Murder on Her Mind

Gina smiles at me, sashaying into my office from the waiting room in her short, tight, floral dress.

“Like my new dress?” she asks, settling into the chair, trying unsuccessfully to both cross her legs and cover them. “My friends tell me 45 is too old to wear a dress like this. But I don’t care. I’ve got it, I’m flaunting it. They’re just jealous. What do you think?”

I silently agree with her friends and wonder if she wants me to be another jealous woman. I say, “You get to wear whatever you want to wear.”

“It makes me feel alive. Of course, I’ve been feeling pretty alive these days anyway. Nothing like an affair to spice up one’s life. New man, new compliments, new sex. I love it when I get on top of him and all the lights are on and he looks at me while stroking and pinching my nipples. We can go for hours.”

Gina and I have talked a lot about her affair. I remain silent.

She pauses and then continues, “You know how I like to read all these mysteries – some old, some new – Agatha Christie, John Grisham, Patricia Cornwell, Scott Turow…?”

I nod, unclear where Gina is headed.

“Well, ever since I’ve read that Presumed Innocent book about the wife trying to get back at her husband by framing him for his girlfriend’s murder by using his semen, I’ve been fantasizing about how to kill you know whose wife and set my husband up to take the fall.”

My anxiety spikes. “Actually I don’t know who,” I blurt out, “since you continue to refuse to tell me who he is.”

She laughs. “It’s just an expression. We’ve been over this a million times. She’s in your field. I’m afraid you’d know her, or even him. End of topic.”

“It can’t be ‘end of topic’ if you’re considering killing her!” 

“You’re being so silly today,” she says dismissing me with a wave of her hand. “I didn’t say I was going to kill her – I couldn’t do that – I’m just fantasizing about it.”

I think about what she just said. It’s true. She was talking about fantasy, not action. I’ve listened to many patients over the years talk about their murderous and/or suicidal fantasies without assuming they were going to act on them. What’s different here, I ask myself.

Gina is speaking, “..it wouldn’t even be hard. My husband and I even have a better sex life these days. I guess I’m so turned on all the time, I’ve been more sexy with him too. See, he’s enjoying my affair too. But I can’t figure out how I’d get him to use a condom. So far my fantasy hasn’t helped me with that one.”

And do you find your murderous fantasies a turn-on?”

She taps her lips with her left index finger, considering my question. “I guess. But the turn on is having the power to figure something like this out – not dummy Gina after all. It’s exciting.” Pause. “Don’t you think it’s exciting?”

Suddenly I’m convinced that everything that’s happened in this room today is about Gina and my relationship. 

“Gina, I wonder if we can step back for a minute. It feels to me that you’re trying to one up me..”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, I think you’ve tried to make me jealous, tried to titillate me with your sexual stories, dangled withheld information in front of me, and terrified me with talk of murder.”

“You have one warped mind if you think I’m trying to turn you on!”

Interesting comment, I think to myself. “I didn’t say that you were trying to turn me on. I think you’re trying – and I’m not saying it’s conscious – that you’re trying to make me feel less than you, trying to win over me, just as you tried to win over your mother to be closer to your father.”

“I’ve told you, I did win! My father called me ‘the beauty.’ It’s me he wanted to twirl around in my new clothes. It’s me he took to breakfast on Sunday morning, just me, not my mother, not by brothers.”

I think, but reject saying, ‘but who went into the bedroom at night?’ a remark that feels both premature and hostile. “Let’s go back to us for the moment,” I say instead. “You started the session talking about your friends being jealous of you. Seemed as though you wanted me to be jealous too, like you’re flaunting your beauty, your sexuality.”

Gina looks at me coyly. She drops her head for a second and then looks at me defiantly, “I don’t want to be mean, but you’re not a worthy opponent. You’re too old.”

“Wow!” I say. “You’re correct. I’m considerably older than you. But the way you just said that, sounded like you were intent on delivering a death blow. I guess I’m another murder victim.” 

The Unexpected Affair

Judith is a tall, attractive 44 year old woman who carries herself as if she knows she will be noticed, clearly distinguished from those around her. Although she’s presently a stay at home Mom, today she is dressed as the lawyer she is, a perfectly fitting gray suit and black high heels.

“I’ve decided to have an affair,” she says matter-of-factly.

I’m startled. In the six or so months I’ve seen Judith, she talked about being dissatisfied in her marriage, but hadn’t mentioned the presence of another man.

“With whom?” I ask.

“I don’t know yet.”

Silence.

“I know,” she continues, “that’s a rather unusual way to go about it, but since my husband hardly gives me the time of day – I can’t even remember the last time we had sex or even had a real conversation  - I decided I might as well get my needs met elsewhere. I’m not going to leave him. The kids need their father and I need some male attention so, an affair’s the answer.”

During the course of my career I have seen many men and women who have been unfaithful to their partners with one or many other people.  I’ve always been comfortable talking with them about both their feelings and the meaning of these multiple relationships. But Judith’s cavalier manner, her impulsive decision, and her pronouncement to me without any apparent willingness to discuss her decision, is both off-putting and confusing.

“When did you make this decision? And how do you feel about it?”

“It feels like a good decision. Solves lots of problems. I guess I decided a couple of days ago. Hence my outfit today. I figure any time I’m out and about I need to be looking my best.”

“Did anything happen in the last couple of days? Anything happen since we last met?”

“No,” she replies flatly. “Nothing happened. Same old, same old, I guess that’s what happened.”    

“Do you plan to talk to your husband about your decision?”

“What!? Are you crazy? He’d divorce me in a minute.”

I knew she wouldn’t tell her husband. Why did I ask that question? Was I trying to make her feel guilty? Surprisingly, what Judith is contemplating does feel ‘wrong’ to me, it feels ‘wrong’ for a person in a committed relationship to decide in a calculated and apparently logical way to become involved with an unknown other person. I feel very differently if the person has an affair and wants to talk about it, understand it, and deal with the meaning it has for them. Hmm, I think. Her pronouncement felt as though she was throwing down a gauntlet. Perhaps that means her decision is about me, about our relationship. What was it we talked about in last week? Of course! She told me she read my book, the book in which I discuss both the intensely loving relationship I had with my late husband, as well as my strong emotional involvement with many of my patients.

“Judith, how did you feel about my book? I know we talked a little about it last week, but you seemed to skirt really looking at your feelings.”

“Now where are you going? I told you I thought you wrote very well and that the book was engaging.”

“But how did you feel about it? How did you feel about my relationship with my husband? About my relationship with my patients.”

She shrugs. “I guess I felt you were lucky. Here you had this shitty relationship with your father, but you found this adoring man to marry. I didn’t have that shitty a relationship with my father – not that he paid much attention to me, too focused on my mother – and I married a man who still doesn’t pay any attention to me.”

“So, perhaps you felt angry with me, that, in your words, I got lucky, while you got stuck.”

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

“So I came out ahead just as your mother came out ahead and that makes you doubly angry.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but I guess that’s true.”

“So your ‘decision’ to have an affair is really based on your anger at both me and your mother for getting more than you, for leaving you feeling cheated.”

“You really don’t want me to have an affair, do you?”

“I think you’re saying I’m trying to keep you away from happiness, from your father.”

“That’s a bit too deep for me. I think you think having an affair is wrong.”

“I don’t necessarily think that having an affair is wrong. I think affairs have many meanings.  For you those meanings are clearly related to feelings about both your parents, that you bring into the present and into this room.”

“So you think I shouldn’t have an affair?”

“I think we should talk about it a lot more before you act.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“I understand. You don’t have to promise anything. You get to do what you do and we get to deal with it.”

“Okay. As long as that’s clear, I’ll see you next week.”   

Family Connections

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

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

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

“Do you still feel jealous of your sister?”

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

“Does that bring you some satisfaction?”

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

“Do you feel less than your sister?”

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

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

“Makes sense.”

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

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

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

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

“Emotionally?”

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

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

Pause.

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. We will.”  

Welcome Home

Thea, a woman in her mid-thirties, with porcelain skin, curly red hair and deep blue eyes, glares at me from across the room, her brows knitted, her arms folded tightly across her chest. We have been sitting in silence since she entered my office and threw herself into the chair. Only a few minutes have elapsed, but the time hangs heavily in the room. 

Concerned that we fall into a power struggle of who speaks first, I decide to break the silence. “You’re obviously having lots of feelings, Thea. Can you talk about what’s going on for you?”

“Why should I?” she retorts.

“Well, that is usually what we do here. You tell me what you’re thinking and feeling and we try to better understand you.”

“Don’t be a smart ass! You know goddamn well what I mean.”

Thea is correct. I do know what she means. She is a therapist herself and someone I have seen in treatment for several years. “OK,” I say. “So this is our first session back since I returned from vacation and you’re clearly angry with me. But that doesn’t help me understand if this break in our schedule was particularly difficult for you and if so, why.”    

“I ran into Cathy in the grocery store. She knows that I see you – and obviously knew you were away - but why she found it necessary to tell me that you were presenting a paper I have no idea.”

Cathy is a colleague who did in fact know that I presented a paper during part of my time away, although I too have no idea why she needed to give Thea that information. However, she did, and it is now our job to understand the feelings churning inside Thea. Although I’m always eager to treat other therapists, they do present their own unique set of difficulties, particularly in a small therapeutic community where you don’t always know who knows whom. 

“So what did it mean to you that I presented a paper?” I ask.

“You could have told me!” Thea replies, her voice still sharp and raised. “It was embarrassing that Cathy knew more about you than I did.”

I keep my face impassive, although I’m immediately puzzled. Certainly Thea knows that Cathy would know more about me than Thea herself. I say nothing, hoping that Thea will continue her self-exploration.

“What?” she says. “You’re not going to say anything?”

This whole session feels like a land mine. If I stay silent, Thea might well experience me as withholding and provocative, much as I am experiencing her. If I confront her on what seems an extremely unlikely reason for her anger, she could experience me as both challenging and negating. If I guess at what I think might be going on here, I am doing her work for her.

Perhaps the most productive course is to follow Thea’s direction. “I thought you might say more about what was embarrassing about Cathy knowing I was giving a paper while you didn’t.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Thea, I know that you’re angry with me and I’m not trying to be dense here, but you’ll need to say more before I can understand what it meant for you not to know I was presenting a paper. You also didn’t know where I was going in my absence, if Cathy told you that would you have been equally angry?”   

“She did tell me. And, no, I didn’t care about that. Oh!” Thea’s pale skin turns scarlet.

I think of how difficult Thea has made this session. I think about her being many years my junior in terms of professional experience. I think about her highly successful older sister, Emily. I have a sense of what’s going on here, but realize how important it is for me not to be the wise, all-knowing therapist.

“Now I really am embarrassed,” Thea says, dropping her eyes, her anger fading. “I’m mad that you got to give a paper and I didn’t, just like with Emily, who got to read her reports in school and get into the best universities and snare the best academic job in the country. I’m sorry. I was behaving like a brat.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. You had feelings. You brought them here and you figured them out. I’d say you did just what you needed to do.”

“But it’s not right if I put my feelings about Emily onto you. And I’m sure I put them on other people too.”

“Perhaps what you’re saying is that we still need to work on your feelings about Emily, as well as feeling competent and capable and good about yourself.”