Being Checked Out

This is a first time I am seeing Maurice, a tall, thin, 22 year old African-American man. He looks uneasily around the room, settles himself in the chair across from me, still holding his phone and keys in his hands.

“How can I help you?” I ask.

“Dr. Hudson said I should come. He’s my English professor at the University. Says I have more potential than I show.”

“And do you agree with him?”

“About my potential, yeah, I do.” Pause. “But if you can help me, I don’t know.”

“Because…?”

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you’re white. And you’re a lady.”

“You’re right. I am both white and a lady. And that makes you feel I couldn’t help you, couldn’t understand you?”

He nods.

“Well, we’d only know that as we got to know each other and, hopefully, learned to trust and respect each other.”

Silence.

Maurice sighs, shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can just do that, just start talking and hope that I can trust you.”

“Do you trust Dr. Hudson, since he’s the person who referred you to me?”

“I trust him as a teacher. I’m not telling him all kinds of shit about myself.”

“That’s true.”

Silence.

“You’re not trying to talk me into trusting you,” he says.

“I think that’s pretty hard to do. But I was about to ask what you thought might help you trust me enough to tell me about yourself.”

“I know shrinks don’t usually do this, but what if I ask the questions, ask you about yourself?”

“Well, I guess that would depend what the questions were. If you asked me to tell you about every person I ever dated and what our sex life was like, I’d probably want to know how that was relevant to your concerns about trusting me.”  

He laughs. “No, I wasn’t going to ask you that.” Pause. “Although now that you mention it, I did think of something kind of like that. Did you ever date a black man?”

I hesitate. “The answer happens to be yes, but I don’t think if the answer was no, that would mean you couldn’t trust me.”

“No. But, it’s a piece of information.” Pause. “Did you ever have a black friend?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever live in the ghetto?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been inside a prison?”

“Yes.”

He looks surprised. “How come?”

“I worked as a group therapist in a men’s prison when I was in graduate school. I did my doctoral dissertation in that prison. I also worked in a forensic center and at a women’s prison.”  

Maurice nods his head. He places his phone and keys on the small table next to him.

I take those gestures as a sign I can take on my more traditional therapeutic role. “So I assume you or someone close to you has been in prison.”

“Yeah. Like all my brothers. I did a little time in juvie, but no hard time.”

“And you feel how about having been the only one of your brothers to avoid prison?”

“Bad. Lucky. Glad. Guilty. Like shit. Fortunate.”

“Lots of mixed feelings.”

“Yeah.”

“So can you tell me more about you?”

Silence.

“I can, but I wouldn’t want you to think that means I totally trust you.”

“Maurice, trust takes a long time to build. There’s no question, no hundred questions that you could ask me that would assure you that you can trust me. And besides, trust is a complicated word. What does trust mean to you?”

“First thing I thought, ‘That you’re not going to stab me in the back.’ And I guess I mean that both literally and figuratively.”

“I get it that young black men have to first be concerned for their lives. And after that, I guess you’re saying that you’re afraid I’ll somehow lure you in and then turn on you, betray you.”

Maurice nods. “I want to write. I think I have something to say. But I’m ignorant. I don’t know enough. I need to get my degree. So many of my people – both my family and black people in general – have sacrificed so much so that I can have this opportunity. I don’t want to let them down. I can’t let them down. But I can’t get out of my own way,” Maurice says with clenched teeth.

“Any idea why that is?”

Silence.

“I wish you were black. And I wish you were a man.”

“Well, I’m not,” I say shaking my head. “And it’s not like I have any black, male colleagues I can refer you to. So I guess you’ll have to decide if I’m good enough.”

“I like you, Doc. I guess that’s as good a place as any to start.”   

Untold II

“Thank you for seeing me for an extra session this week,” Peter begins.

“No problem.”

“I haven’t been able to think of anything else but what you said, that by not talking about my priest abusing me I’ve done exactly the opposite of what I intended, I’ve let him continue to control my life.” Pause. “That makes me sick. But I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“And feeling …?”

“Sick. Angry! Scared. I keep remembering what he did to me. I try to figure out how many times it happened. I wonder why I never told my parents, anyone.” Pause. “I guess I know the answer to the last one, I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”

“Do you feel sad for you as the abused child?”

“I hate when you put it like that! That’s not all I am!”

“That’s true. It would have been better for me to say, do you feel sad for the child in you who was abused?”

Peter’s eyes well with tears. “You’re amazing. You listen and understand and take responsibility for even a little mistake.”

“Unlike the priest who took responsibility for nothing.”

“Unlike the priest. Unlike my parents who could never understand.”

Silence.

“Would it be helpful if you told me what actually happened between you and the priest or do you feel you’re not ready?”

Silence.

“He’d touch me. Usually until I climaxed. And then he’d make me touch him. Sometimes – I don’t know how often – he’d tell me to kneel – Catholics are good at that – and then he’d… he’d, you know, he’d make me use my mouth. I hated that. It was disgusting.”

“Thank you for telling me Peter. I know how hard it was for you. How do you feel now having told me?”

“Relieved. I knew I’d have to tell you. It feels like a relief to have it over.”

Silence.

“Can I ask you what you’re thinking?” I ask.

“I was actually wondering what you’re thinking. I was afraid you’d think I was disgusting.”

“You’re not in any way disgusting, Peter.”

“I was afraid my wife would think that too. I wonder if she thinks about it when we make love. I wonder if a part of her recoils from me.”

I wonder to myself if Peter thinks about the abuse when they make love, but decide it’s too soon to ask that question. “Does she seem to recoil from you?”

He shakes his head. “No, not at all.” Pause. “But, but it’s hard for me to have … to have oral sex. Either to give it or receive it. I know it’s because of the abuse. Sometimes I force myself because I know she likes it, but it seems kind of disgusting to me.” Pause. “Actually, when she does it to me it feels good at the time, but then, then afterwards I don’t feel good at all.”

“You feel guilty?”

“Definitely.”

“And you felt guilty with the priest as well?”

“Yes. Guilty and ashamed. I was afraid someone would find out and think I was disgusting. Afterwards I’d come out from the church… If it was sunny I’d wonder how that was possible. It seemed so dark where I’d just been. I couldn’t understand how the sun could be shining. I didn’t want it to be sunny. I wanted to hide.”

“Peter, very often the hardest thing childhood sexual victims struggle with is the pleasure that they themselves felt. Like how could I have been abused if part of me enjoyed it?”

“That’s exactly right! How can it be abuse if I, if I climaxed?”

“Because your genitals were being stimulated and your body responded just as it’s supposed to. You were also a frightened, lonely child and some esteemed authority figure was paying attention to you, making you feel special and bringing you pleasure.”

“No, that’s not completely right. I didn’t feel special at all. I felt I was being singled out because I was disgusting and he knew I was disgusting. Don’t forget he was my confessor.”

“And what had you done that made you feel disgusting?”

“I touched myself.”

“You masturbated just like every child. I’m sure the priest made you feel guilty and ashamed of doing what was entirely normal, but the horrible irony is that he was the one who was doing what was horrible, illegal, destructive. That’s enraging. I feel enraged for you.”

“I feel as though I’ve been in a trance this session. Like I want to shake myself and come back to reality.”

“I think what you’re saying, Peter, is that you’ve been back being your child self. I’m sure that will be helpful to you - and to us - because it’s that part of you that was damaged and needs to heal.”

The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing but the Truth

Maxine sits comfortably in my chair, runs her hand through her curly brown hair and begins. “I came to therapy because I keep having fantasies about killing my daughter.”

Oh oh, I think, remaining silent and neutral. Maxine seems a bit taken aback by my silence. What she doesn’t know is that I am immediately on guard, unsure if I am about to hear a story that is truly every therapist’s nightmare, or one that is completely fabricated. A colleague told me she saw a new patient who told her a similar story and then admitted it was only a test for the therapist.

“I don’t know why I’m having these fantasies,” Maxine continues. “I love my daughter. We’ve always been close.”   

Not wanting to accuse a truly troubled person of lying, I decide to go along and see what develops. Of course, a woman who goes from therapist to therapist fabricating a story, must be pretty troubled as well. “What’s your guess?” I ask. “Why do you think you have been having these fantasies? How long have you been having them?”

“It was right after Barbara’s – that’s my daughter – right after her thirteenth birthday, about six months ago. I don’t know why I’m having the fantasies. If I knew I wouldn’t have come here. What do you think?”

I think this is a sham, but I’m still reluctant to confront Maxine.

“It’s pretty hard for me to have any idea since I know next to nothing about you.”

Maxine sighs, seeming exasperated.

I’m rather annoyed myself, but try to return to my more neutral tone. “Can you tell me about you?  What’s your present life like? Married? Other children? Working? And what was it like for you growing up?”

“I’m a stay at home Mom. My husband is an entrepreneur. He travels a lot. I was thinking I should probably go back to work. With Barbara growing up there’s not that much for me to do.”

“What are your feelings about Barbara growing up.”

“Mixed. I’d like my little girl back and I’m looking forward to seeing where my life takes me.”

“Where do you want it to take you?”

“I’m not sure yet. I think that’s one of the reasons I feel so dissatisfied with myself.”

I find myself liking Maxine more, yet feel entirely confused about what’s going on in the session or what’s real and what isn’t. I decide to take the plunge.

“Maxine, what of what you’ve told me today is true and what isn’t?”

“You figured it out! You’re the first one. Oh good, now you can be my therapist.”

“I had a rather big clue. One of my colleagues told me she’d seen a patient who told her a pretty similar story and that it was supposed to be a test for the therapist.”

“Oh! What a disappointment. Now I can’t tell if you’re really smart or not.”

“Maxine, you must by now know from therapists’ reactions that it’s quite insulting and infuriating to be tested by a series of lies. But I’d like to know the underlying reason you found it necessary to go through this charade.”

“I didn’t think I could trust someone who wasn’t smart enough to figure me out.”

“Well, I’d guess that you definitely feel you can’t trust people and I’d also guess that you see yourself as very troubled and in need of someone who can not only understand you but handle you as well.”

“You are smart. You can be my therapist.”

“But this is a two way contract. There’s the question of whether I feel I’m up to being your therapist.”

“Please, please, I’ll be good.”

“You sound like a scared little girl when you say that.”

Maxine starts to cry.

“Maxine, I know this is unusual for a first session, but this has been an unusual first session anyway. I want you to tell me what the secret is.”

“No, no, I can’t. Not yet.”

“I’m sorry. That’s my condition for us starting therapy. And if you tell me another lie you’ll only be hurting yourself. There’s something you’re terribly afraid of or guilty about, something you need to start dealing with even though you want to keep it hidden.”

“I killed my sister.”

“Is that another lie?”

“No, no, it isn’t. I wish it were. I didn’t do it deliberately.” Maxine’s next words are flat, expressionless. She stares straight ahead. “A group of us were playing soft ball. I was at bat. I swung. I lost control of the bat. It hit my sister in the head. She died. My parents sent me away.”

“I’m so sorry, Maxine. What a horrible accident. How traumatic. And then to be sent away on top of it. I’m really, really sorry.”

“So you’ll be my therapist?”

“Yes,” I say, although I realize that it will take me some time to totally trust what Maxine tells me.  Hmm, I think, Maxine has led me to feel the distrust she feels in the world.