. “Victorious. Like I finally got them back.” Pause. “But then I wonder what everyone else would think of me. Especially my fiancé. I haven’t even had the nerve to tell him. I’m afraid he’ll think I’m garbage. Or that he’d treat my brother and father differently.” Pause. “When I hear myself say that I think I must be crazy. Why wouldn’t he treat them differently? And why do I care? You know, I think maybe I should work on telling the important people in my life before I decide if I’m going to come out publically.”

I smile. “Sounds like an excellent idea.”

I’m Late!

Marcy comes rushing into my office 15 minutes late, throws herself in my chair, and sighs with exasperation.

“I don’t get it,” proclaims my attractive, 29 year old patient, carefully attired in a grey business suit, looking like the lawyer that she is. “No matter what I tell myself I’m always late. I’m late here, to work, to meet friends! Well, you know!  We’ve been through this a million times. The only thing I’m not late for is court, thank goodness. That’s all I’d need. Get my ass in contempt!” 

Marcy and I have indeed discussed her problem with lateness many times. And it’s not just lateness, but all kinds of procrastination. She wrote college papers the night before they were due, never felt prepared for exams, let mail pile up in her apartment, and now often feels ill-prepared for court.

We have discussed her difficulty with separating, with pulling herself away from one activity or one person to go to another. We have explored procrastination as an expression of her anger, as in, you can’t make me be on time or write this paper or pay this bill. We have set up tasks for her to fulfill – next time you come to see me you will be able to tell me that for one day this past week you were on time for every appointment. She is never able to fulfill these agreements.

I like Marcy. She is warm, engaging, and smart. I’ve gotten used to her lateness and don’t have much feeling about it. I’m sorry that her sessions are abbreviated, but I’ve accommodated to the shorter time. Marcy leaves promptly at the designated time, never objects, never tries to extend the hour. 

Marcy was the second of three daughters, her parents both busy lawyers who expected their children to be good, do well in school, and pretty much raise themselves. Marcy always had difficulty getting to school or turning in assignments on time. Her parents would talk to her, lecture her, encourage her, but basically leave her to deal with the consequences of her problem. Obviously, now an attorney, Marcy was able to do more than well enough to get by.    

“My Dad was asking me again last night if I didn’t think I should try to get into a big firm, make a lot more money.  But I love being a legal aid lawyer! I love being able to help people who really need my help. Besides, I’d never to be to meet all the deadlines of a big firm. My Dad doesn’t bug me about it, just brings it up from time to time.” 

“Right now,” Marcy continues, “I’m trying to get this kid off. He’s kind of slow, was with a bunch of kids when they snatched a woman’s purse. I don’t think he had a clue what was going on. But I have a real hard-ass judge. I don’t know what will happen. But I’m trying my best.” Marcy pauses, knitting her brow. “I just realized that I have no problem with deadlines on this case, no problem getting to appointments, no problem filing the motions. I don’t even have to try. I just do it.”

“Do you think that’s because you like the kid, feel sorry for him, want to help him?” I ask.

“Well, I do, but I feel that way about lots of cases and that usually doesn’t help.”

A series of thoughts flash through my mind: She’s not late to court because she’s afraid of being in contempt, she has a hard-ass judge for this case, her father doesn’t bug her, I don’t have strong feelings about her lateness. 

“I wonder, Marcy, if the reason you do things on time for this case is that you have a hard-ass judge.”

She looks at me quizzically.  

“I wonder if you’ve always wanted someone to care enough about you to be a hard-ass, to say this behavior isn’t okay, to care that you’re not getting someplace on time, to care that you’re getting a B rather than an A because your paper’s late. It’s even true for me. Why don’t I take a tougher stand about your lateness? Why don’t I insist that you get here on time? Why don’t I feel more about your cheating yourself of a third of your session?”

“Why don’t you?” Marcy asks quietly, dropping her head.

“I think part of it is who I am as a person – I’m not authoritarian, I’m not judgmental. But I also think it’s because you’ve never passionately been cared about and you’ve never passionately cared about yourself and that although you desperately want a “hard-ass judge,” you don’t expect much from the people in your life. And that’s the dynamic we unconsciously reenact here.”

“Wow! That’s heavy! It makes sense, but I’m not sure what to do with it.”

“I’m not sure either, Marcy, but I think it’s important for us to know about and to watch in terms of the interaction between us and between you and others as well. And maybe we’ll need to revisit your childhood and look at what more you wanted from your parents.”