A White Lie

 “It was my birthday this past Saturday,” MaryAnn begins smiling, combing her fingers through her long, silky hair.

“Congratulations,” I respond enthusiastically, “Twenty, right?”

MaryAnn pauses, drops her head, then raises it again to look
directly at me. “Not exactly. I turned 18.”

I stare at her, startled. “But we’ve been working together for two years. You told me you were 18 when we started.” 

“Yes, I did. I lied. But that’s the only thing I’ve lied about.”

“But you were a minor when we began working together,” I say, quite distressed. “I would have needed your parents’ permission to see you.”

“Exactly! That’s why I told you I was 18. Could you imagine my parents allowing me to see you and air all their dirty secrets. It’s no big deal, just a little white lie.”

I’m stunned. MaryAnn and I had what I thought was a close, intense bond, with a heated transference/countertransference relationship. I quickly became the mother she wished she had, not the socialite who left her daughter to be raised by a series of nannies while she spent her husband’s money throwing elaborate parties or meeting a series of lovers somewhere in the world. For my part, I usually felt motherly and protective towards her, unless her excessive demands made me pull back in either anger or self-defense. Her “little white lie” feels like a betrayal and I struggle to make sense of it.

“Come on!” MaryAnn says. “You look like I’ve committed some terrible sin! Why is it such a big deal?”

“Well, first you made me complicit in breaking the law – seeing you without parental consent.”

“But you didn’t know!!” she interrupts.

“Second, this is a tremendous breach of trust, of what I assumed was a good faith relationship between us.”

“It is.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about it. I lied so I could see you. What’s wrong with that?”

“How did you pay me every month?” I ask.

“You know money isn’t an issue. There are huge amounts of cash lying around, or signed checks. Neither of my parents cares how much money I spend. They never check up on me.”

“So you were stealing money to pay me?”

“I wasn’t stealing. I told you. I can spend money on whatever I want. They never ask.”

Through what feels like my foggy mind, some thoughts vaguely occur to me. “You know, MaryAnn, one of your complaints about your parents is that they’ve always had relationships with other people, while continuing on with what feels to you like their sham marriage.” 

“That’s not the same thing!”

“You’ve grown up in a household where lying and deceit was second nature. It’s not so hard to imagine you’d also lie to get what you want.”

“I told you, I had no choice!”

“Perhaps your parents would say the same thing. And, besides, if your parents are so indifferent to what you do or don’t do, how do you know they wouldn’t be fine about your being in therapy.”

“I told you, because they don’t want all their secrets out there! Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. Maybe I should have just said yes, I’m 20.”

“So that brings me to another issue, MaryAnn, maybe the most important issue in terms of our relationship.”

She sighs, exasperatedly. 

I continue. “A lie keeps distance. Your lie kept distance between us, just as your parents’ lies keeps distance between them and between the three of you. Maybe, unconsciously, it was important that you keep a distance between us, maybe you couldn’t risk being closer to me than to your parents.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. I’ve always wanted more from you, wanted you to take care of me, had fantasies of your being at my wedding one day, meeting my children, all that.”

“That’s what you’ve wanted consciously, but I wonder if unconsciously it would have felt very risky to be closer to me than to your parents, maybe it would have felt like I was replacing them, doing away with them. However not ideal they’ve been as parents, they’re the only parents you’ve ever had or will have.”

“I don’t know, maybe. But what now? What happens between us?”

“What would you like to happen?”

“I’d like you to forgive me and for us to go on as before.”

“Now that I have what feels to me like a psychological understanding of what prompted your lying, I’m no longer so shocked or angry. As far as us going on as before, if that means do I still care about you and want us to continue working together, the answer is certainly yes. But relationships always change, MaryAnn, and this relationship will definitely be impacted by what occurred between us today. For sure I’ll be looking to see if there are other ways you create distance in our relationship.” 

“I am sorry. But I’m still not sure I would have done anything differently.”

“I hear you.”

The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing but the Truth

Maxine sits comfortably in my chair, runs her hand through her curly brown hair and begins. “I came to therapy because I keep having fantasies about killing my daughter.”

Oh oh, I think, remaining silent and neutral. Maxine seems a bit taken aback by my silence. What she doesn’t know is that I am immediately on guard, unsure if I am about to hear a story that is truly every therapist’s nightmare, or one that is completely fabricated. A colleague told me she saw a new patient who told her a similar story and then admitted it was only a test for the therapist.

“I don’t know why I’m having these fantasies,” Maxine continues. “I love my daughter. We’ve always been close.”   

Not wanting to accuse a truly troubled person of lying, I decide to go along and see what develops. Of course, a woman who goes from therapist to therapist fabricating a story, must be pretty troubled as well. “What’s your guess?” I ask. “Why do you think you have been having these fantasies? How long have you been having them?”

“It was right after Barbara’s – that’s my daughter – right after her thirteenth birthday, about six months ago. I don’t know why I’m having the fantasies. If I knew I wouldn’t have come here. What do you think?”

I think this is a sham, but I’m still reluctant to confront Maxine.

“It’s pretty hard for me to have any idea since I know next to nothing about you.”

Maxine sighs, seeming exasperated.

I’m rather annoyed myself, but try to return to my more neutral tone. “Can you tell me about you?  What’s your present life like? Married? Other children? Working? And what was it like for you growing up?”

“I’m a stay at home Mom. My husband is an entrepreneur. He travels a lot. I was thinking I should probably go back to work. With Barbara growing up there’s not that much for me to do.”

“What are your feelings about Barbara growing up.”

“Mixed. I’d like my little girl back and I’m looking forward to seeing where my life takes me.”

“Where do you want it to take you?”

“I’m not sure yet. I think that’s one of the reasons I feel so dissatisfied with myself.”

I find myself liking Maxine more, yet feel entirely confused about what’s going on in the session or what’s real and what isn’t. I decide to take the plunge.

“Maxine, what of what you’ve told me today is true and what isn’t?”

“You figured it out! You’re the first one. Oh good, now you can be my therapist.”

“I had a rather big clue. One of my colleagues told me she’d seen a patient who told her a pretty similar story and that it was supposed to be a test for the therapist.”

“Oh! What a disappointment. Now I can’t tell if you’re really smart or not.”

“Maxine, you must by now know from therapists’ reactions that it’s quite insulting and infuriating to be tested by a series of lies. But I’d like to know the underlying reason you found it necessary to go through this charade.”

“I didn’t think I could trust someone who wasn’t smart enough to figure me out.”

“Well, I’d guess that you definitely feel you can’t trust people and I’d also guess that you see yourself as very troubled and in need of someone who can not only understand you but handle you as well.”

“You are smart. You can be my therapist.”

“But this is a two way contract. There’s the question of whether I feel I’m up to being your therapist.”

“Please, please, I’ll be good.”

“You sound like a scared little girl when you say that.”

Maxine starts to cry.

“Maxine, I know this is unusual for a first session, but this has been an unusual first session anyway. I want you to tell me what the secret is.”

“No, no, I can’t. Not yet.”

“I’m sorry. That’s my condition for us starting therapy. And if you tell me another lie you’ll only be hurting yourself. There’s something you’re terribly afraid of or guilty about, something you need to start dealing with even though you want to keep it hidden.”

“I killed my sister.”

“Is that another lie?”

“No, no, it isn’t. I wish it were. I didn’t do it deliberately.” Maxine’s next words are flat, expressionless. She stares straight ahead. “A group of us were playing soft ball. I was at bat. I swung. I lost control of the bat. It hit my sister in the head. She died. My parents sent me away.”

“I’m so sorry, Maxine. What a horrible accident. How traumatic. And then to be sent away on top of it. I’m really, really sorry.”

“So you’ll be my therapist?”

“Yes,” I say, although I realize that it will take me some time to totally trust what Maxine tells me.  Hmm, I think, Maxine has led me to feel the distrust she feels in the world.   

Back From the Dead

“I don’t know what to do,” Cynthia says plaintively, pulling at her hair. “I saw Phyllis for so long and I was so devastated when she just left her practice. When she left me! I mean I knew she was really sick, that she was probably going to die. But you know, I’ve hardly been able to talk about anything else since I started seeing you. And then here she is, calling me on the phone, saying she’s better and wondering if I’d like to come back into treatment with her. What am I supposed to do?”

I’ve been seeing forty year old Cynthia for a little less than two months and, she’s right, she’s been able to talk about little else then her feeling of abandonment when her therapist became seriously ill and had to precipitously end her practice. Fear of abandonment has always plagued Cynthia, having it come to pass with her therapist of many years has left her anxious, angry and distraught.

“Do you have any sense of what you’d like to do, Cynthia?” I ask. 

Cynthia fidgets in her chair. She looks warily at me, takes a deep breath and says, “I don’t see how I can talk with you about this.”

“Because…?”

“Well, it’s like I have to decide between you and Phyllis.”

“You don’t have to take care of me, Cynthia. You need to figure out what’s best for you. I’d certainly understand if you decided to go back to seeing Phyllis. You’ve had years of a relationship with her. And I’d be happy to continue seeing you if that’s what you decide.”

“It still makes me uncomfortable. Like I’d hurt your feelings. But I’d hurt Phyllis’ feelings if I decide to stay with you. That feels really terrible.”

“Can you say what feels terrible about hurting each of us?”

“Phyllis almost died! I wouldn’t want to do anything more to hurt her.”

“I understand that, Cynthia, but you’ve been really angry with Phyllis and if you do decide to go back with her that’s one of the things you’re going to have to discuss.”

Cynthia shakes her head empathically. “I could never do that. I’d just have to pretend it was like before she left.”

“From what you’ve told me, Cynthia, Phyllis sounds like a good therapist. I’m sure she’d encourage you to talk about how you felt about both her leaving and her return.”

“I’d say I felt sad, but that I understood and that I was really glad she was back.”

“So you’re saying you’d go back into therapy with Phyllis and be dishonest?”

“What else could I do?” she wails. 

I feel myself becoming annoyed by Cynthia’s passivity, clearly remembering how angry Cynthia has been with Phyllis these past months. She’s felt guilty about her anger, but angry nonetheless. “I wonder if being dishonest with Phyllis would be a way of expressing your anger at her, of pulling back from her just as she did from you.”

“So you think I should go back to Phyllis and tell her I wish she’d died?”

I feel myself flinch, aware of the rage that exists in Cynthia barely below the surface. “First, I didn’t say that you should go back to Phyllis. I said I’d be happy to continue seeing you. Second, I think you’re really, really angry and that you’re afraid your anger can be deadly. Whether you can go back to Phyllis and deal with her with your anger is something you’ll have to decide. But one way or another I don’t think you’re going to be able to avoid dealing with it.”  

Suddenly a thought comes to me. “What did you tell Phyllis when you spoke with her on the phone?”

Cynthia hangs her head. “I told her I’d see her next Monday,” she mumbles, barely audible.

“So has this session been a charade, Cynthia? Had you already made up your mind and only pretended to be unsure?”

“I thought it would be less hurtful,” she says avoiding my eyes. 

“I think, Cynthia, it will be very important for you to work on why you think deception is less hurtful than honesty, but in order to do that you’re going to need to be honest.”

“Are you mad at me?”

After talking about honesty I feel obliged to respond truthfully. “Yes, Cynthia, I’m mad at you for presenting a charade this session, rather than coming in and telling me what you decided and allowing us time to say good-bye.”

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

“I’m sorry too. But I want you to know that anger doesn’t have to be destructive and that I wish you the very best.”