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.”   

The New Year – Part II

As I open the door, I am surprised to see a smiling Heather waiting for me. Quite a change from just three days ago, I think.

Once comfortably seated in the chair across from me, she says, “Not the person you expected to see today, right? Rob and I got back together.”

“How did that happen?” I ask, while silently thinking, oh no.

“He called. Said he made a mistake and wanted us to be together. Turned out that Brad was actually living with another man and Rob decided he couldn’t deal with the free-wheeling gay lifestyle.”   

I struggle with whether to remain silent or share my concern. While deliberating, Heather says, “You don’t approve.”

“It’s not a question of approval, Heather. I just wonder why you were so quick to take him back. He told you he wasn’t in love with you and you certainly know that you can’t choose who you’re attracted to.”

“We had great sex after the breakup. I remembered what you and I talked about and tried to be more aggressive. It was terrific. We didn’t tie each other up, but I tried to do more to him, like … umm …. doing oral sex and … I’m not sure I can say this …”

Silence.

“Like putting my finger up his ass. I thought I’d be grossed out, but it was okay.”

“So you’re saying that you tried to be what you consider more masculine.”

“I guess.”

“It’s like what you said last time, you thought if you could be more of a man you’d be good enough.”

“Why are you trying to take this away from me?” Heather asks plaintively. “I was so miserable; I felt so shitty. And you can see how much better I feel.”

“I know that breakups are horribly painful, but it seems to me that you’ve put yourself in the position to be hurt all over again. If Rob is gay, he’s going to find another man he’s attracted to and …”

“No, he told me he wouldn’t.”

“Okay,” I say, asking myself why I am pushing Heather so hard. Why am I trying to protect her, rather than looking at the underlying dynamics that have led Heather to return to this relationship? Am I re-enacting something in her family dynamics? Something in my own?  

Backing off I say, “What do you feel would be helpful for you today?”

“Oh!” she says, obviously surprised. “I don’t know.” Pause. “You just stopped. You didn’t keep badgering me. My mother never did that. She didn’t talk to me much, but when she did she was always trying to convince me to do what she thought I should, even if it made no sense.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“I want to stay with Rob, see what happens, and try to be more assertive.”

I think of all the rejoinders to her comment, but decide that confronting her directly will only feel like her old arguments with her mother. “And what would you like me to do?” I ask.

“Hmm. I’d like you to help me be more assertive.”

“So perhaps you’re being assertive right now, by telling me what you want me to do.”

“I guess, but it’s easy with women. Like I pretty much did what I wanted regardless of what my mother said. But with my father, there was no way. I toed his line.”

“So we’re talking about the power your father had and how being male was prized in your family.”

“Oh yeah.”

“And last week you talked about not feeling good enough to keep a man because you weren’t male enough.”    

“Yeah, weird as that is.” Pause. “So I guess I’m saying that I’m going to try to be more male.” Pause. “I guess that’s okay.” Pause. “What do you think?”

“It depends how much you’re twisting yourself into someone you’re not, vs. how it flows naturally.”

“It doesn’t flow naturally.”

Silence.

“So are you saying there’s no hope?”

“Depends what you’re hoping for. If you feel you to need to be a man, there’s certainly no hope for that. If you’re talking about keeping Rob, I’m dubious – although I could be wrong – because I think it’s about him, not you. But there’s certainly hope that you can give up feeling your womanness is inadequate and feel that you’re more than enough for a man.”

“Right now I just want to make it work with Rob.”

“I hear you. And I’ll be with you in any way I can.”

Return

Emma is uncharacteristically late for her first session after my vacation. Usually a psychologically aware woman, she has now spent 20 minutes talking about the plans for her daughter’s high school graduation party, chatting about the guest list and the menu.

I interrupt her. “How did you feel coming today?” I ask.

“Oh,” she says. “Well, I didn’t want to come. I did very well in your absence. In fact, I was thinking that this should be our last session.”

I groan inwardly. I have seen Emma for four years and there is no question she has come a long way – more able to stand up for herself, more self-confident, less intimidated by her husband. But she is a patient who has been in therapy with several therapists over the years, a patient who knows that her more long-standing issues of desire for and fear of intimacy remain stubbornly unchanged. In fact, she is enacting that issue at this moment – feeling abandoned during my vacation she has closed off the needy part of herself and now seeks to reject me just as she felt rejected.

And, it’s worked. I do feel rejected. I feel hurt that she should want to leave me, hurt that she could discard me so easily after the relationship we’ve built up over time. And whose feelings are these?  Always a complicated question. Yes, I do believe that she is rejecting me just as she felt rejected by me and, earlier in her life, by a too-busy, self-involved mother. But I have my feelings too. I do go on vacation. I do have my own life. But my patients matter to me. I care about them. Besides, I don’t like good-byes. 

“So why do you think you would decide this today?” I ask.

“I told you. I did very well in your absence.”

“I’m sure you did. You’ve never been someone who can’t function without me. But you know yourself well enough to question what affect my vacation would have had on this sudden decision.”

“I knew you’d bring that up,” she says, sighing theatrically.

I remain silent.

“What?” she says.

I gesture with my hand for her to continue.

“Why is it that everything I do gets to be analyzed while nothing you do gets put on the table?”

Surprised by her question, I ask, “What don’t I put on the table?”

“Like how do you just get to go on vacation, entirely arbitrarily? You get to decide when you go, for how long, and regardless of what’s happening in my life or any of your patients’. You’ve always telling me I cut myself off from my feelings, well it seems you’d have to cut yourself from your feelings as well.”

Alternate responses flit through my mind. I could pursue her anger which is quite apparent and might well be fruitful. But I worry she would experience that as evasive and defensive. Or I could respond directly to the issue she raised.

“You make a good point, Emma,” I say thoughtfully. “I am the one who arbitrarily decides when I go on vacation and I do put my patients’ lives aside during that time – I put your life aside, just as you often experienced your mother doing. But it doesn’t mean I stop caring about you and it certainly doesn’t mean I feel closed off to you when I return. Quite the contrary, I’m eager to hear about you and what’s been going on in your life and in your mind. And just as you feel hurt and discarded when I go on vacation, I feel hurt and discarded when you announce that you’re unilaterally going to end our four year relationship in one session.”

“You do?” Emma asks incredulously.

“I’m sorry that surprise you so much, Emma. It’s so hard for you to take in my caring. I suspect you’re afraid that if you acknowledge you’re loveable, you’d have to give up hope that your mother would ever love you as you needed and wanted to be loved.”       

Emma’s eyes fill with tears. “This might sound silly, but right that moment when you said that, I felt my heart melt, like something opened in me; something opened, but something made me very sad too.”

“So maybe right at that moment you did feel my caring, but also felt the sadness of your mother’s inability to cherish you as the loveable child you were and are.”

Lost and Perhaps Found

I’ve been working with Marvin, a 72 year old depressed widower for nine months. His sessions – like his life - are boring and repetitive. He refuses to discuss the past – says he’s too old for that – and complains bitterly about the emptiness in his life. “Nothing’s better,” he says today. “I still sit alone in my apartment staring at the beautiful weather and wondering why I can’t get myself out there, even to take a walk. There’s no place to go. I’m just lost. When Esther was around, even if we did fight all the time, at least there was someone there. Now there’s nothing.”

I ask myself, not for the first time, why I don’t feel more empathy for this man. After all, I too am a widow. I know the pain of loss, the feeling of aloneness. It’s his passivity that I find difficult. I want to shake him, tell him to find some hobby, some activity, a friend, a girl-friend. But I do none of that, knowing full well that he would find reason to rebuff any suggestion I might make. Today, I take a different track.

“How do you feel about coming here?” I ask.

“I come,” he says, averting his eyes.

Although his answer is the typical passive, uninvolved response, I sense a certain discomfort and wonder if more is going on than he’s saying.

“But how do you feel about coming?” I ask again, more persistently.

“What do you mean?” he says, even more flustered.

“How does it feel for you to come here?” I repeat. “To see me?”

“I…I don’t know,” he says, squirming in the chair.

I remain silent.

“Maybe I shouldn’t come. Is that what you’re telling me?” he says petulantly.

“I didn’t hear myself say that.” 

He sighs. “Everyone gets tired of me. Even my children tell me if I don’t stop complaining they won’t call any more. Not that they call that much.” He pauses. “You think I complain too much, don’t you?” 

“Well,” I say, trying to be diplomatic, “I understand you’re feeling miserable and unhappy and wanting to talk about your feelings. But you don’t really talk about your feelings. Instead you present as a forlorn, helpless person stuck in your misery. Yes, Esther died and you’re alone and you can’t bring her back. But you can try, ever so slowly to make a life for yourself.”

“I love you,” he blurts out.

I’m stunned. And speechless. I flash on the story a well-known psychoanalyst, Dr. Glen Gabbard, told about himself when he was first starting out in the field. When a female patient told him she loved him, he responded first by saying, “No you don’t” and then by trying to convince her that what she felt was not “real” love, but transference from earlier loved figures in her life. I knew what not to do. What to do was more difficult.

“I’m flattered…” I say.

He interrupts, more animated than I’ve ever seen him. “You mean you love me too?” he asks hopefully.

Oh dear, I think. “I’m flattered that you think that much of me,” I continue. “And I’m really glad you’re able to feel so alive.”

“You don’t love me,” he says, immediately deflated.

“I care about you, but I don’t love you as you want and need to be loved.”

“Nobody ever loved me,” he says. “What a fool to think someone like you could love me.”

“I don’t think you’re a fool at all. I’m glad you’re able to engage in life sufficiently to feel love for me. Now we have to help you find someone who can love you back.”

He shakes his head. “That’s impossible. No one ever loved me, no one ever will.”

“I would really like to understand why you feel so unlovable.”

“Why don’t you love me?” he asks challengingly. 

“I’m impressed,” I say truthfully. “You can be assertive when you want to be. But by looking to me for love, which I suspect you know wouldn’t be appropriate, I’d guess that you tend to look for love from people who can’t love you back, probably like the people who couldn’t love you in the past.”

Marvin slumps further down in the chair.

“You know,” I say, “now that I know you can have that spark, I’m going to be more insistent that you engage with me in therapy. We need to talk about the past. We need to talk about how you feel right this minute. We need to reintroduce you to life or perhaps introduce you to life for the first time.”

“You think that’s possible?” he asks.

“I detected a bit a hope in that question. I say we go with that hope.”

Why Can’t I Leave?

“I’m such a mess,” Janette says. “And a coward. I hate myself. He does it again and again and I do nothing. I couldn’t believe it when I asked him last week where our tax returns were and he said he asked our accountant for an extension. My stomach dropped through the floor. He tried playing innocent, like he just didn’t have the time to get all the paperwork together and our tax guy was swamped anyway, etc., etc. But I knew better. I was so mad I started hitting him with my fists. He kept trying to worm out of it, but he knew I knew.

“So then he got all apologetic. Sorry! As if that could fix everything! I’m so mad. He goes to his Gamblers Anonymous meetings, he has a sponsor – supposedly anyway – but he keeps betting on those damn games and losing more and more of our money. It’s our money I remind him, but I’m just talking to myself. I know, he’s an addict, but that’s not an explanation. Besides, it doesn’t matter anymore why he does what he does, the problem is that I stay.”

I remain silent. Janette and I have been here many times and she indeed knows the problem.

She sighs. “I know, I’m reliving my childhood, my father an alcoholic, my mother a gambler. You would have thought I’d know better, but here I am, stuck in it all over again. I do hate myself. I’m furious at Joe, but I despise myself for my inability to get out. I know, I should feel more compassion for myself – that’s what you always say – but how can I feel compassionate when I’m so stupid.”

I feel Janette’s frustration, as well as my own, not so much at her inability to leave her husband, but at her unmerciless attacks on herself. “I doubt it’s that you’re stupid, Janette, but rather that you can’t give up hope. When you started this session you said you couldn’t believe it when you realized Joe had been gambling again. I think you couldn’t believe it because you keep hoping Joe will change, just as you hoped that your mother would change and your father would change.”

“Well,” Janette, asks defiantly, “Isn’t that proof that I’m stupid. If you keep hitting your head on the same brick wall, hoping that it will stop hurting, you must be stupid.”  

Janette’s response intrigues me. “That’s an interesting response, you didn’t say hoping the wall would break, you said hoping it would stop hurting.”

“So, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure, but can you talk about your anger at me?”

“I’m just mad. Mad at me. Mad at Joe. Mad at you. We’ve been going round and round on this for a long time, and I’m still here.”

I wonder whether the “here” means with me or with Joe, but I ask, “How does it feel to feel mad at me?”

“Pointless. Just as it feels with Joe. You’re not going to change.”

“How would you like me to change?”

“Tell me how to get out of this damn marriage.”

The response that goes through my head – hire an attorney, file for divorce and don’t go back – shows me I’m more annoyed than I realize. “And if I can’t tell you how to get out of your damn marriage, what do you feel?”

“Angry.”

“I believe that you’re angry, but I wonder if you also feel scared and powerless?”

“I’m scared that he’s going to go through all our money. But I’m not powerless. All I have to do is be brave enough to leave.”   

“What about when you were a child, Janette, when your father was drinking and your mother had gambled away your school lunch money?”

Her eyes fill with tears. “Why’d you have to bring that up?” She pauses. “Yeah, I was powerless then and I hated it. But if I started “sniveling” – that’s what my father called it – he’d just start screaming at me for being such a baby.”

“So that’s what you’re doing, Janette, you’re screaming at yourself just like your father screamed at you. And you keep hoping, not only that Joe and your parents will change, but that you can endure their repeated disappointments without feeling any pain. It’s an impossible task. But if you can acknowledge your own powerlessness and mourn both the husband and the parents you never had, you’ll be more able to make the break.”

“Doesn’t sound easy.”

“No, it’s not. Definitely not easy.”

Parallel Process

“Roberta keeps saying that she has no life, that the only thing she does is run in circles doing her mother’s biding and that no matter what she does it’s never good enough for her mother anyway.”

So begins Dr. Kaitlyn Rose’s supervisory session. She is a 32 year old psychologist, licensed for two years, and struggling to establish a private practice. Like many young professionals she has discovered that her formal graduate school training, including her internship, has not adequately prepared her to deal with real patients in the real world. Recognizing that she could benefit from the expertise of a more seasoned professional and having heard me present at a seminar, she asked if I would supervise her. I readily agreed, both admiring her awareness of her own limitations and appreciating the chance to impact the clinical skills of a new generation of therapists.   

Dr. Rose continues: “I keep asking Roberta why she tries so hard when she knows that her mother will never be satisfied, but she just shrugs and tells me she has no choice. Besides, she says, she has nothing better to do anyway. So then we start talking about how she spends her days and how empty her life is and how come she never got married, and so on and so forth.”

“So how do you feel as you tell me this Kaitlyn or as you listen to Roberta?”

“Frustrated. I feel frustrated. I can’t do anything to help her.”

I smile. “Interesting, isn’t it, that you feel the same way in relation to Roberta as she feels towards her mother. Nothing you do can help; nothing is good enough. It’s a parallel process, you’re enacting the same experience with Roberta as she’s enacting with her mother.”

“That’s true,” Kaitlyn replies pensively. “I never thought of that.” She pauses. “But I have to do something!” she exclaims.

“Because…?” I ask, provocatively.

“Because that’s what therapists do, we help.”

“So you have no choice but to try and help, again, just like Roberta has no choice but to try and help her mother. Let me ask you this, why do you think Roberta keeps trying so hard with her mother?”

“I don’t know. She won’t tell me.”

“But what’s your guess?”

“I have no idea.”

I feel my own level of frustration rise. Is this yet another parallel process, my enacting with my supervisee what she enacts with her patient which the patient enacts with her mother? A never-ending series of mirrors that enables me to feel the frustration and powerlessness of desperately wanting to make someone different.  “Let me ask you this, Kaitlyn, why did you want to become a therapist?”

“So I could help people.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s true, but why do you think it was important for you to help people?”

Kaitlyn blushes and averts her eyes. “I…I… My mother was very depressed. I know it’s childish but I think I believed if I became a psychologist I could help her.”

“No, Kaitlyn, it’s not at all childish. I don’t mean to intrude into your personal life. That’s not my place here. I was just trying to show you that we all have complex reasons for everything we do and, as you just said, your need to help people, to change people, was fueled at least partially by your desire to change your mother. And I’d venture to guess and you don’t have to tell me if I’m right because, as I said, I’m not your therapist, I suspect you felt the need to change your depressed mother so that she could be more available to you, be the mother you needed and deserved as a child.”

Kaitlyn’s eyes fill with tears. 

“So now what might be your guess about why Roberta keeps trying and trying to please her mother?”

“I get it,” Kaitlyn says, nodding sadly. “She keeps trying because she keeps hoping that her mother will approve of her, love her, give her what she always wanted.”

“That’s really well put, Kaitlyn. Roberta and you and me and the rest of the world, we keep trying and trying to win with the parent or parents we lost with, hoping to win in the present that which we lost in the past, hoping against hope that we will finally feel like the loved, valued little child. And the process of giving up that hope is a long and painful one.”     

The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter

The pick for my book club last month was Carson McCullers’ The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. I had never read the book before. I am only thankful to have read it now.

This was Carson McCullers’ first novel. She was 23 years old

when she wrote it. Set in rural Georgia in the late 1930s, it brilliantly captures the conditions that existed in a poor mill town where ruin was just around the corner and everyone struggled to survive, whites marginally better off than “Negroes” who were forced to deal with constant humiliation and degradation.

The novel’s sociological portrayal is superb. But, as a psychologist, I prefer to focus on the five major characters and their interaction.

The pivotal character of the book is John Singer, a deaf mute, who all the other characters depend on to listen to them, hear them, and understand them, while projecting onto him all their needs and wishes. For me, John Singer is the book’s analyst. The reader knows Mister Singer to be an isolated, lonely person, whose only friend, Antonapoulos, is sent away to a mental hospital and even when he is present, Singer creates this friend to fill his needs, just as the other characters do to Mister Singer himself. Although it is never clear what Singer does understand, he is portrayed as a caring, generous human being.

Biff Brannon is the owner of the town’s café, a café he keeps open all-night to diminish his own loneliness and those of his possible patrons.  He is in a loveless marriage, but still grieves for his wife when she dies: “… when there is love, the widowed must stay, for the resurrection of the beloved – so that the one who has gone is not really dead, but grows and is created for a second time in the soul of the living …” There is no one who is a regular reader of these blogs or, even more so, of my book, Love and Loss, who would wonder why I vibrate to those words.

Jake Blount, an angry, misshapen drunk, who talks constantly of his Communist principles, is consumed by loneliness. His incessant talking and drinking is an attempt to escape his isolation; his anger a way to distance himself from his despair and sadness. Both Singer and Biff are invariably kind to Jake, giving of themselves both personally and financially.

Doctor Copeland is the town’s “Negro” doctor, another disappointed, angry, embittered man who is both difficult to like, and impossible not to sympathize with. Educated and scholarly, he has put all his hope in his four children and the capacity of the Negro people to raise themselves above their lowly status. He is bitterly disappointed in both. His behavior towards his children was often hard to read, at least for me, who knew first-hand the rage and expectations of an angry father. And, yet, who could not feel for this man who had spent his life trying to better himself, his offspring, and his people, only to be faced with repeated contempt and horror.

I have left Mick Kelly for last, because she my most favorite character, a 13 year old tomboy at the beginning of the book who has tremendous spunk and an obvious artistic and musical talent. She dreams of something more than the overcrowded rooming-house in which she lives. She has her inside room - the room of her own thoughts and her capacity to recall and hear music in her head – and the outside room where she exists in her squalid, everyday world. Only Mister Singer exists in both worlds, again an example of my understanding of him as the book’s therapist. Life works against Mick and by the end of the novel she is a sale’s girl at Woolworth’s. At least to this reader, escape doesn’t seem very likely.

The night of our book club, seven bright, articulate women were present. Most of us loved the book and marveled at McCullers’ artistry capacity to create such a rich novel at so early an age. But the difficulty arose for some of the women who found the book too dismal, too lacking in hope. Those women felt that the message of the book was only that you lived, struggled, despaired, and then died, with nothing positive ever resulting.    

I awoke in the middle of the night after our meeting and thought that we had missed something important in talking about the hope in the novel. First, there is much love, generosity, and compassion that is evident throughout the book in many of the characters, an important aspect of hope when we look at the human condition. Secondly, the book epitomizes the indomitable human spirit: To fight, despite insurmountable difficulties; to struggle, even when the outcome is bleak. To me, that is hope, providing for the eventual possibility of something better, and demonstrating humankind’s capacity for courage, strength and determination that perseveres despite all adversity.

Stuck

I’d seen Billy before, during his senior year of high school. His plan was to go to school in central Florida, about three hours from his home, a plan he carried through despite considerable anxiety. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to major in or what career he wanted to pursue, pretty typical feelings for many adolescents. Still, his anxiety seemed excessive, related to a fear of separation and much ambivalence about growing up. 

Billy is now seeing me again after moving back home having graduated from college with a degree in English. Not surprisingly he has been unable to find a job.

“I haven’t really looked all that hard,” Billy says sheepishly, his sandy blonde hair hanging over his eyes. “I mean, I know it’s rough out there – the unemployment, especially for kids my age. I don’t have anything special to offer. I’m not sure I could stand the constant rejection.”

“How’s it feel being home?” I ask.

He shrugs. “OK, I guess. It’s like always.”

Billy is the second of six children, all spaced closely together. His parents have a marketing business they run from home. The house is usually pretty chaotic. Not much time put aside specifically for the family or for quality one-on-one time with each other.

“Are all your siblings home?” I ask, trying to gauge the degree of chaos.

“All except Christine. She’s working in Boston. And Melody will be going back to college, but other than that they’re.”

“What led you want to come back to see me?”

“I’m feeling kind of down. I’m like stuck, not doing anything. Mostly I stay in my room and busy myself on the computer. Just passing time.”

“You’re not seeing your friends?”

“Most of them aren’t here anymore. Or they’re working. I haven’t really called around much.”

“You do sound pretty depressed.”

“Yeah, I know. I was thinking I should go back and see the psychiatrist. I hate going back on that stuff, but I feel lousy.”

“Well, calling me and planning to call the psychiatrist is certainly taking action.”

“I guess. But that’s not going solve my problems for the rest of my life.”

“What do you think your problems are, Billy?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to do.”

“Is that the problem, or is the problem that you’re not sure – or at least a part of you isn’t sure - that you want to do anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I wonder if part of you feels comfortable living at home, having your parents take care of you.”

“That’s kind of true, but it also doesn’t make sense to me. It’s crazy at home. It’s like a zoo. And it’s like no one even knows I’m there!”

“I think you just said something very important, Billy. Maybe it’s that you want to stay home until someone does know you’re there. Maybe what you’re feeling is that you never got to be seen, to be appreciated and that until you get that – until you get what you never got – you’re going to stay home and wait.”

“But I’d wait forever!”

“That’s true, Billy, you would. You’d never get what you wanted and you certainly couldn’t get what you wanted in your past. There’s no way to turn back the clock.”

“Wow! This is heavy. Do you think that’s it? Do you think that’s why I’m stuck.”

“I think that’s one reason. We humans are pretty complex beings and it’s not like one reason explains everything. And not even knowing that one reason – assuming it’s correct – is going to automatically make you able to do things differently.”

“What will?”

“I think that involves really feeling what it was like for you as a little boy, surrounded by all these siblings, your parents harassed and busy with their own lives, never feeling cherished as a unique you. That means feeling your sadness and your anger, neither of which is exactly easy for you.”

“So you really think it’s about the past?”

“I think it’s about your past and your present and I think they both really impact your future.”

“It sounds hard. But I guess I’m not doing anything else. I might as well work on me.”

“That’s a very courageous response, Billy. I hope you can allow yourself to feel proud of yourself, because I certainly do.”

Billy turns red. Mumbling, “See you next time,” he makes a beeline for the door. 

The Push for Success

I’ve only seen Sergio for a few sessions. Originally from Columbia, he and his wife risked all they had to come to the United States, seeking a better life for themselves and especially for their unborn children. They have four children now and it’s because of them he came to see me. 

“My wife says I push them too much. And that it got worse after Mother’s Day. You know, school’s about to get out. I tell them, I don’t want any presents, save your money. What I want is all As on your report cards. I work hard. I carry bedpans, wash people’s butts, put up with not nice people. I smile. I don’t complain. It’s a steady job. I’m lucky to have it. I’ve taken my kids to that nursing home. I show them what their father does all day. Is this what you want, I ask them? And my wife, she’s cleaning people’s houses. All we do is work.”   

“Do you think you might be pressuring them a bit too much?” I ask gingerly.

“No!” he replies emphatically, “My wife and I struggle every day. Every day we work to give them a better life. So why shouldn’t they get all As? That’s their work.” 

I like Sergio. I admire his grit, his determination. Yet conflicting and complex emotions course through me. The immigrant experience, I think warmly to myself, flashing on my beloved grandparents who only wanted “better” for their children and for me. I think of being five and sitting at their kitchen table and my grandmother telling me I was going to be the next Madame Curie. That’s the warm side, the good feelings. But then there was my father. He was contemptuous of his immigrant parents, wanting only to distance himself from them, avidly pushing education and success for both himself and me, his only child. The pressure often felt unbearable. 

“And did all you children bring you straight As?” I ask.

“No!” he says angrily.

“And you were obviously angry. How did you show your anger?”

“I wouldn’t talk with them all Father’s Day.”

Ouch! I think to myself, feeling the press to protect his children, as I wish I too had been protected.

“Sergio, is it possible that not all of your children are capable of getting straight As in every class, every time?”

“Why shouldn’t they be?”

“Well, different children have different strengths. Some are good in math and not good in English or the other way around. And sometimes if you’re too strict with children, they rebel, they try to get back at you by not doing well, even if they’re not aware of it.”

“No!” he exclaims, shaking his head from side to side. “That will not happen!”

This isn’t working. In my eagerness to protect the children, I’ve lost sight of my patient. 

“Sergio, how do you feel when say – what’s the name of your eldest?”

“Eduardo.”

“When Eduardo doesn’t get straight As?”

“Angry. He’s not working hard enough! Too much time on the computer.”

“I understand, but what does it mean for you that he’s not working hard enough. In addition to anger, what do you feel?”

Sergio sits thoughtfully. “I don’t know how to say it. It makes me feel bad. It makes me feel, I don’t know. I can’t find the words.”

“Do you think it makes you feel sad for you, for your life? You’ve made so many sacrifices. You continue to make so many sacrifices – a job you barely tolerate, long hours, no time with your wife – that it’s really, really important that your children make it all worthwhile.”

“Yes, that’s it,” he says smiling.

“I know this may be hard for you to believe, Sergio, but you can’t expect your children to make your life worthwhile. You can make your own life worthwhile. Wait! Wait!” I say, seeing that he’s about to interrupt me. “Of course you want your children to do well. But hopefully you want that for them, not for you. Hopefully you want them to do what will bring them good feelings about themselves and their lives, not necessarily what you want for them. What if Eduardo was really good working with his hands? What if he wanted to be a mechanic or a carpenter?”

“I don’t know,” he says hesitantly.

“I know,” I say. “That was a long speech.” Directed, I think to myself, to both you and to my father. “You can think about it and we’ll talk more next week.”