Being Bad Part II

 “I’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,” Brenda says, beginning immediately. “About my being angry. I suppose I could be, but I don’t know what I’d have to be angry about. I have this great life, a family who’d do anything for me, a nice condo, great weather. What else do I need? Well, I guess I’d like to find a man, but I’m not angry about that. It will happen eventually.”

“You mentioned last time that when you felt angry you stopped eating. What was that about?”

“Mostly I was just mad at myself. Mad that I let myself get too fat.”

“You said that when that didn’t work, you’d eat and throw up, what did you mean by that?”

“When my Mom got mad at me for not eating. Or more like when she kept asking if I didn’t like her food, or if I could tell her what she could make me that I’d like,” she says rolling her eyes. “It got annoying so I’d eat and throw up later.”

“You were annoyed at your mother?”

“Yeah. She can get pretty annoying. She thinks my skirt is too short or my hair is too long or I wear too much make-up, whatever.”

“So you can feel angry with her.”

“Yeah, I guess. My Dad’s not like that, pretty much everything I do is okay, but I don’t know, it’s almost like it doesn’t matter what I do, almost like he’s not interested. Yeah, I guess that’s right. I’m the afterthought. My brother’s the boy, my sister’s the smart one and I’m just me. I mean, he does like it that I do well selling houses. That he cares about.”

“So you feel criticized by your mother and ignored by your father except at his business.”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

“Don’t you think that’s something to be angry about?”

“I suppose. But it’s not like I’m being abused or beaten up or neglected.”

“That’s true. But you’re entitled to have whatever feelings you have. You don’t have to be beaten up to feel hurt and angry.”

“No one gets angry in my family. We’re polite and respectful, except when we were little kids of course. But like I’ve never heard my parents fight. They never scream at each other.”

“And do you think they have a good marriage, a close marriage.”

“I wouldn’t say that. They kind of exist in the same house and are pleasant enough to each other, but I wouldn’t say they’re close. I’m not sure anyone in my family is close to anyone else.”

“Sounds lonely. And sad.”

“I guess. I’m not sure I know anything else.”

“It sounds like you know something else when you batter cars.”

“That’s not being close!”

“No, but you were feeling something intensely. I think you said you felt free, that you were showing them you couldn’t be pushed around.”

“Yes, that’s right, but I’m not sure how that’s related to my parents or to closeness.”

“As you said, everyone in your family is proper and respectful. Everyone is good. But there’s an absence of feelings, any feelings, angry feelings, loving feelings. It kind of sounds like you’re living in a doll’s house.”

“Funny you should say that. I’ve had friends tell me my parent’s house reminds them of a doll’s house. I always thought they meant because it was super done by an interior designer, but maybe they meant more than that.” Pause. “So you think it’s good for me to be ramming cars because it gives me a chance to express my feelings?”

“I wouldn’t say that. It does give you a chance to let loose with feelings you’ve kept bottled up, but you’re acting out the feelings against inanimate objects, not really letting yourself know what or who you’re angry at. I suspect you’ve been carrying around lots of feelings for a long time.”

Silence.

“So what should I do about my obsession about ramming cars?”

“Well, when you first have the thought or the impulse, I’d try asking yourself what you’re feeling right then. What made you have that impulse right at that moment?”

“But can I still do it?”

“Perhaps it would be better to ask if you can not do it. If you can not do it, that would be best, but I don’t know if you can stop quite that easily.”

Silence.

“I just had the desire to do it, to do it as soon as I leave your office.”

“And do you know why that is?”

She shakes her head.

“You sure?”

Brenda drops her head. Very quietly she says, “Maybe because I felt you were taking something away from me.”

“Which made you feel…?”

“I guess annoyed.”

“So it felt like I was telling you what to do – or what not to do – and depriving you of something you enjoy. That made you angry and wanting to act out that anger by ramming cars.”

“I guess.”

“I think we made a lot of progress today.”

“But what if I still want to ram cars?”

“No one changes overnight, Brenda.”

The Move

“Thank you for seeing me again on such short notice,” Joslyn begins hurriedly. Then she pauses and looks at me. “It’s good to see you again after so long. You haven’t changed at all. It must be 10 years.”

“It’s good to see you too, Joselyn. I’m pleased to be able to catch up on your life.”

"Yeah, well lots has happened since I've seen you - I have two sons, I'm a pretty successful elder care attorney - but the funny thing is I'm kind of coming back for the same reason I did before, except in reverse." Then I was miserable about having to leave Wisconsin to move to Boca Raton and now I’m miserable about having to leave Boca to move to Boston. Both times for my husband’s jobs! But I understand. I do. Then he was lucky to get a job teaching history at Florida Atlantic University, but he’s been languishing here and Harvard has offered him a tenure track position. It’s a great opportunity for him.” Pause. “But then there’s me. What about my practice? I’m doing so well here. And somehow I think there’s more of a demand for elder law here than there will be in Boston. And the cold! Brrr. I left the cold when I left Madison. I don’t want to go back to it!”

“So you’re feeling …?”

“Angry. And scared.” Pause. “And sad too. I have a life here. My kids have a life here. There’s a lot to lose.”

“You’re angry at…?”

“My husband. I don’t know why we always have to do what he wants to do. I mean, I shouldn’t say it that way. It’s not like we didn’t talk about it. As I said, I do understand. It’s such a great opportunity for him.”

Listening to Joslyn brings me back to the time I moved from Ann Arbor to Boca Raton 25 years ago, to all the pains of leaving – my friends, my practice and the house I so cherished. I try to shake my feelings and return to Joslyn who continues.

“I try to remind myself that the move to Boca turned out well. So why can’t I assume the same will be true of moving to Boston?”

“Are your parents still alive Joselyn?”

She sighs. “My father died three years ago. He had pancreatic cancer.”

“I’m sorry. And he was the good parent.”

“Yeah. My mother and I have continued to struggle. She needs me more now, so she’s been a little warmer. We were even talking about her moving down here. Obviously that isn’t going to happen.”

“And you feel how about that not happening?”

“Good question.” Pause. “Part of me is relieved, but part is … I don’t know. I guess I’m sad about it.”

“And what exactly are you sad about?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s like maybe the move would give us another chance. Like maybe it could be different this time. Maybe since she needs me more she’ll be warmer.”

“I notice, Joslyn, that you’re talking a lot about warm and cold. Wisconsin and Boston are cold. Florida is warm. Maybe your mother will be warmer when she’s in Florida. If I remember correctly a lot of your conflict about leaving Wisconsin was leaving your parents, your father because of his ‘warmth’ and your mother because you were afraid if you moved away you’d never, ever get the chance to somehow fix her and finally get the mother you wanted.”

“That’s right! Hmm. So you’re saying maybe that’s still true, maybe I don’t want to give up what will be my last chance to get the mother I want.”

“Yes. It’s like moving from the ‘warmth’ will mean you’ll have to give up forever the hope of getting the mother you never had. It’s again having to give up hope.”

Joslyn eyes fill with tears. “I thought I had already done that.”

“You certainly moved away from that hope when we worked together, but when confronted with lots of new losses, those feelings can resurface. And I’m not saying that all the feelings you’re having are about your mother. Obviously you’re facing real, present day losses – your practice, your friends, lots of things. But I suspect that the relationship with your mother is heightening all these other feelings.”

“I think I’d like to come back and see you for a while. Is that all right?”

“Of course. I imagine you want to say good-bye to me as well.”

“Oh!” Joslyn exclaims. “I hadn’t thought of that. You were my good mother. And yes, I’ll have to say good-bye to you too. That makes me very sad.”   

Appeasement

“I won’t be here next week,” Mona begins. “I’m going fishing with my parents.”

I feel disappointed for Mona. I’ve been seeing her for a little under a year, working on her need to separate from her parents. A 30 year old paralegal, Mona works in the law firm where her mother was once senior partner and lives in a house her extremely successful father bought for her. Although Mona was raised by a series of nannies during her early years - her parents busy building a business and developing a career – they now crave her time and attention.   

“I know,” she continues. “We’ve talked about it and talked about it. No, I don’t really want to go. No, I don’t like to fish. Yes, it’s awful being stuck on a boat with my folks for a week. Yes, I wanted to save my vacation time so I could go to Europe.” Pause. “And I’m going fishing.” 

“Do you have a sense of why you made that decision?”

“The consequences of not going are too great.”

“And those consequences are?”

“My house. My job. Little things like that.”

“Do you think your parents would take away your house or your job if you said you didn’t want to go fishing with them?”

“It’s important to them. If I can make them happy, why not?”

“What about what makes you happy?”

“Oh yes. There is that I suppose.”

“What would make you happy, Mona?”

“Being on a desert island somewhere, all by myself.”

“Is that true?” I ask.

“Yes and no I guess. In some ways it would feel like I felt as a kid – alone and adrift – surrounded by my books instead of water. There were times that felt welcoming, peaceful. Other times I felt so, so lonely. All I wanted was Mommy or Daddy to come home and be with me. But even when they were home they weren’t with me. And that was worse.”

“So now Mommy and Daddy have come home to be with you.”

“I suppose.”

Pause.

“You know, I’m not sure that’s true,” Mona says. “I mean, yes, they’re always there. I can’t get rid of them. But I’m the Mommy and the Daddy. I have to take care of them.”

“So you’re still not getting what you need. And you’re certainly not getting what you needed as a child.”

“That’s for sure.”

“But I wonder, Mona, if you keep trying, if you keep trying to get what needed from them. If you keep trying to get them to take care of you as you hadn’t felt taken care of as a child.”

“No doubt. Look what I chose as a profession, a paralegal. Not putting paralegals down or anything, but I know I’m smart, I know I could have been anything I wanted to be – a doctor, a lawyer, CEO of a corporation. But, no, I’m a paralegal and Mommy and Daddy get to take care of me forever.”

“That’s really sad, Mona. You’re saying that you kept yourself from realizing your full potential in your attempt to get what you never got from your parents in the past.”

“It’s worse than that. Because what I get from them now are the same things I was able to get from them as a kid – material things. I never wanted for anything materially. But what I wanted was their time and attention. And, yeah, I suppose I do get that now, but it’s really all about them. I don’t even know why I keep trying.”

“I think you do know why, Mona. You keep trying because inside you there’s a needy dependent little girl who yearns for Mommy and Daddy to be home taking care of you.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“The problem is that you can never make up for that, Mona. The past is past and however much you as that little girl might long for and deserve to have loving, attentive parents, there’s no way to redo that.”

“That’s charming. So what do I do?”

“You - and we - have to work on helping you to mourn that which you never had. It’s hard. It means feeling sad and angry, sad and angry, sad and angry, until you can get to a place of acceptance.”

“Doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“No, it’s a long, difficult process.”

“Meanwhile it will have to wait. I’m going fishing.”   

Family Connections

“I’m kind of in a state of shock,” Sheila begins. “My sister was arrested for shoplifting. A lipstick for heaven sakes! She could have bought a million lipsticks! I don’t get it. And she doesn’t seem to be able to explain it. At least not to me.”

“You’ve never talked much about your sister,” I say to Sheila. “What’s your relationship like?”

Sheila sighs. “Pat’s two years younger than me, 36. I guess we’ve never been close. Not as kids, not now when we live less than a half hour apart. She was always difficult, always getting into trouble, creating some drama in the house. She’s very pretty. My father liked that. I guess I was jealous of her. I was the good girl, the one who always did well in school, the one who obeyed the rules. I got points for that, but her looks made her popular with the “in” girls and always got her dates with the most desirable boys. And then she married Cliff, married into all that wealth. She calmed down after that. I thought she was happy. Who knew?”

“Do you still feel jealous of your sister?”

“I guess. It seemed she was always creating problems, but still got everyone to love her. But I don’t know about this time. My parents are definitely not happy. And I can only imagine how Cliff’s family will react.”

“Does that bring you some satisfaction?”

“I wouldn’t say that to anyone but you, but yes, it does. Except she’ll probably get out of this too. And I really shouldn’t complain. I have a great career, a wonderful husband and a lovely daughter. You can’t ask for much more than that.”

“Do you feel less than your sister?”

“That’s a good question. It’s like if I think about my adult self and my adult life, I have absolutely no reason to feel less than Pat – except for her money, but that’s really not the issue for me. It’s these feelings from the past that creep in and suddenly I’m the one who gets to stay home on Saturday night, who watches my father look adoringly at my sister and, yes, I feel less than. Silly, right?”

“Not silly at all, Sheila. Our unconscious is timeless and the experiences and feelings we had at five and ten and fifteen, are as much with us, as our present day experiences and feelings.”

“Makes sense.”

“You haven’t talked at all about your mother’s feelings about you or your sister.”

“I guess that’s because I never knew how my mother felt. About anything. She was always efficient and proper and did the things she needed to do, including taking care of us, and I suppose loving us, but there was a shallowness to her feelings. Or maybe it’s that feelings were too messy. She did what she needed to do, her feelings on the shelf.”    

“So in relation to your mother, your sister and you were equal, neither of you getting very much.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I mean we may have been equal, but it’s not that we didn’t get very much.”

“Emotionally?”

“Are you saying you think we were emotionally deprived?”

“You were the good girl, your sister acted out. Maybe you were both trying to get more love and attention.”

Pause.

“I wonder if that’s why I sometimes get depressed out of the blue. It’s like everything is going along fine and suddenly there’s this black cloud.”

“That a great insight, Sheila. What you’re saying is that those childhood feelings we were talking about earlier catch up with you and suddenly you’re a kid again feeling needy and ungiven to and depressed.”

“That’s exactly right!” She pauses. “You know, that also makes me feel more sympathy towards my sister. I like that. It’s a new feeling.” Another pause.  “Do you think she shoplifted because she felt needy and thought the lipstick would make her feel better?”

“You’re saying she was trying to nurture herself with a material object, because she didn’t feel given to emotionally. That’s certainly a possibility. And I imagine there’s some anger thrown in there as well. Probably for both of you.”

“Hmm. I’ve never seen myself as an angry person, but I guess we’ll have to talk about that next time.”

“Okay. We will.”  

The Reluctant Patient, The Reluctant Therapist

Mr. Marty Stein sits across from me. With his slight, stooped frame, bald head, and sad, drooping eyes he looks all of his 89 years.  Shifting in the chair and sighing audibly he begins.

“Rose said I had to come. She said she can’t stand it anymore that I don’t talk. I’m happy with her. I don’t know what more she wants. We’ve been going out for over five years. I’m too old for this. Who ever heard of an 89 year old man seeing a … you’re a psychologist, right?”

“No one is too old for therapy,” I say nodding, “But it doesn’t sound as though you want to be here.”

“Right,” he says. “I’m not going to change now. I was married for over fifty years and my wife complained of the same thing. I didn’t change then and I’m not going to change now.”

“You sound almost proud of your reluctance to change,” I offer tentatively.

“No, just resigned. What’s the expression, ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’ But I told Rose I’d come, so here I am.”

“Can you tell me about yourself, about your background, your childhood?”

Another sigh. “My mother died when I was three. My father couldn’t take care of me – or didn’t want to – so I spent my childhood in an orphanage, two orphanages actually. The first one was in Brooklyn. It was boys and girls. Then when I was 10 they sent me to upstate New York, Syracuse, where it was just boys. It was run by rabbis, very strict. But it was okay. We got fed. And then when I got to be 18 I had to leave, so I joined the army. That was OK too. It was good actually. I grew up and learned to be responsible and even got to see some of the world. And they taught me to be a mechanic so I got to make a decent living when I got out. All in all it was a pretty good life. I have no complaints. The bad parts, I just put them away. No point in dwelling on the negative.”

As Mr. Stein relates his story, deadpan with no affect, I feel an increasing heaviness in my body and an enveloping cloud of sadness overtaking me. “You certainly had a very sad, deprived childhood,” I say gingerly.

“It wasn’t so bad. As I said, they fed me, they didn’t abuse me and in Syracuse we had lots of empty space to run around. Besides, I did all right. Took care of my wife and three kids. No complaints. I just put the bad stuff away.”

“Did you see your father over the years?” I ask, aware that I am reluctant to probe too deeply into this man’s psyche.  Over his long life, he’s built up a stalwart defense that has worked for him, protecting himself from the pain of his early life.

“He’d come and visit sometimes. But he could never be counted on. He wasn’t reliable. I don’t even know how many wives he had. And he stole money from me. While I was in the army I sent him money to hold for me and he gambled it away.”

“That must have made you very angry.”

“I guess. At the time. But I just started working again and built up my little nest egg. As I said, no point dwelling on the negative.”

“And your mother? Do you remember her?”

“Nah. I was only two or three when she died. I didn’t know anything more than the orphanage. When that’s all you know, it’s okay. As I said, my life turned out pretty good.”

What next, I ask myself. If this man was 30 or even 20 years younger, I’d be far more eager to explore his defenses, to try and get to the pain that must reside underneath. Is my reluctance to attempt to plumb his depths ageism? Perhaps. But he has the same reluctance. Except he’s here.

“Mr. Stein, you say that Rose insisted that you come. What would happen if you didn’t? Why did you agree? Is there anything you’d like to get out of coming here?”

“She’s a good person. I don’t think she’d stop seeing me, but maybe she would. I don’t think so, though. But I’d like to make her happy. Maybe you could help me work on things to talk to her about.”

“How about what you were telling me about today? Your background. Your experiences.”

“You think she’d be interested in that old stuff?”

“Yes, I suspect she would. So maybe that’s one thing we could do. You could tell me things about yourself, as kind of practice for telling Rose.”

“I guess.”

We are both still reluctant participants, perhaps fearful of exposing too much pain on the one hand, or dealing with the deadness of meaningless conversation on the other.

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.