The Invitation

“My neighbor invited me for Thanksgiving,” Marnie says without enthusiasm.

“You sound less than excited about the invitation.”

“Yeah.”

I remain silent.

“It’s her family.” Pause. “It’s not my family. I won’t know anyone. Except her husband and I don’t like him much.” Pause. “I don’t see why my sister couldn’t have invited me. Or my daughter.”

“I thought your sister was going on a cruise.”

“She is. But she didn’t have to. And I know, I told my daughter I didn’t want to travel all the way to Seattle, but she could have insisted.”

I find Marnie maddening. Nothing is ever good enough for her. I try, yet again, to provide some insight into her behavior.  

“You notice, Marnie, that you’ve again set up a situation where you can’t be satisfied. Your neighbor invites you to her house, but you’re unhappy because it’s not your family. You expect your sister to not go on her cruise because she should be here to invite you for Thanksgiving…”

“What’s so wrong about that?” she asks, interrupting me.

Responses flit through my mind from ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ to ‘would you have canceled your cruise for the sister you rarely speak well of?’ Instead I take a breath and pause. “Marnie, I know that you grew up in a hostile, unloving home. I know that your parents were too involved in their own battles to care about their young daughter who had the misfortune to be born just when they were considering divorce. I know you didn’t get enough love, enough nurturing, enough care. But by finding fault with everyone, by demanding that everyone always think of you first, you’re insuring that you will never feel as though anyone cares about you.”

Marnie’s head droops. Tears fall silently from her eyes. I can anticipate what’s coming next and, unfortunately, Marnie doesn’t disappoint me. “So you’ve turned against me too,” she says, whining.

I want to scream. I suspect my anger is not only mine, but also a projection of the anger Marnie keeps buried inside herself. “Marnie, can you tell me what you’d like from me right now?”

“I’d like you to understand how much pain I’m in and support me.”

“And your pain is about never feeling loved?”

She nods.

“And you feel angry about never being loved?”

“I guess.” Pause. “You know anger wasn’t allowed in my house. Not as a child. I don’t like to feel angry.”

“But it would make sense for you to feel angry about never being loved, right?”

“I guess,” Marcie responds reluctantly.

“So you weren’t allowed to feel anger as a child and you’re not comfortable feeling angry now.”

She nods.

“Would you consider the possibility that you bring all that stored up anger into the present and behave in ways that both expresses your anger and probably leads people to be angry with you?”

“I don’t understand. Why would anyone be angry with me?”

I consider whether I should answer that question in the here and now about Marnie and my relationship, and decide a bit more distance might be preferable. “Well, let’s consider the invitation from your neighbor. If in accepting the invitation…”

She interrupts me. “I didn’t accept, I told her I’d let her know.”

In my mind, I think, ‘well that certainly illustrates my point.’ I continue, “I wonder if your not immediately accepting the invitation is an expression of your anger. It’s like saying the invitation isn’t good enough.  It’s possible your neighbor might have felt hurt or insulted about your not accepting and might be less likely to invite you in the future which would lead you to again feeling rejected.”

“But I’m not sure I do want to go to someone else’s family.”

“I wonder if you realize, Marnie, that you do the same thing to others as was done to you – you’re not good enough so I won’t love you.”

“So do I have to accept whatever anyone offers me?”

“Good question.” I pause. “I guess I’d say it would be important for you to consider why you’re rejecting an offer. Like, would you really prefer to be alone for Thanksgiving? Do you want to be alone so that your sister feels bad for you? So that your daughter feels bad for you?”

“What’s wrong with wanting them to feel bad for me?”

“”Because you’re cutting off your nose to spite your face. And because you don’t realize that wanting them to feel bad for you is an expression of your anger.”

“I don’t understand that at all.”

“And you’re angry with me right now, correct?”

Pause. “I don’t think so. I’m just confused.”

‘Foiled again,’ I think. “Well, it’s time for us to stop, but we’ll continue next week.”

Choose Me

“I don’t understand!” Marcy shrieks at me, continuing the stalemate we have been have been in for weeks. “Why won’t you just tell me I’m your most favorite patient? You know that I am. You know that you care about me more than anyone else, that you love me, so why don’t you just say it!”

Thoughts race through my mind as my patience runs thin: ‘You’re upping the ante. Now you want to be the person I care most about in my life, the person I love above all others. You’re certainly not being very loveable right now.’ I remain silent.

“Why don’t you say something?” Marcy yells.

I sigh. “Truthfully, I don’t know what to say. We’ve been arguing about this for weeks. We know that your mother abandoned you to the care of her sister. We know that your aunt clearly favored her own daughter over you, that you felt like a second class citizen, like Cinderella, as you say. And all these things are horribly sad and painful for a child, but there’s no way I or anyone else can make up for that. If I told you you were my favorite patient, that wouldn’t take away your pain about your mother or your aunt.”

“Then what good are you?”

“I’m here to help you mourn the past, to be sad and angry, sad and angry, sad and angry about what you didn’t get as a child and then to be able to accept what was and to move on, able to take in the good from others in the present.”

“Is that a script you read? You say the same stupid shit all the time,” Marcy responds, crossing her arms in front of her chest, chin raised, staring at me defiantly.

I’m pissed. I remain silent while I try to collect myself.

“What?” March says.

“You know, Marcy…” I begin before she interrupts me.

“Oh,” she says sarcastically, “here comes the lecture.”

I ignore the interruption. “It’s interesting to me how much your behavior is counterproductive.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You say you want to be my favorite patient, but you behave in a way that would make you anything but my favorite patient.”

“Oh! So now I’m supposed to be Miss Goody Two-Shoes. I thought you always told me – for years and years in fact – that I was supposed to say everything I was thinking, not censor anything.”

“I’m not suggesting that you censor what you say. I’m suggesting that what you say has consequences.”

“So now you’re threatening me?”

‘Stay calm’ I tell myself, knowing Marcy wants to provoke me. “The more you angrily demand that someone care about you, the less likely that person – me in this instance – is going to respond the way you want. So the question becomes why do you behave in a way that is least likely to get you what you want?”

“Don’t change the topic,” Marcy demands.

“I’m not…” I stop myself. “That last comment, for example. You know I’m not changing the topic. You’re just being provocative and trying to not consider what I’m saying.”

“OK, smarty pants, why don’t you tell me why I behave this way. I know you have some nice little theory floating around in your head.”

“Let me ask something else first. What would happen if I did tell you you were my favorite patient?”

“I’d ask if that meant you loved me.”

“And what would you feel if I told you I loved you?”

“I’d need you to prove it. Like, would you see me for free?”

“So you’re saying you’d add more and more demands until you got to a place where you could again feel unloved and unchosen.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Good question. Why would you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I suspect you unconsciously want to be rejected so that you can stay connected to your rejecting mother and aunt who walk around in your head. If you take in the good, the caring in the present, then – here’s my script again - you have to mourn what you didn’t get in the past. You have to give up the hope of getting the love you needed and deserved as a child from the people in your life who were supposed to care for you but never came through.”

“That sounds way too hard.”

“I wonder if it’s any harder than repeatedly demanding love from people in the present in such a way that you insure you’ll never get it.”    

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.”

Untold

Peter is unusually quiet at the start his session. He looks down at his hands, then gazes out the window. I resist the temptation to ask him what is going on and remain silent with him. The silence grows more comfortable, the connection between us palpable.

“I know I’m going to tell you today. That doesn’t seem like such a problem. I guess the question is why I’ve never told you before. It’s been almost three years since I started seeing you. I know you’ll ask why I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m asking that myself.” Pause. “The answer isn’t obvious to me. If I hear myself say it never seemed like such a big deal, that seems ridiculous, even to me. If I say it was too hard to talk about, too embarrassing, too uncomfortable, I just don’t think that’s it.”

My discomfort increases as Peter continues speaking, trying to imagine what he might not have revealed. He’s talked about his rigid, explosive father; his removed, distanced mother; his bullying older brothers. I like Peter. Shy, reserved, anxious Peter has done well in his life. He’s a sociology professor at a local university, is married to a warm, accomplished woman, and thinking about having children. He worries about his anxiety, his tendency towards depression and his discomfort with the competition in the academic world.       

“I was molested by my Catholic priest,” he blurts out. “By my confessor. It’s like a joke. I wonder who he was confessing to.”

I’m shocked. Not by the revelation, but just as he’d anticipated, by his not having told me long before.

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” I say, “So sorry that you had to endure that experience.”

“And wonder why I didn’t tell you before.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Obviously the case in Pennsylvania brought it all back up. Not that I’d forgotten about it. Just brought it back to the forefront.”

“Leaving you feeling how?”

“Sad. Depressed. Disgusted. Angry. You name it. The feelings all victims describe.”

“And how do you feel telling me now?”

“I don’t know. Kind of numb I guess. It’s not like I thought about it every time I was in session. Occasionally it would go through my mind and I’d say, no, this isn’t a good time.”

“And when you thought it wasn’t a good time, why did you think you thought that?”

He shrugs. “Other things seemed more pressing? I really don’t know.”

Suddenly a thought comes to me. “Have you ever told anyone?”

“I told my wife. Before we got married. I thought she should know…”

“Can you finish that sentence?”

“See, this is exactly the problem. Once I tell, it all becomes about my having been abused by my priest.”

“What all becomes about your having been abused by your priest?” I ask, confused.

“Everything. My shyness. My depression. My anxiety. It’s not! It’s not only him. He didn’t cause everything,” he says angrily.

“Of course not,” I reply. “Being sexually abused – however significant - was one of the events that affected your life, along with many other things.”

Peter stares at me. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes, of course.” I pause. “I just had a thought. That priest had so much power over you as a child, perhaps it’s that you don’t want to give him the power to have made you the adult you are, you don’t want him to control your adult self.”  

Tears run down Peter’s cheeks. “That’s right. That’s exactly right. I could never put it into words, but that’s what it is. The bastard manipulated me as a child. I didn’t want him to matter anymore,” he says burying his face in his hands, sobbing.

“I don’t think you’re going to like what I say next, but the problem is, that by not speaking about him, you have unconsciously given him the power to continue to silence you, to continue to hide as if you’ve done something wrong  - which you haven’t.”

“No! That can’t be! Oh my God, you’re right. I’ve let the bastard continue to control me!”

“Well, you’re now unsilenced. You’ve spoken. You told me. We have a lot of work to do around this Peter – and I don’t mean that he’s the only factor influencing your life – but he has been a significant force and it’s time for you to speak.”

“I’m so sorry, so sorry I never told you.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. As I always say, you can only do what you can do and you’ve now spoken.”

The Underachiever

Tall and thin with a wiry red beard, Daron Wilson sits across from me looking lost and forlorn. “I’ve never done this before. Never thought I would.”

“How can I be of help to you?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I know you can’t make my wife come back to me.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I love her so much. Her and the kids. But she says she wants more, more for the kids, more for her, more for our family. I don’t know how to give that to her.”

“More in what way?”

“Easy answer would be financially, but I know that’s not what she means. Wants me home more? Yeah, that’s true. But that’s not it either. We were high school sweethearts, madly in love almost from the moment we met. I was valedictorian of my class. She wanted to be a psychologist. Like you. Me, I didn’t know what I wanted. We got pregnant, got married right after high school. She was determined to go to college and she did for a while. I became a long distance trucker. Good way to make money to support a family. And then we had two kids and she dropped out of college and I kept driving. Truthfully, I kind of like it. Feeling of freedom on the road. I drove for other people until I had enough money to get my own truck. Big financial commitment, but now I’m my own boss. It’s okay.” He shrugs. “But Chelsea wants more. And I get it. Our kids are nine and seven. Do we really want them to see that driving a truck is all there is to life?”  

“You sound so sad and lost.”

“Yeah, that’s about right. I don’t know what to do. It’s not like I can snap my fingers and suddenly have a college degree and be working as some hot shit IT guy.”

“You said you were valedictorian of your class. Was that important to you? Were you proud of yourself?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Were your parents proud of you?”

He scoffs. “My parents? My parents could have cared less. My father was too drunk to come to my graduation. My mother came, looking uncomfortable every minute. They raised five kids. I was the last. They didn’t have much left over for me.”

“That’s very sad.”

“I guess. After a while you just stop caring.”

“So what motivated you to put forth the effort to become valedictorian of your class?”

“I don’t know.”

“Had you met Chelsea by then?”

“Yeah. We met when we were Juniors.” Pause. “I might have wanted to do it for her.”  

“What have your siblings done with their lives?”

“Liz – the only girl - is a wife and mother. My brothers? One’s an alcoholic; one has serious mental problems, can’t hold down a job. Joe – he’s the oldest - has done okay. He worked for GM when you could still make a decent living that way. I guess they all have their problems.”

“So if you had gone to college when you graduated from high school, that would have been a radical departure from the rest of your family?”

“That’s for sure.”

“And did you have feelings about being that different from your family? Even being valedictorian?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you feel when you studied? How did you feel when you got good grades?”

“It’s too long ago to remember.”

“Daron, I think over the years you worked pretty hard – unknowingly of course – at trying not to know your feelings, your feelings of sadness and anger and disappointment and hurt. You turned yourself off so that now it’s very hard for you to know what you feel either now or in the past. I guess when you met Chelsea you were able to open yourself up to loving her which may have also opened you up to strive and succeed and do well. I’m not saying you don’t do well as a trucker - you obviously do - but it sounds as though a part of you died in the process.”

Daron’s eyes fill with tears. “That’s what Chelsea says. She says I feel dead.” Pause. “I wonder if that’s one of the reasons I like to drive. Always something new. Sort of escaping from myself.”

“That’s a great insight Daron. I guess the question is whether you’re ready to stop escaping and to look at all the painful feelings you have buried inside you.”

“First thing I thought? How long will it take? Can I do it before Chelsea leaves me?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, Daron. You’ve sat on your feelings for a long time. It won’t be a quick or painless fix.”

“But it’s a shot. I don’t have anything else.”

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.”