Out of the Shadow (14 page)

With one last glance in the mirror, she stepped from the car and approached the massive double doors. Dwarfed in the glass, she looked as small and nervous as she felt.

A knock, and Julie flung the door open, exclaiming over Becca’s outfit and her new hair cut. In the family room, she offered Becca a glass of Chablis, which she accepted gladly. A quick glance around the room made it clear Paulie had yet to arrive. This offered her an unexpected opportunity to prep herself for his appearance. At the bar, Becca joined her elderly maternal aunt in a drink. She attempted to make small talk, but was easily distracted by movement near the front door.

After thirty minutes of stealthy glances toward the foyer, Paulie had failed to materialize. Julie finally entered from the kitchen to announce he had called and would be late, but said they should start the meal without him. The hand supporting Becca on the bar faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly reestablished her hold.

The family took their time, wandering in groups of twos and threes into the dining room, then reconvened around the stately cherry-wood table. Becca followed after the others and seated herself beside the empty chair officially saved for Paulie. Although glad to have more time to prepare for Paulie’s arrival, now that she had made the decision to face the family, she just wanted to get it over with. When she raised her wine glass, her palms were moist. She had to wipe them off with a napkin before taking a sip, or risk spilling bright burgundy liquid on Julie’s lacy bleached-white tablecloth.

Julie’s helper Maria brought plates of rib roast, roasted potatoes, and asparagus spears to the table. Once the guests had been served, the decibel level substantially subsided as everyone went to work, masticating in busied silence. The room became so quiet she could hear the click of forks against plates, the screech of a chair leg against the wood floor, the drip, drip, drip of coffee from a nearby percolator. Her family loved to eat and dedicated themselves to a meal as if eating it would affect the future of humanity.

Becca kept a nervous eye on the front door, watching for Paulie’s belated entrance. As the minutes slipped away, so did her composure. She played with her food, unable to eat.

Julie noticed. "Aren’t you hungry? The roast is marvelous. Try some."

To appease Julie and shift the spotlight away, she took a tiny bite. "Yummy. You outdid yourself, Mom."

"Eat up. Don’t be shy." Julie speared another piece and dropped it onto her plate. Becca had to suppress a groan.

"I wonder where Paulie is? He’s so late," she fretted, unable to keep her mind on anything else.

"You’re right." Julie put down her fork. "I better give him a call, see what’s keeping him." She left for the kitchen and returned a couple minutes later with a pout plastered to her lightly-lined, perpetually-tanned face—even in the midst of a Philadelphia winter. "He has car trouble. He’s not sure he’ll make it tonight. He hasn’t even left his house."

That took all the air out of Becca’s planned performance. She slumped in her seat, wondering whether Paulie felt as reluctant to break bread with her as she was with him. All his apparent interest in her must have been mustered by Julie’s not-so-gentle nudge.

Once she realized the futility of confronting her family without Paulie, she found she could truly relax and enjoy herself. She cut a piece of roast beef and slathered it with horseradish sauce.

Julie took her seat. "We’ll have to go on without him."

Becca heard the angry edge in her voice, which made her wonder who would feel the cut from that blade.

Julie turned to her. "Why are you slumping, young woman? Haven’t I told you a million times to sit up straight? It’s bad for your posture."

It hadn’t taken long for Julie to find her displaced target. Why was it so often her?

Becca resisted the urge to tell Julie to go to hell. It had never worked in the past, why would it work now? Especially in front of all these guests. She let her mother’s frustration wash over her, and turned to her cousin Bob. No use playing Julie’s game by Julie’s rules; she would only end up a loser. Besides, her mood had lightened too much to let Julie needle her. Of course, the time would come when she’d have to deal with her family and her fears. But if she could hold her own with Julie, she could stand up to the rest of them. At least she hoped so.

"To be a good psychotherapist, you have to walk a fine line between empathy and detachment," I explained to the audience. "Of course we all tread the same narrow path in our personal relationships, but the potential consequences of not doing it well are much greater when dealing with a bruised or broken client. While every one of us wants to be emotionally attuned to our clients’ suffering, we don’t want to lose our objectivity. And we especially don’t want to be the ones to pilot their wayward course. They need to learn to navigate the rocky shoals of their own seas. It’s not our job to steer the rudder—only to offer them a sexton and a map, so they can make their own way.

"Becca arrived at the next session a little late—a sign of developing resistance to the treatment, and of her growing transference with me. As Sigmund Freud first pointed out, the transference principle is pivotal to all therapeutic gains. Only after a client has drawn an emotional correlation between the therapist and someone who hurt them in the past, can they begin to work through their painful and difficult early relationships in real time. That’s when the true therapy begins."

In my office, Becca refused to make eye contact with me and seemed in no hurry to sit. I offered her the space she seemed to require and gave her ample time to take her seat before I asked her what was going on.

She stared off into the distance, not answering right away. Finally, she said, "I don’t believe I’m getting anywhere with this therapy, Sarah. I’m thinking of quitting."

Not at all surprised, it would have been easy for me to point out the obvious reason for her resistance,
  but I knew that wouldn’t be the most helpful approach. I needed to listen to her concerns first; to empathize with her. As you know, empathic listening is the foundation of any therapeutic relationship, and therefore the basis for all progress.

"My life’s more complicated since I’ve been coming to see you," she continued. "My nightmares are back again, and I’m a mess. I hate to say this, Sarah, but I don’t think you’re helping me at all."

"I’m sorry you're going through all this," I said, echoing her concerns. "It sounds like you’re in a miserable place."

"You can say that again."

"I hope you realize anyone going through what you are would feel worse before they felt better."

She shot me a dubious look.

Before she could counter me, I continued. "It’s painful to tear away the defenses which appear to protect you, but really keep you from learning your truth. As these impediments give way and your secrets are revealed, you’re bound to feel more vulnerable and frightened. What you’re going through is quite common, but it’s also quite uncomfortable. It’s normal to want to cut and run at this point in your treatment."

She sat forward, her body tense like a runner at the starting line. "But it’s all futile. I don’t think I’m making any progress."

I watched her, noting the slight twitch beneath her right eye. Then I glanced down and glimpsed her playing with her fingers. Her nervousness informed me, even if she didn’t realize it, how close she was to a breakthrough. She did what most clients do under the circumstances: try to find a way to distance themselves from the therapy before they have to face something painful or shameful. I decided to force the issue, knowing I was taking a big chance with her. My intervention could inadvertently backfire and cause her to terminate treatment prematurely; but, then again, what did I have to lose under the circumstances? She might go anyway.

"It sounds to me like you’re getting close to a deeper knowing, and it's the nature of the truth that is bothering you. Let’s see what I can do to help you. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?"

She hesitated, looking as if she couldn’t decide how to react. "I don’t know..." she said, and stared out the window for several minutes. She seemed to be torn between the two sides of herself: the one resistant to doing the work and the other, willing to do anything to get past the misery and fear. "Okay," she finally said, not appearing okay at all. She lay back on the couch.

I released a silent sigh, grateful she had given into her cooperative nature. "Now, close your eyes," I prompted, "and take a couple of deep breaths. Then picture yourself as a little girl of eight or nine, and let me know when you have the image."

"I have it."

"Good," I said. "Now, I want you to place the child in a room with her parents, but somewhere she can’t be seen. She could be behind a curtain or under a table, or anywhere hidden from view." I gave her a moment to follow my suggestion. "From her vantage point, have her watch what’s going on in the room and report what you see to me."

After a short silence, Becca said, "My mom and dad are in the family room together, but they’re not alone. Someone’s with them."

"Who’s that someone?"

Again silence. Just when I thought she wasn’t going to answer, she said softly, "Uncle Paulie. He’s come to tell them a secret."

"What do you hear him say?"

"He tells them I’ve been a bad girl. I don’t listen to him. He’s worried about me." She began to cry.

"My mother tells him she’s heard enough. She doesn’t want to hear anymore about it, but my dad says she should listen to Paulie. They start to argue and my mom starts to leave the room, but my uncle grabs her arm."

"And?"

A slight tremble passed through her. "He says my dad’s right, she never listens to him. She’s been ignoring him for years just because she doesn’t agree with how he lives his life. He tells her this will come back to haunt her, but she pushes Paulie away. Her face is scarlet and she’s angry. I’m scared, but before she can do anything, Paulie races out of the house and slams the door behind him."

"How does all this make little Becca feel?"

"Scared. Ashamed. Alone. Like no one will ever like her again."

"Is there anything more you can tell me?"

She shakes her head. "No...nothing."

"How would you like to help little Becca feel better?"

"How can I?"

"You can visualize the woman you are today enter the room where Becca is hidden. See yourself go over to the little girl you once were, and scoop her up into your arms. Carry her off to a safe place where you can hold her and comfort her, until you begin to feel a sense of peace and a sense of safety pervading every cell in your body. Then, and only then, take a deep breath and slowly come back into this room."

I waited for Becca to open her eyes and lever herself upright. "You okay?"

Becca nodded.

"Tell me what the scene meant to you?"

"That I feel like a bad kid inside who’s done something terribly wrong and deserves to be punished and humiliated. No wonder I’ve put up with abuse and belittlement for as long as I have."

"Sounds like you’re on to something significant there. And even though you have no idea what the something might be, I can assure you it’s never as terrible as it feels. That’s the nature of our secrets. They’re like forgotten food in the fridge. When they’re left locked up inside for a long time, they spoil. The fact they appear putrid convinces us we’ve done something heinous
 we can never allow out into the light of day. But once we face our secrets, they’re never as rotten as they seem. Instead of being humiliated and degraded by the revelation, we’re relieved of the incredible burden of self-loathing we’ve been carrying around for years. You know what they say, you’re only as sick as your secrets and, once they’re no longer secrets, you’re no longer sick."

She rocked back and forth in an effort to soothe herself. "I don’t know. I might be worse off than your typical patient."

"I doubt that. But no matter what, it will not affect my feelings toward you one iota."

She allowed her eyes to meet mine for the first time since coming out of her trance. "I hope not."

I rose and made my way over to her, helping her to her feet. "I know not." Gratitude for her courage and perseverance welled up inside. I gave her a hug. We had overcome a therapeutic hurdle, and were on our way to the next stage of treatment. "I have an assignment for you this week. I want you to spend time every day with little Becca. I want you to comfort and reassure her you’ll be there for her, no matter what she’s done. Tell her she can trust you, because her trust is essential for you to do the work you need to do."

Becca made her way to the door a little dazed. "Okay, I can do that."

I knew I would do everything in my power to support and respect Becca’s growth. There would be steeper hills ahead for her, but she had made it over the first pass and she could make it over the rest. She had proven her courage and capability to tackle the trail ahead of her. If only I have the wisdom and strength to continue to guide her on her path!

"Let’s take a break and we’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes."

The words barely escaped my lips before I spotted Adrian Farley rise and approach the podium.