The March

“I finally went to dinner at my parent’s,” 19 year old Bethany says dejectedly. “It was pretty bad. They just won’t let up. ‘I can’t believe you lied to us, going to the Women’s March on Washington without even telling us. If we hadn’t called and talked to your roommate we would never have known. What if something had happened to you? We didn’t even know you were gone.’ Blah, blah, blah. As if that was the issue. I bet if I went to the Trump Inaugural they would have been thrilled – even if I hadn’t told them. It’s such bullshit. They did do a bit of, ‘How could you be our child and believe those people have a right to marry.’ Or, ‘Didn’t we teach you that every life is sacred, especially the unborn, those most vulnerable?’ I thought I’d puke. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.” Pause. “I suppose you’re thinking, ‘I told you you should have told them.’”

“I don’t remember telling you you should have told them,” I say, surprised.

“You asked me why I didn’t tell them, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but that was a question meant to help you look at why you do or don’t do whatever.”

“Well, the answer’s pretty obvious. If I tell them I get all this shit. Just like I did.”

“And what did you say when you got all this shit?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yeah. What am I going to say? You can’t argue with them. I just sit there, trying to tune them out, hoping they’ll stop sooner than later.”

“And why do you feel you can’t argue with them?”

She raises her eyebrows and snorts. “I don’t mean to be nasty, but how long has it been since you were 19?”

I smile inwardly. Although it’s been quite a while since I was 19, I do clearly remember the arguments I had with my parents, most especially my father. Not about politics. There are values were pretty similar, but often about psychology and science. My father was angry, dogmatic and unrelenting. For years, I argued and argued with him about dreams, about the cause of mental illness, about the unconscious, until I finally gave up. Then I was like Bethany, sitting at the table saying nothing, hoping he’d stop sooner than later. On the other hand, I never, ever stopped battling my father’s vicious temper, trying to put a clear limit how he could treat me. I bring myself back to my patient. “I get that it can be difficult to argue with your parents when you’re 19, but I’d like to understand specifically why YOU can’t argue with your parents, even at 19.”

She sighs. “First, they have the money. If they get mad enough, there goes college, plus whatever else.”

“Would they do that? They sound pretty determined for you to get an education, pretty invested in it.”

“They are.” Pause. “Especially my Dad. But sometimes I think my Mom believes I’m being corrupted by college, too liberal you know. And, I don’t know. This may sound weird, but I’m not sure that my Mom really wants me to succeed, like maybe she’s jealous or something. Like she never went to college, so why should I.”

“So are you saying you’re afraid your mother might undermine you?”

“I never thought of it that way, but I guess so. If I gave her any ammunition. Like the Women’s March.”

She pauses.

“I need to ask you something. What did you think about the Women’s March?”

“I’ll answer that in a minute, Bethany, but first I want to ask you something. Why did you ask that question right at this moment?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it and just felt I had to ask.”

“Well, I have a thought as to why you had to ask right then. You were talking about your mother feeling threatening, dangerous and I wonder if you suddenly felt I might be dangerous too and had to check that out.”

“Are you?” she says quietly.

“No, Bethany, I’m not dangerous.” I could tell Bethany I was at the Women’s March too, but decide that might too greatly diminish the tension around the issue of whether difference between two people, perhaps especially two women, is inherently dangerous. “I suspect that our politics might be pretty similar, but even if it wasn’t, I’d still be on your side, still wanting you to have your own voice and make your own way in the world.”

How Grown Up Am I?

“My house feels like a morgue,” 20 year old Chelsea says looking down at her hands. “I guess that’s a poor choice of words, since it sort of is, but not exactly. I mean, I’m not happy I had to have an abortion, but I also don’t think it will be the greatest tragedy of my life. And truthfully, I don’t think it’s the abortion that my parents are so upset about. They don’t like the idea that their ‘little girl’ was having sex. It’s not like I’m 14. And Brad and I have been going together for two years. He was pretty upset too. I think he feels guilty that he didn’t use a condom 100% of the time.”

I have been seeing Chelsea for several years now, watching her struggle between wanting to remain the child who is forever taken care of by her parents and striving towards adulthood with her own dreams and desires. We have a close bond although, not surprisingly, her internal struggle is often replayed with me in the consulting room.

“What are you going to use for birth control in the future?” I ask.

“We’re not. We’re not going to have sex.”

I knit my brows, puzzled and skeptical. “You mean you’re not going to have sex until you give yourself some time after the abortion?”

“No. We’re not going to have sex. Or at least not intercourse. Maybe we’ll fool around a little, maybe not.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Why, what?”

“Why did you decide not to have sex? Do you feel more guilty about the abortion than you’re saying? Is it a way to punish yourself?”

“No! For heaven’s sake, I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about it. You sound like my parents!”

“In what way?”

“In making such a big deal about sex.”

“Wait. I’m getting confused. I thought your parents were making a big deal about your having sex. I’m questioning your saying that you’re not going to have sex.”

“You mean you don’t believe me? You don’t think I can give up sex?” Chelsea says angrily.

“I’m trying to understand why you’d want to give up sex.”

“Because I don’t want to risk getting pregnant again. That seems pretty simple.”

“I hear you’re angry with me but I’m not clear why.”

“Everyone thinks I’m doing something wrong and you’re just like everyone else,” Chelsea says, her voice cracking. “If I say I’m not going to have sex, I’m not going to have sex! End of discussion.”

“And how does Brad feel about that?”

Chelsea crosses her arms in front of her chest and glares at me. “Why should I care how Brad feels?”

Aware I’m feeling more and more confused, I suspect my feelings mirror Chelsea’s own confusion. “Chelsea, tell me what’s going on. What’s going on inside of you? What has you so distressed?”

“Brad wanted me to have the baby. He said we should get married, that we were old enough, that we could both work and go to school and take care of the baby.” She pauses. Tears fall silently from her eyes. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I’m not ready. I don’t want to be responsible for another person. I don’t want to leave my parent’s house and go off on my own. It’s way too scary. Brad’s really mad at me. I’m not even sure we’ll stay together.”

“I’m sorry, Chelsea. It’s like your parents are mad at you for being too adult and Brad’s mad at you for not being adult enough and each side represents your own conflict about how grown up you feel or want to be.”

“Yeah, that’s right. That’s exactly right.”

“And does my asking you about birth control feel like I’m pushing you towards the adult side?”

“I guess. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose it does.” She pauses. “So what about my deciding not to have sex? Is that my going towards the child side?”

“What do you think?” I ask, aware that my not answering her question could also be construed as my pushing her to be more adult.

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” she sighs. “But is that so bad? Can’t I take a little break here?”

“You can, but none of us can stop time. We keep growing older whether we like it or not, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have conflicting feelings about growing up and it also doesn’t mean you have to push yourself to act or be more grown up than you feel.”

“Thanks. You gave me a lot to think about.”

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.”