Wanting to Flee

Trevor sits quietly in the chair across from me. After a few moments he says, “It was an okay week. Nothing special happened.”

I wait. There is silence. I’m puzzled. I have seen 26 year old Trevor for many years. I might even say I helped him grow up. When he first came to me he described himself as shy. During those years long silences were commonplace. But as he moved away from his fear and self-loathing he’s been far more engaged with me and, to a lesser extent, with the world outside my office. He acknowledged his gayness and was able to come out to his family and some of his friends. He’s still never been in a love relationship, a problem that we’ve been working on. But today his silence confuses me.

“Is something going on, Trevor?” I ask. “You seem particularly quiet, uncomfortable.”

He shakes his head and looks away from me.

I wait. I think about our last session. Did something happen that distressed him? We’d been talking about Thanksgiving with his family, but that had seemed to go fairly well despite his father’s usual blustering. Was there some tension between us? Nothing that comes to me. Don’t be impatient, I tell myself, just sit with him.

After a while he says, “I’ve been thinking maybe I should cut back to once a week. I’m doing pretty well and, like today, I don’t have much to say.”

I’m stunned. In all the years, Trevor has never asked to come less frequently and, in fact, has often asked for additional sessions. Something must have happened between us.

“Trevor, you need to tell me what’s going on. Did I say something last session that distressed you?”

“Why does something have to be wrong? Why can’t I just want to cut back?”

“Because you know as well as I do that there’s always a reason – usually more than one – for everything we do.”     

He sighs. “Why did that psychiatrist retire?”

“What psychiatrist?”

“The one next door.”

The light dawns. He asked me last time what had happened to my neighbor. When I told him he retired, he obviously became fearful that I might follow a similar path. “He retired because he wanted to travel, have more time to himself, pursue other interests. And, no, I have no plans to retire, ever. I love what I do and as long as my mind is still with me I plan to stay right where I am.”

“And why is the sign on your door different? What happened to the other therapists? The ones who’d worked here? Did they retire too?”

Now we’re in more difficult territory. I’ve been surprised by how few patients have asked me about the change of signage on the front door. “No, Trevor, they died.”

His already pale skin blanches further.

“Okay,” I say in a calm voice. “I understand that you’re frightened of losing me. First you were afraid I might retire and now you’re afraid that I’ll die. And of course I can’t make guarantees about my dying, but it’s certainly my hope to stick around for a long time.”

“I have to cut back to once a week. I have to become less dependent on you. Right now if something happened to you I don’t think I’d survive.”

“Trevor, the idea is that our work together will help you to be able to be more and more engaged with people other than me, but we can’t accomplish that by your cutting the frequency of your sessions. You’ve been doing very well lately, going out to lunch with people, meeting friends for dinner and a movie …”

“But that’s because of you!” he says. “I wouldn’t be able to do that without you.”

“Then we’ll have to understand why you feel you can’t do those things without me and help you to feel more comfortable being in the world.”

“Did they know they were going to die?”

Loathe to provide too many details, I say, “Yes, they both knew they were ill.”  

“So they could tell their patients?”

“Yes, their patients knew they were ill.”

Trevor starts to cry. “I couldn’t stand it! I couldn’t stand it if you died! I couldn’t watch you die.”

“I understand, Trevor, but I’m not ill and I’m not planning to die any time soon. Obviously none of us know when we’re going to die and it’s always sad to lose someone we love, but what we need to do is focus on helping you to be fully in the world, to embrace life and enjoy it.”

“Can we talk about this again next week?”

“Of course. I’ll see you Monday.”

Truth Revealed

Mrs. Cortez settles herself uncomfortably in the chair across from me, fidgeting nervously with her fingers. “I never expected to be in a therapist’s office,” she says. “Especially not for this.”

I smile at her. “Take your time. I can see you’re anxious,” I say reassuringly.

She sighs deeply. “My husband and I came from Mexico a long time ago. We wanted to have children in a place where they’d have more opportunity. We’ve done well. I’m the office manager of a large cardiologists’ office, my husband drives for FedEx. My daughter graduated from college. My son’s in college now.” She looks down at her hands. “It’s about my son,” she says, barely audible. “He…he told me he was gay.”

She glances up at me.

“It was after the Orlando killings, in the… the nightclub. He said he couldn’t stay silent. He couldn’t keep hiding who he was. He cried like a baby. I was shocked. I held him, told him I loved him, that I loved him whoever he was. But it’s so confusing to me. It’s against my religion. It’s against my culture. I know Pope Francis said who are we to judge and I’m trying not to, but it feels so unnatural to me. And he’s afraid to tell my husband, which I understand. But now I have this secret from my husband and I don’t like that either.”

“I can see how much pain you’re in, Mrs. Cortez.”

“Please call me Daniella. I just told you the biggest secret of my life, Mrs. Cortez is much too formal.”

“Of course, Daniella,” I respond. I like this woman. Although we come from vastly different backgrounds with vastly different values, I appreciate both her pain and her conflict. From a place of love, she’s struggling to take in a new reality, to expand her view of what’s acceptable, to integrate her new information about her son – her gay son – with who she always understood him to be.

“I know it’s hard,” I say, “But your son isn’t a different person from who he was before he told you he was gay.”

“It feels like he is. I look at him and I wonder…” Pause. “I imagine… I wonder who he’s been with and how. It kind of makes me sick. My son? How could my son kiss another man? Could he put another man’s… No, I can’t say it. I can’t even think it.” Pause. “I haven’t been to church since he told me.”

“Because?”

“I have all these impure thoughts, all these images. If I go to confession, what will I say? I don’t want to tell the priest.”

“I thought you said Pope Francis said who are we to judge.”

“That’s Pope Francis. Not all priests are like that.”

“So you’re afraid the priest will condemn your son, just like you’re afraid your husband will.”

“Yes. If I’m having all these problems, my husband is so much more traditional. And he’s a man. I know what men say about gays. All those jokes. And that’s something else. I worry about my son. He’ll have such a harder life. And Mexicans aren’t having such an easy time in this country right now. Then you add being gay. I’m scared for him.”

“Daniella, this may seem like an odd question, but can you say what you are hoping to get from therapy?

“I needed to tell somebody. It’s been such a burden.” Pause. “And I guess I want you to help me accept my son.” She cries silently. “He’s a good boy. I love him. I keep wishing this was a dream. That it will go away. But I know it won’t. I know I won’t change him. I want to accept him. And I want to figure out how to tell my husband.”

“Do you feel ashamed that your son is gay, Daniella?” I ask.

She nods. “I know you’re supposed to be born that way. But I keep wondering if it was something I did, something my husband did. Did I keep him too close, was my husband too strict?”

“There are no answers to those questions. But I wonder if we can understand how shame came to play such an important role in your life.”

She looks down. “I’ve always felt ashamed. Ashamed of my background, my poverty, my alcoholic father. Ashamed of being different, of not being born in this country. I always wanted to fit in. And now there’s my son. Another difference – for him and for me.”

“So hopefully as we talk about these issues and you find more peace, you’ll also be able to be more accepting of your son.”     

Mix and Match

“I’m so glad to be back here, back at college, back where I don’t feel like such a freak,” Adam says relaxing into the chair. “I knew the summer would be rough, but I had no idea how rough. In Boca Raton I might get stared at for being black and yes sometimes I have to laugh to myself when I walk along the street and see these little old white ladies make sure their car doors are locked, but being gay in Savannah, Georgia, now that’s tough! And add Alex into the mix and then my family and it’s pure hell.”  

“Alex was with you?” I ask confused.

“Yeah, I know, that wasn’t part of the plan. But we got lonely for each other. Figured he could find some kind of work as easy in Savannah as Baltimore.”

“But I thought you weren’t out to your parents.”

“I wasn’t. Past tense. Didn’t plan to come out when Alex came down either. But after a while my Mom started wondering how come I was so close to this white dude that he’d come for a visit and then sort of move in. Besides, I’m sure we were giving off these vibes. Hard for us to keep our hands off each other. Not that we were having sex in my parent’s house. I wouldn’t be that stupid.

“Anyway, she flipped out. Said she didn’t care if it was legal in the courts. She knew God didn’t consider it right. And of course she told my Pop and then all hell broke loose. By brother freaked too. I think he’s afraid it’s contagious. Pop pretty much didn’t talk to me the whole summer. And Alex had to move out. A friend of mine let him stay at his house for next to no money, so that worked out okay.” 

“You know, Adam, I wonder if you didn’t want to come out to your parents.”

“You mean because I had Alex come down?”

“Yeah. As you said. He’s white, you could hardly keep your hands off each other and you couldn’t help giving off sexual vibes.”

Adam frowns and stares at me. “It wasn’t only sexual vibes. Loving vibes too.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’re asking if I made the usual assumption about gay men, that it’s all about sex.”

“Yeah. Were you?” 

“That’s hard for me to answer, Adam. I’d say that consciously, no, I wasn’t making that assumption, but unconsciously, it’s impossible for me to know. I also wonder if I would have made the same assumption about a heterosexual couple who was twenty years old.”

“I’m sorry. I know you’re not homophobic. I guess I’m just hypersensitive given all I’ve been through this summer.”

“Nothing to apologize for. There’s plenty of gay prejudice out there, just like there’s plenty of racial prejudice. I couldn’t swear I’m free of all of it. For that matter, we don’t know if you’re free of all of it. Hard not to take in society’s attitudes and end up feeling less yourself.”  

“You know, maybe that’s another reason I wanted Alex to come down. Even though I wasn’t out to my parents, I could see how people looked at me, my “brothers.” I could feel the contempt. Maybe I started feeling less than. Maybe I wanted someone who I knew loved me to be with me.”

“That’s a really good point, Adam. And maybe that’s another reason you wanted to come out to your parents. Maybe you hoped they’d love you enough to accept you even if you’re gay.”

“It’s not that I think they don’t love me. Or at least I know my Mom does. I don’t know about my Dad. But I don’t know if I expected them to accept my gayness. It’s a lot to ask of black Christian folks from the south.”

“You know, Adam, I have very mixed feelings about what you just said. On the one hand, it’s very adult and reasonable for you to be able to step back and accept your parent’s prejudice given who they are as people and where they come from. But there’s another side. If you were born blind, or with one leg, or with a low IQ, would you feel it was all right if your parents couldn’t accept that about you or is your willingness to “understand” their rejecting your gayness, another example of how a part of you still rejects your gayness yourself?”

“Wow! That’s heavy! I’ll have to think about that.” Adam smiles. “I love being here, doc. You always get me to think about things in different ways. As I said, I’m real glad to be back.”