Earlier in this blog section I mentioned that ever since my first therapy encounter (usually with psychologists, but two with social workers), I would at some point be called, "arrogant and contemptous," or (the last time, which occurred a year ago), "think of the children in the pediatric oncology ward at Memorial Sloan Kettering." Usually, these character attacks were well-timed to when I was vulnerable. Always, these attacks signaled the end of therapy. Always, for me, these are fatal errors from which the relationship cannot recover.
Before I go on, I must mention the two encounters with the social workers. Neither lasted long. Both I found hilarious. The first social worker was Freudian and I expressed a wish to be with someone more behavioral. He replied that a behavioral approach would only get rid of the symptom temporarily, as the root cause would not be uncovered. I left anyway and found a behaviorist who combined psychic excavation with behavioral suggestions. The second one (decades later) was on the second floor of an old industrial loft. I walked up two flights of wooden steps, each step shaking under my Size 9 feet. I entered the consulting room which was framed with African tribal masks. The furniture was all covered in faux giraffe prints. Needless to say, I didn't feel safe and that was that. I had the session, knowing it would be the first and only.
Other than those two, all of my psychotherapy (with psycho the therapists) were with psychologists. All licensed. Some eminent (at least in their own minds). At some point, the sessions ended--either because they scared me or I scared them. How did they scare me: unrestrained anger combined with characterological attacks. What did they expect in response? "Oh yes, wise and sage sir, who studied so long, I am (arrogant, contempteous, thoughtless, fill in the blank). Gee whiz, thank you for pointing this out at the worst possible time. Thank you for shattering the myth of a safe place. Thank you for showing your mastery of timing and tact. And now that you have given me this precious insight--how will it make a difference? Am I always arrogant (contempteous, thoughtless,etc). Is there nothing else about me which one can say? When does this arrogance (contempteousness, etc) arise in an interpersonal interaction? So this is all there is to me? And where do I go from here? Because we go nowhere. There is no we anymore. There is you. There is I. Was I a simpleton to believe there was a time you liked me, appreciated me?
Shattered.
Of course, one psychologist didn't call me arrogant (contempteous, etc). He called me "difficult." I resented that too, but it wasn't as easily fatal as the other terms. How am I difficult? I'm there on time, I follow the basic rules (talk but don't act out). I don't cancel sessions because I'm miffed (I don't think I ever cancelled a session, actually). So how am I difficult? He would then say I wasn't "responsive." I never understood what he meant by this, unless it was that I didn't routinely flatter his ego at every session. Which--full disclosure--I didn't. I felt we lived in two different worlds--he was an experienced, settled man. At this juncture, I had just finished graduate school and had not yet sat for my licensure. I was scrabbling to make a living, sewing together a patchwork combination of post-docs and part-time positions. Many of the positions I held during the first five years after graduate school were time-limited--two years only. So--not career jobs or jobs where my salary would be escalating. Mostly--thanks a lot and out with the garbage. Anyway--I was difficult? Look at how you behave. Frequently, in session, he would jingle the change in his pockets, then pluck out the wad of bills in his pockets and count them!!! As I stared, thinking, "what?" Once I asked if he wanted to share it. He actually looked abash, like he was unconscious of his manoevers. And resented my little interjection. He would move from his leather captain's chair to another chair that was like a rocker. He would plop down on the rocker with all his might and main. Every session, the rocker sunk a little lower to the floor. Finally, he plopped down and the rocker broke. Bang, he fell flat on his ass on his Persian carpet. I was stunned, at a loss for speech. He then harangued me for not caring, for not helping him, for not soothing him. Who is crazy? When I am in the position where I am responsible for another, I don't expect them to sooth me and if something untoward happens, I reassure them. I am okay. I take care of you, not vice versa. I need to make sure the environment is safe for all.
Ah, but I digress. That relationship ended because he seemed to be out of it in sessions. Sometimes he actually looked pie-eyed. It was like looking at those cartoons where the character's eye were spinning around in circles and their facial muscles somewhat slack. He was late to sessions. This was around the time I was presenting at Eastern Psychological. My topic had nothing whatsoever to do with any of his interests. I asked him once if he had feelings about my presentation. He denied it. I asked him once if he had feelings about my leaving the psychoanalytic institute where he graduated. Again, denial. Denial is too tepid a word. He would become enraged if f I brought up these issues in sessions. The last session, he was so enraged that I literally feared for my safety. I grabbed my bag, my coat, and fled. When you have to figure out if you can physically disable your therapist if it comes down to a physical altercation, then it's time to end the relationship.
Of course, maybe he was having a stroke too--but again--damned if I did and damned if I didn't. It's only now I wonder if he was having strokes, but what can you do except call 911 anyway. And I'm not sure he would allow me. What did he want from me. I can't mind read and I'm not there to take over his care when he won't look after himself in the first place.