Pretending

 “I did it!” Charlotte says, gleefully.

“Congratulations,” I say enthusiastically, “And welcome back.”

“I’m not talking about going by myself to Italy.”

“Oh! What did you mean?” 

“I did go by myself to Italy. It was hard. And all you’ve heard about Italian men, don’t believe a word of it. No one gave me a second glance. Oh course, why look at a middle-aged woman when you have all these gorgeous young, half-dressed I might add, girls running around. But seriously, don’t you remember what we talked about our last session?”

“I thought I did but… Oh, Charlotte, you really didn’t…”

She smiles broadly nodding at me.

“You pretended you were sick,” I state matter-of-factly.

“Correct! You see, not even you can remember me unless I do something daring, outrageous.”

“Of course I remember you. I didn’t remember that you were considering presenting yourself as someone who was ill, but I remember …”

“It doesn’t matter. I figured out how to get the attention I wanted. The more outrageous I made the story the more attention I got. It’s amazing how solicitous flight attendants can be when you tell them you’re dying of cancer or that you just had a chemo treatment.”

“And is that whose attention you wanted?”  

“Anyone is better than no one, but no, that’s not whose attention I wanted. But it was fun trying out different stories and seeing what provoked the most sympathy or what made people the most uncomfortable.”

“What did make people the most uncomfortable?”

“If they thought I was going to throw up all over them. That was a good one, especially on a plane with the person sitting next to me.”

“Sounds like you took a lot of pleasure making people uncomfortable.”

“Yes, I did. Felt like I was getting back at all the people who’ve made me uncomfortable, people who look at me like I’m ugly or don’t look at me at all, as if I don’t exist.

“What do you feel as you tell me all this?”

“First word that came to me? Triumphant!”

“And since you’ve been home?”

“It’s back to the same boring life. Biller in an ophthalmologist’s office. Real exciting. A great place to not be seen.” Pause. “But I am thinking about bringing my little pretense back home. Maybe in grocery stores or gas stations – I can go someplace I don’t usually shop. I’ve even considered taking it to work. Who’s to say I couldn’t start telling my co-workers I haven’t been feeling well, that I’ve gone to the doctor, that I have some kind of cancer, etc., etc.”

“Charlotte, when you first started talking today I felt annoyed with you, annoyed for the people you were duping and angry that you felt you had to stoop to subterfuge to get people to pay attention to you. But as you’ve kept talking, I find myself feeling sadder and sadder. And I suspect you also feel both angry and sad. You’re such a bright, insightful person. You could do so much more with your life.”

“Except that I’m ugly.”

“I know you feel ugly, and this is something you and I constantly disagree about, but you don’t have to be the most beautiful woman in the room to have friends, to have lovers, to have a job that fulfills you.”

“You mean billing doesn’t fulfill me?” she asks sarcastically.

I sigh. “I know your mother didn’t value you. I know you feel your older sisters were prettier and smarter than you. And given all that, it is still possible to have a meaningful life.” Pause. “You’ve always talked about writing. You certainly demonstrated that you can be creative with your storytelling about yourself. Put the stories down on paper instead of acting them out.” Pause. “I’m sorry. I’m preaching. I know I can’t decide your life for you.”  

“I’m 55 years old. Don’t you think it’s too late for me? How do I change now?”

“You went to Italy.”

“And my most fun was spinning a death fantasy about myself.”

“What was your fantasy about what the trip would be like before you left?”

Charlotte drops her head. “I thought I’d meet the love of my life. I know, that’s stupid, ridiculous. I feel like an idiot even saying it.”

“It’s not stupid, Charlotte, it’s a wish. But maybe it would have been good if we had talked more about your imaginings about the trip before you went so that you could have anticipated several scenarios, thought of the good things that might have happened, as well as the disappointing things. And I know that although many people like it, traveling alone can be very hard.”

Charlotte starts to cry. “It was very hard.”

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.”

Removed

“I’m thinking of breaking up with the girl I’ve been dating,” Andrew begins. 

If I’m not mistaken, this is the third woman he’s broken up with in the several months I’ve been seeing him. Tall, with curly brown hair, 35 year old Andrew could be described as a handsome man, except that he feels too flat, too disengaged.  

“I know,” he continues, “I just said I thought she might be the one. I don’t know, we just don’t seem to click. I mean, we’re okay sexually, it’s not that. Maybe she’s too eager, too needy. I need her to back off. But that’s pretty crazy,” he says, half laughing at himself. “You’d think with my parents being so disconnected, I’d be dying to have a woman who’s really into me.”

“Can you say what she does that makes you feel she’s too needy and what goes on inside you?”

“I don’t know. Well, like she’s constantly texting me.” Pause. “But that’s not really true. She might text me in the morning and then once maybe after she’s done teaching for the day.”

“But it feels like a lot.”

“Yeah, that’s right. It feels like she’s always there.” 

“And when you’re actually with her?”

“I know this sounds bad, but I kind of want us to do whatever we’re going to do – go out to eat, go to the movies, whatever – go back to my place, have sex, and then have her leave. That’s enough for me.”

“While you’re with her, do you feel connected to her? You know, I just realized we’re both talking about ‘her,’ not using her name.”

“Her name’s Paula. And no, I don’t feel connected to her.” Pause. “I’m not sure I feel connected to anyone.”

“No one?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, I get along with people, I know what to say, how to act. But I wouldn’t say I feel connected. I tell my parents I love them. I hug my sister and my nieces. But it’s more that I know I’m supposed to do those things.” 

“Do you feel connected to me?”

“To you?” he asks, surprised.

I nod.

“No. We have a professional relationship. I pay you to listen to me and then I leave. I can’t imagine feeling connected to you.”

Kind of like what he wants from Paula, I think. What I say is, “Can you imagine feeling connected to anyone?”

“I guess my wife when I have one. And my kids, whenever that happens.”

“And not feeling connected, how does that make you feel?”

“I don’t know. Normal, I guess. Normal for me anyway. It’s how I’ve always felt.” 

“Do you ever feel lonely?”

“Lonely? I don’t know. I like being alone. I’ve always felt alone.”

“You know, Andrew, as I listen to you, I feel sad for you. You seem so alone, so cut off, so removed, both from others, as well as from your own feelings.”

He shrugs.

“And you did come into therapy. I think you said you wanted to figure out why you weren’t able to stay in a relationship with a woman. Sounds like we need to figure out why you can’t be in a relationship with anyone.”

“I guess.”

“Andrew, do you remember what you felt when you were little and your parents left you with one of your nannies and went away on business for months at a time.”

“That’s just how it was.”

“But how did you feel? How did you feel as that little boy?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Can you imagine doing that with your child some day?”

“Oh no! No, I couldn’t imagine ever doing that.”

“You seem to have more feelings about imagining leaving a child you still don’t have, leaving that imaginary child alone, than you’ve had about anything else we’ve talked about today.”

“I guess that’s true. But what does that mean?”

“That you’re that imaginary child; that buried deep inside you are lots of feelings about being left, sad feelings and scared feelings and angry feelings.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So why don’t I feel them?”

“I imagine you locked those feelings away a long time ago and that opening that door feels overwhelmingly scary.”   

“And how’s that related to my not staying in relationships?”

“I think that when you start to get close to someone or if someone starts to get close to you, the possibility of needing or relying on that person brings you way too close to the scared, vulnerable, needy feelings you had as a child and you immediately close off and run away.”

“I guess that makes sense, but what do I do about it?”

“We start by carefully looking at your feelings as you go about relating to people in your life, including me, and seeing if we can find when you start to get scared and start pulling away.”

“Sounds like a long process.”

“I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

The Opponent

I open my waiting room door to meet James Harrison for the first time. He rises, hand outstretched to shake mine. I’d guess he’s in his mid-forties. A good-looking man, tall, thin, seemingly comfortable in his own skin. We make the brief walk to my office and I gesture him to the sage chair across from mine.

“So,” he says, “Why should I be here?”

I inadvertently jerk my head back while, at the same time, stifling the urge to laugh. He’s certainly wasted no time throwing down the gauntlet. Still, it’s so startling, that I find it almost funny. Perhaps that’s a defensive reaction on my part.

I think about commenting on his provocativeness, but decide that would only escalate what is already a fencing match between us.  “Well, since I’ve never laid eyes on you before,” I respond, “I have no idea why you should be here. Perhaps it would be helpful if you told me.” Too hostile, I tell myself. It’s hard not to meet aggression with aggression.

“At least you didn’t go into that bullshit about everyone can benefit from therapy, it’s always good to understand yourself better, etc., etc.”

Do I need this? I think to myself. We haven’t even said hello and we’re already adversaries. Actually that’s not a bad interpretation. “Mr. Harrison, I wonder why we’re already adversaries. As far as I know you voluntarily came into my office. I’m not forcing you to be here. There must be some reason you’re seeking the help of a therapist.”

“Ah ha. So you’re the try the gentle approach type of therapist.”

I am definitely getting pissed. Which must be what he wants. “I suspect it’s important for you to keep relationships on an adversarial basis. Perhaps that’s why you’re seeking therapy. Perhaps you have difficulty getting along with people.”

“Perhaps,” he says grudgingly.

Silence.

“OK. So now what?” he challenges.

I really do not need this. I want to tell this man that I don’t think we should work together, that I’m not the best person for him. Maybe that too would be a good interpretation. Or would it just be acting-out on my part?

“Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

“Why would I want to do that if we’re not going to work together?”

“Have you decided that we’re not going to work together?” I ask.

“Have you?” is the rejoinder. 

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I do know that I’m not willing to spend every session fighting with you when I have no understanding of why you need to fight. And I’m also not prepared to convince you that you should be in therapy with me.”

“But you do think I should be in therapy?”

“Yes,” I reply definitively.

“Why?”

“Because you are clearly someone who needs to fight which means that you either have a lot of anger or need to keep people at a very far distance or both.”

“You see. You were able to tell me why I needed to be here.”

“And I suspect that you could have told me that yourself far more quickly.”

“But then I wouldn’t have known if you’re smart enough to handle me.”

“So I suppose I should assume that you’re going to be continually testing me?”

“Perhaps.”

“Mr. Harrison…”

“James.”

“James, I do know that how you are in the world, is how you are in here with me, but I want to again say that I think it is very unhelpful for us to be continually sparring and that one of my goals for you, is going to be to find the James Harrison behind your defensive posturing.”

“You don’t like me much, do you?”

“I would say that you insure that no one likes you much. But I would very much like to learn to like you. And I hope you’ll allow that to happen.”

“Touche!”

I groan internally and wonder why I didn’t refuse to take him on as a patient. “Can you tell me what you’re feeling, James?”

“Satisfied. I think you’re the right person for me.”

“Can you say how you felt when I said I thought you insured that no one liked you, but that I’d like to learn to like you?”

“I told you, satisfied.”       

“Did you feel anything else? Hurt? Relieved? Angry?”

“No. Just satisfied. I accomplished what I wanted to accomplish.”

“So you feel satisfied with yourself. Do you have any feelings about me?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “I’ll tell you what came to mind. That’s what I’m supposed to do, right?”

I nod.

“I feel you’re a worthy opponent.”

Perhaps, I think to myself, this treatment will be about whether a worthy opponent can become a stalwart ally. If so, it’s going to be a slow slog through.   

What If You Died?

Tall and thin, with long, straight brown hair, Alicia fidgets in the chair. “I have a new obsession,” she says hesitantly. “I keep worrying about your dying. I feel funny talking about it, but who else can I talk to about something like that?”

I’ve been seeing Alicia for almost five years now. She began when she was 20, when she was so paralyzed by anxiety and by magical, obsessional thoughts that she had to drop out of college. She’s much better now. She’s gone back to school and should graduate in a little over a year.  

She continues. “I know we’ve talked about my being afraid of my parents dying in some horrible accident when they left to go out when I was little. And you said that was because part of me wished they were dead because I was mad that they were leaving me. But I don’t feel mad at you. At least I don’t think I do. Do you think I’m mad at you?”

“I think only you know how you feel, Alicia.”

She pouts. “You could help me.”

There is a childlike quality to Alicia. She looks to me to protect her, to save her, to give her the magical answer. I feel the pull to oblige, but think it best that Alicia find her own strength, her own voice, her own answers. Her mother was overly protective and although both parents pushed Alicia to succeed, there was the contrary message that she stay close to the protection of home.

“I will help you, but I can’t tell you how you feel.”

“All right. All right. Be that way.” She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me.

I remain silent, but present in the room with her.

“Well now I feel angry. A little. No, not really. I know you can’t tell me what I feel. The problem is that I don’t know what I feel myself.” She pauses. “Scared. I feel scared. I feel scared if I think about your dying. And it’s not like I imagine your dying in some gruesome accident. I just think what if you got sick and died? I mean I know you’re not old. But you’re not young either. Would I even know if you were sick? And how would I know if you died? I wouldn’t want to read it online somewhere.” 

“Do you have any thoughts about what triggered your fears of my dying?” When I look in the mirror I certainly know I’m not getting younger, but I suspect Alicia’s fears have more to do with what’s going on for her internally than with my actual age. 

“I just thought of something. My father’s been talking to me about graduate school. I keep telling him I’m not ready, that I still haven’t finished undergrad, that I have to take one step at a time. I can’t think about graduate school. It scares me. It was after that I started worrying about your dying.”

“So talking about graduate school means growing up, leaving home and that brings up fears about loss, including the loss of me.”

“You didn’t have to put it that bluntly. Now I’m terrified.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to increase your anxiety, but we do need to know what the issue is before we can work on it.”

“I could never leave you! I’m not even sure I could leave my parents. Oh my God, what happens when they die?” 

“Alicia, let’s put the question of death to the side for a moment. What feels so scary about leaving home?”

“I can’t. I don’t think I could make it.”

“It feels as though you’d die?”

“It kind of does. But when you put it that way, I don’t know, that doesn’t really make sense.”

“So the idea of leaving home feels terrifying, feels like you couldn’t survive. But when you think about it rationally it’s not so clear what you’re afraid of.”

“Yeah. That’s right. That actually makes me feel a little better.”

“You know, Alicia, although leaving home does involve loss, it also involves gains: growth, independence, freedom. It’s about adding to your life, not just taking from it.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

“On the other hand, I don’t want us to ignore your underlying feelings, including your fear of my dying. I do hear that you feel terrified and we need to talk about those feelings again and again until you’re more sure of your adult competence and your ability to cope.”  

Memories

“I can’t understand,” says Jackie, tears trickling down her cheeks. “I thought it would be so wonderful to return home, to drive through Iowa on our way out west, to look at the old farmhouse, to show my kids where Mom used to live. But it was awful. It was all broken down, dilapidated. Nothing’s the same. I remember the huge trees we used to climb when we were young. They’ve all been cut down.” 

Jackie pauses. “One thing’s for sure. Our work together has changed me. I didn’t go numb. I definitely felt my sadness.” 

I feel Jackie’s sadness as well. And my own. Although I have no attachment to my childhood New York apartment, the home I lived in on a small lake outside of Ann Arbor, Michigan during my 30s and 40s was my idea of nirvana. Leaving that home was gut-wrenching for me; seeing it again was worse. I felt as though both the house and the landscape had been defiled. The atrium had been ripped out, replaced by a slab of wood covered by a carpet and a piano. And my beautiful weeping cherry tree was no more. I couldn’t stop crying. And that was when my husband was still alive. Now when I return to the Ann Arbor area I can barely tolerate driving by the highway exit to what was once my home.

“But it is a bit silly,” Jackie continues. “I hadn’t been home for over 30 years. What did I expect? It’s not like my family’s there anymore. In fact, my Mom and sister are right here in Florida. Why isn’t this home?”  

The question of where’s home. “Well, why isn’t it?”

“It is home. My kids were born here. I feel as though I’ve lived here forever. And, as I said, most of my family is here. And when I talk about Florida right here, right now it does feel like home.”

“And your sadness lifts.”

“Yes, that’s true. But when I think about standing in front of that old farmhouse I feel lost.”

“’Lost.’ That’s a good word. Sounds like you’re saying that you lost your past, lost your home, lost your foundation. As if you were untethered, floating in space.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“And when you think about being here in Florida, about your life being here, you feel reconnected. This is home.”

“Yes. Right.” Jackie pauses. “It feels weird though. Like I’m split. If I think of being here, I feel fine. If I think of being there, I’m overcome with sadness.”

I feel shrouded with sadness myself and worry that my sadness makes me less able to be helpful to Jackie. Our stories aren’t the same. She does feel a sense of home in Florida, she does experience a sense of connection. I try to get outside myself and focus on Jackie’s feelings. 

“What about if you think of your childhood memories of that home, of, for example, climbing the trees, playing in the yard?”

“Well, right now it just feels sad. All I feel is the absence. There are no more trees to climb. But I think before I went back to Iowa it used to make me happy to remember. Not that everything in my childhood was so great, but still, I remembered the good times and it made me smile.”

“Perhaps as the memory of your present visit fades, those positive childhood feelings with come back.”

Jackie frowns slightly. “This seems like an odd conversation we’re having. It’s almost like we’ve switched places. I’m the one who’s feeling my sadness and you’re the one who’s trying to get me to stop feeling it.” 

I immediately realize the truth of Jackie’s statement. It’s as if the sadness was too much for me, not too much for Jackie; as if I wanted to escape my own sadness, not that Jackie needed to flee hers. “You’re absolutely right, Jackie. I apologize. You were feeling your sadness and doing fine with it.”

“Did you think it would be too much for me? That I’d start going numb again?”

“No, Jackie, I didn’t. Truthfully, this was more about me than about you. I think I’m the one who wanted to get away from my own sadness, so I was thinking I was being helpful by trying to get you away from yours.”

“Wow! I’m sorry I made you sad.”

“You didn’t make me sad, Jackie. We all carry sadness inside us. And when it comes to the surface we need to do just what you’re doing, feel it and feel it until you don’t feel it any more. It’s part of living life.”   

No Sadness

“I saw the stupidest movie this past weekend, ‘Inside Out,’’ says Stu, a patient who came into therapy at his wife’s insistence. “It’s supposed to be a kid’s movie so we took my five year old son. He thought some of it was funny, but I thought it was just dumb. These ridiculous Feelings running around in the brain controlling this girl, Riley I think her name was. Even her name. What kind of name is Riley? Anyway, of course my wife loved it and we got into a huge argument over the stupid thing.”

I loved the movie too, seeing it as an incredibly clever animated film that captured the need for humans to integrate all of their feelings in order to avoid becoming removed from themselves and others. I am not, however, surprised by Stu’s aversion to the movie. I remain silent.

“She just got so upset that I didn’t, as she said, ‘get’ the movie. She saw that as the root of ‘our problems,’ by which she meant ‘my problems.’”

“Can I ask you what you didn’t like about the movie, Stu?”

“It was just dumb.”

“Maybe it would be helpful though if we could figure out what about the movie you thought was ‘dumb.’

“Did you see it?”

I suspected that Stu would ask this question and knew that I would answer. “Yes, I did.”

“You liked it. I can tell.”

“Yes, I liked the movie, but my opinion really doesn’t matter. What matters is that you didn’t like it and that you thought it was important enough to bring it up here.”

“That’s because Brenda and I got into this big thing about it.”

“Okay. So can we look at what you thought was dumb about the movie?”

“It was just silly. All those Feeling characters running around telling the girl how to feel and making her act one way or another.”

“Was there a particular Feeling character you liked more than the others or one you disliked more?”

“Yeah. I hated that fat, blue Sadness, always moping around, seeing the worst in everything, having to be dragged around by Joy. But Joy was kind of stupid too, constantly seeing the world through rose-colored glasses. I didn’t like Fear because he was too much of a nerd and Disgust didn’t make any sense to me. So I guess I liked Anger the best, at least he was willing to do something.”

Stu has beautifully captured his own personality in his reaction to the various Feeling characters. But I need to be cautious in my response so that I don’t further heighten his defensiveness.

After a brief pause I say, “Anger was very helpful when he burned a hole in the glass and allowed Joy and Sadness back into the control tower to help Riley. That struck me as a good illustration of how anger or assertion can be used to motivate a person to take necessary action, to impel them forward in life. It’s one of the things you’ve definitely been able to do, use your aggression to become a successful businessman.”

“I didn’t think of that, but yeah, that makes sense,” Stu replies more thoughtfully than he’s been all session.

“But Anger could also have gotten Riley in lots of trouble,” I continue.

“You mean when she starts to run away?”

I nod. “And when she starts to run away, did you notice how she was shutting down? To leave, she has to remove herself from her feelings, to not care, for example, that she’s leaving her parents.”

“I get what you’re saying. Anger alone can spell trouble.” 

“Yes. And you notice what Joy does when she and Sadness get back in the control tower, she has Sadness take over. Riley needs to get back in touch with her sadness in order to feel that she’ll miss her parents, that she doesn’t want to leave them.”

“Good point.” Pause. “I guess the movie was deeper than I thought.”

Now that Stu seems less defensive, I’m comfortable being more direct. “Sadness – or fear for that matter – aren’t emotions you’re comfortable with. They make you feel vulnerable, weak. But unless you can feel the whole range of emotions, it’s hard to live a full life, with meaningful connections to others. You notice in the movie, it’s also Sadness who’s the most empathic character.”  

“Are you saying I have no empathy?” Stu asks, more harshly.

“I think you’re starting to put Anger back up, Stu, because even thinking about feeling sad or scared is in itself pretty scary.”

“Maybe,” he says. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Okay,” I reply, as the hour ends. Stu and I still have lots of work to do.