I'm Afraid

Jennifer sits in the chair across from me and cries. Tall and thin, with straight blonde hair, at 18 years old she is younger than most of the patients I see. I suspect her distress is about the school shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School on Valentine’s Day.

“Did you lose friends in the shooting, Jennifer?”

She shakes her head.

“Are you scared it will happen in your school?”

She shakes her head.

“You know, Jennifer, I saw your Mom a number of years ago and she called and asked that I see you. Does the fact that I saw your Mom feel all right to you?

She nods, then startles. “But what I say here is just between us, right?”

“Your Mom said you just turned 18, so yes, what we say here is confidential, unless I’m afraid you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I won’t. I’m too much of a coward to do anything like that,” she adds sobbing.

“I lot of people are really scared right now, Jennifer. That doesn’t make you a coward.”

“No, they’re not. They’re marching. They’re going to Tallahassee. To Washington. They’re confronting the NRA, the President.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“I can’t,” she says sobbing. “I can’t do it. I’m a coward. A coward!” she says with clenched teeth, her fists covering her tightly closed eyes. “Why can’t I do it? They can.”

I immediately flash on my younger self. I so admired my grandmother, willing to fight for what she believed, while I fearfully hung back. I don’t know that I saw myself as a coward, but I did feel disappointed in myself and wished I could be different. It was a wish that was at least partially fulfilled when I was able to confront my demons from the past. But none of this will help Jennifer right now.

“That’s actually a very good question, Jennifer,  especially if you could ask it without beating yourself up. What do you think makes it so frightening for you to think about protesting like some of the other students?”

Jennifer stops crying. She looks up at me like a deer caught in the headlights. She pauses then shakes her head and says, “I can’t. I can’t say.”

“Can you tell me why you can’t?”

“I’m scared. And… and I don’t want to make it a big deal.”

“Anything that scares you so much is a big deal.”

Silence.

“Can you tell me a little about your life, Jennifer? You’re an only child, right? Do you live with both your parents?”

“Yeah, it’s just me. My parents divorced. It must be a long time since you saw my Mom. They’ve been divorced since I’m nine. They had joint custody. But now that I’m 18 I’ll live with my Mom until I go to college.”

“So you prefer living with your Mom?”

“Oh yeah.”

“What’s your relationship like with each of your parents?”

“I’m real close with my Mom. My Dad, not so much.”

“Can you say why?”

“He always criticizes me. Nothing I do is ever good enough.” She hangs her head.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“He has PTSD. He was in Vietnam.”

I had forgotten that, but I remember now that Jennifer’s Mom said he could be explosive and erratic.

“Are you afraid of your Dad?” I ask gently.

“I didn’t say that!” she says, sounding panicked. “Besides, what does my Dad have to do with my being afraid to stand up for what I believe?”

“And what do you believe, Jennifer?”

“That guns kill. That we should have way more restrictions on who can get guns and what kind of guns are available.”

“What does your father believe?”

“He believes people have the right to have guns, but he doesn’t think a 19 year old should have an assault rifle.”

“What does he think about the protests?”

“He hates them. Reminds him of the Vietnam protests.”

“How would he feel if you participated?”   

“He wouldn’t allow it.”

“And what would he do if you participated anyway?”

Jennifer looks down and keeps shaking her head. “He’d scream and scream and scream. But not like normal people scream, like way, way out of control. He might also slap me or lock me in my room. He’s really scary,” she says, her words coming out in a rush.

“And you’ve been living with this all your life, Jennifer?”

“Yeah, although it got worse after the divorce. Before my mother could protect me a little. Afterwards he just got meaner. I never wanted my Mom to know. I didn’t want to upset her.”  

“Well, Jennifer, I think we know why you can’t protest as many of your friends do. But I don’t think it’s only because your father disapproves of the protests. He’s scared you your whole life, so to stand up to any authority is terrifying, just like standing up to him as a little girl was terrifying.”

“Really? You think that’s true?”

“Yes, I definitely think that’s true.”

Twins

Bethany squirms uncomfortably in the chair across from me. She’s a slender, attractive woman, her blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail accentuating her high cheek bones and large blue eyes. I’d guess her to be in her late twenties to early thirties.

“It’s hard to start,” she says. “I guess that’s because I feel guilty. My sister, Heather just got engaged. He’s a great guy. An attorney, sweet, caring. He’s crazy about her. But all I can think of is, why her, why her and not me. I forgot to say, we’re twins. Identical. I mean we look identical. But that’s where it ends. She’s smarter than me or at least she did better in school. She was way more popular. She always got the cool guys. I just stumble along through life.”

“Sounds hard to always be comparing yourself negatively to your sister.”

“I come by it honestly. My whole family does it, especially my mother.”

I flash on the memory of patient who years ago told me about giving birth to identical twins and feeling an immediate connection to the first twin that she didn’t experience with the second. Did Bethany’s mother have a similar experience with her twins that has shaped Bethany and Heather’s experience in the world? An unanswerable question, but an interesting one nonetheless.

“That must be painful.”

“I guess, but I suppose I’ve gotten used to it. I’ve always been shier than Heather, more introverted. I like to draw. I like art. That’s sort of what I do. I work in a design studio that sells lots of art. Although I work mainly in the back. I’m not the greatest sales person. I try, but it’s hard for me.”

“And do you show your own work?”

She shakes her head. “People tell me I’m good enough. But it feels so exposing. And the idea of marketing myself feels overwhelming.”

“Tell me about your family, Bethany.”

“Well, I have an older brother who’s been out of the house for a long time. And then there’s me and my sister and my parents. They’re all very social, outgoing people. They have lots of friends, go to parties, invite people over. I have friends too. I don’t want you to think I’m a total recluse. But we’re different. We sit around and talk, go to the movies, sometimes go to museums.”

“Sounds pretty rewarding. Why is what you do with your friends less valuable than what your parents or sister do?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess because my mother always seems so disapproving of me. I don’t have enough fun. I don’t wear make-up. I don’t get my hair done. She always wants me to be doing something different than what I’m doing.”

“Has that always been true?”

“Always. I remember when I was little. My friends and I would sit around the house drawing, or playing school, or making up stories and my mother would be telling me to go outside, to ride my bike, to go swimming. Whatever I was doing she wanted me to do something else.”

“Did that ever make you angry, Bethany?”

“Sometimes. But mostly it just made me feel bad about myself. Like what’s wrong with me? Why aren’t I more like Heather?”  

“Did your mother ever praise you for your art? Did she ever listen to the stories you and your friends made up?”

“Never. Or at least not that I remember.”

“What just happened there, Bethany? First you said ‘never’ and then you quickly changed it to ‘not that I remember.’”

“Well, I was only a kid. I could have forgotten.”

“Or maybe it’s hard for you to think anything negative about your mother, like it wasn’t fair of her not to praise you for your strengths, just as she praised Heather for hers.”

“I was about to say, I didn’t have any strengths, but I know that’s not true. I really am a good artist. But my strengths weren’t important in my family.”

“You know, Bethany, when children aren’t valued, it’s very hard for them to think that it’s their parent’s problem for being unable to cherish them. They’re much more likely to feel it’s their fault and if only they could change, then their mother or father would love them.”

“I definitely feel that. I always wanted to be like Heather.”

“Well, I’ve only just met you, but it seems to me you have lots of wonderful qualities, qualities that would be loved and valued in many families. Maybe we can help you to learn to value yourself and give up on trying to win the approval of a mother who can’t seem to appreciate you for who you are. It’s really her loss, but I know you’re a long way from feeling that.”    

“A long way.”

“I know. But we’ve just begun our work.”