Get Me Out of Here (23 page)

He relaxed a bit and regained his composure, but the smile did not reappear. “No. That's not totally true. I accept your apology. I believe it's sincere. But the fact is, you very much meant to hurt me.”

Before he had only reprimanded me in the aftermath of self-destruction. This was the first time he had in response to an attempt to hurt him. Funny, I had tried so hard for so long to get to him, to land a sucker punch. I felt almost certain by his reaction that this one had actually hurt, that perhaps I had finally found the vulnerable spot. Yet there was little satisfaction at all in it. An empty victory.

I realized that, sitting across from me in his chair, Dr. Padgett was a living, breathing human being with feelings of his own. I felt awash in remorse.

“I'm really sorry, Dr. Padgett,” my eyes were looking directly into his. “I mean it. I was trying to hurt you. I admit it. But I really don't want to. You mean so much to me; you really do. I know you care about me, and I care about you too. Sometimes I wish that there was something, anything, I could do for you. I know I can't take back what I said. But I really, honestly feel badly if I hurt you. I know you don't deserve it.”

“Apology accepted,” he said, then glanced at the clock. “That's about it for today.”

It was an abrupt ending to an intense session, begun with the intention of confessing my own unreasonable motives, ending with me acting upon those very motives once again, rendering the confession hollow. My outburst and his startling reaction had taken place at an inopportune time in the session. There was little time to soften the blow.

So much of how Dr. Padgett chose to react involved purpose, planning, and self-control on his part. I doubted that he'd intended to show his emotions or to let me, the self-admitted master manipulator, see that I had touched a nerve. It had been a rare occurrence of spontaneity. Frustration and hurt boiled over the surface for my eyes to see.

In a way it frightened me. I'd become complacent in the acceptance that no matter what I said or did, the blank screen could always absorb it. Dr. Padgett's patience was infinite. As much as I'd tried to get to him, I couldn't and thus had felt assured that he could be true to his promise, that I could never succeed in driving him away and that he could continue to see me because he was somehow superhuman. Perfect. An altruistic, turn-the-other-cheek demigod and martyr.

Now I wasn't so sure. Perhaps his patience was wearing thin. I couldn't blame him if one day he decided he'd had enough. Was I en route to destroying this relationship too?

And yet there was a certain degree of comfort and relief to be derived from this new realization that Dr. Padgett was human. Imperfect. He was neither superhuman nor infinite in his patience. Dr. Padgett had stayed with me not because he was a professional, not because he was a tightly self-controlled martyr, but because he really was committed to me. And he'd been hurt, not because he'd fallen off the pedestal of perfection, but because he cared.

One of the most difficult aspects of the therapy limits, the fifty-minute hour specifically, was my compulsive need for closure. Black and white. If I left a session touched by his kindness and feeling the warmth of connection, it carried over into the interval between sessions. The security in being loved.

Sessions that ended abruptly, however, left me in a state of rage, isolation, and despair. These feelings, too, spilled over into the next hours and days. I could not conjure love and warmth as the rage and despair became seemingly eternal.

More often than not, I had acted on these feelings, sometimes through hostile notes on Dr. Padgett's windshield, threats, or impulsive acts of self-destruction—or any way I could overcome the sense of abandonment. Until I was somehow convinced of the bond I had with Dr. Padgett, through an emergency phone call or another session, I'd been virtually trapped in this state of disconnectedness, hungering for his reassurance.

This session, too, had ended before I had the chance to elicit Dr. Padgett's reassurance. Filled with remorse that I had attacked him and regret that my apologies were too brief and insufficient, I had only two words to rely upon: “Apology accepted.” No closing profound insights, no reassuring words of kindness, and no offer to extend the session.

It was tempting to engage in yet another act of self-destruction, to find some way to summon his attention and have him reassure me. And yet, for some reason, I did not. Maybe it was because my confession and willingness to accept the manipulative instincts within me were more sincere than I'd thought, even after my voracious attack.

Then again, maybe I was able to feel the bond and sense of connectedness to him without the kind of closure I had needed before.

Maybe, just maybe, I was beginning to grow up.

“I'll bet you were expecting a late-night phone call, weren't you?” I grinned, a child proud of her newest accomplishment.

“Why would I expect that?” Dr. Padgett said, returning my smile with one of his own, a wordless expression that let me know beyond a doubt that I had been forgiven.

“Well, you know,” I said, blushing a bit, “that was a pretty wild session yesterday. I left pretty upset. And you didn't seem to be too happy yourself. Usually a recipe for disaster.”

“What made you react differently this time?” he asked.

“I'm not exactly sure,” I answered. “I mean, I thought about it. I thought about doing something stupid, but I didn't. For some strange reason, I felt secure. Like I knew that, even with the way session ended, everything would be okay. That you really meant what you said when you accepted my apology.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Pretty good, actually. You know, if it had been six months or a year ago, I would have gone off, locked myself up in the attic, gone off running, whatever. But I didn't. And, actually, last night went pretty well. I played with the kids for a while, cooked a good dinner. I slept great. I can hardly believe it!”

He smiled, sharing in my satisfaction—the same all-consuming, contagious smile he'd showed me yesterday. I was proud of myself, and so was he.

So many accomplishments filled all those past years, and yet none of them had satisfied me in the way that this one did—so simple and natural for other people but so difficult for me. I was like a child finally able to kiss Mommy good-bye without a fuss, content in the knowledge that Mommy still loved her and would be back.

In the vernacular of psychology, I'd gained an understanding of “relationship constancy,” an understanding that a strong relationship could weather its moments of anger and irritation and temporary separation. It was a lesson Dr. Padgett had tried to teach me from the very first session and one that, eighteen months later, I was finally beginning to understand and accept. It represented a graduation of sorts into the next realm of issues, a visible sign of progress.

I spoke at length about this as Dr. Padgett listened with the satisfaction of a teacher whose lesson had finally been learned.

“Growing up,” he said, “is actually a pretty ambivalent process. On the one hand there is the natural desire to separate from the parent, to move on and be able to handle more responsibilities. A three-year-old sees her older sister riding a two-wheeler and wants to be able to do it herself. A ten-year-old sees that sister driving a car and is no longer as content with the two-wheeler.

“But every once in a while, that child needs to be reassured that she hasn't grown up
too
much and that her parents realize how much she still needs them. A good parent can give that kind of reassurance without thwarting the natural and healthy desire to grow more independent.

“When you were growing up, that reassurance was missing. So, as hard as you tried to achieve your independence, it was a double-edged sword. You wanted your parents to loosen the reins, but you were afraid that they'd just let go of them entirely. With every move toward growing up and independence came a fear of abandonment. It's a scary feeling for any kid, especially in the teenage years. One of the reasons teenagers rebel is to test the limits to make sure they are still there. But for you it was particularly difficult. And something you never really got over.”

I nodded, absorbing all his words. They made sense.

“It's the same thing in therapy,” he continued. “You want to grow; you want to move on with your life. But you fear wanting that. As if, somehow, if you need me less, I'll care about you less. But that isn't true for me any more than it would be true for a parent. Your feelings may waver, but mine don't. I didn't care about you in the beginning because you were in a life-or-death crisis and needed me more. I cared about you because you are you.

“And I don't care about you any less just because you need me less. It doesn't make a difference whether you're acting like the best patient or the worst patient I've ever had. It doesn't change the fact that I care about you. This is a parent's kind of love. Unconditional.”

“Dr. Padgett,” I said, “I've got a question, probably a dumb one, but I'll ask it anyway.”

“No question is ever dumb here.”

“I know. Anyway. Umm, I know I think about you all the time, in sessions, in between sessions. Sometimes it seems like you're on my mind every waking hour. Sometimes, even in my sleep, my dreams have you in them. But what about you? Do you ever think about me when we aren't in session together? You know, not all the time or anything—I know you have your own life, and you have other patients—but sometimes?”

“What do you think?” he asked gently, not in the least bit sarcastic.

“I know what I
want
to think. I want to think you do. At least every once in a while.”

The blank screen descended for a brief moment.

“You're right,” he answered, an uncommon direct response to a direct question, one I had not figured he would answer. “I care about you, Rachel. It's only natural that I would think about you at times, even out of session.”

“Do you think about me when you go on vacations?” I asked hopefully.

Dr. Padgett only smiled. I was pushing it, and both of us knew it. I didn't need to hear the answer to that question. The first answer was more than sufficient.

Of course any rational person would assume that, given the frequency, depth, and intensity of a therapy relationship such as ours, a therapist would sometimes think about a patient in between sessions. For anybody else it might have been an eminently dumb question. For me, however, it was anything but dumb, and the fact that Dr. Padgett was willing to answer sincerely and not chastise me for my stupidity reassured my newfound sense of relationship constancy. The question wasn't for the benefit of the thirty-year-old woman who posed it but for the child that resided within her.

“A part of you wants to run away from therapy, wishes that it could be over, wants to push it along and have it all done with,” he said. “But another cannot envision it ever ending.”

Why does this man always have to spoil the most tender of moments by saying things I didn't bring up, things I absolutely don't want to hear?

“I guess,” I answered coldly, not wanting to accept it, but not wanting to argue the issue either.

“It's okay, Rachel,” he reassured me. “It really is. Growing up can be scary. The notion of adult responsibility can make a teenager wish she were a little girl again.

“But a good parent realizes that even though this girl can drive a car and hold a job, even though she's reached a state of maturity where she is physically capable of having a child of her own—emotionally that teenager still needs the parent to be a parent. The parents don't throw the child out; the child reaches a point where she is
ready
to move off on her own. A good parent is pleased when this time comes because it is evidence that the child has grown up, not because the parent wants to be rid of her.

“You might not be able to envision it now, but a time will come when you need me a lot less than you need me right now. It won't mean that you love me less, but you'll want to move on to the next chapter of your life. There'll come a time when you'll be better off on your own without me than to stay in therapy.”