Reviving Ophelia (17 page)

At first Brenda’s concerns were all about Jessica. Would she be sick, lonely or get into trouble? She felt guilty and anxious leaving her daughter in the evenings. Later she admitted that she had her own concerns: She was uneasy socially after all these years of no practice and she worried that a man might ask her out.

She said dramatically, “I am not ever going to date.”

“That’s one way that you and Jessica are alike,” I said. “Neither of you wants to deal with the opposite sex.”

With Jessica, I asked questions that I hoped would help her define herself as separate from her mother. She considered her mother’s views stupid, but she knew exactly what they were. We had our most success with the modeling research, which Jessica pursued throughout our time together. She sent off for information about clinics and schools. She read the autobiography of a famous model and a book with tips on becoming a professional model. She experimented with her hair and makeup. One day she came to our session dressed in royal blue. I looked surprised and she said, “Black is just not me.”

She returned to school and after much discussion decided to join the photography club. All my work with Jessica was funneled through her desire to be a model. I encouraged her to exercise by noting that models with muscles were popular. As she exercised, she became less depressed and more energetic.

I suggested that models needed self-confidence to cope with all the competition. Jessica agreed and worked on this. She kept a record of three things she was proud of each day. She recorded: “I’m proud I fed the cats, went to school and didn’t yell at Mom.” “I’m proud I washed my hair, turned in my homework and smiled at a girl in my gym class.” Later she bought a counter at Ben Franklin’s and clicked it every time she did the smallest thing that pleased her. This put Jessica on a positive search for what she liked about herself. Also she, not her mother or anyone else, determined what was valuable about her. Her feelings of self-worth were coming from within. Soon Jessica was able to click fifty or sixty times a day. We defined victories as times when she made an effort to accomplish her long-term goals. Jessica began reporting regular victories. She signed up for an aerobics class at the YWCA. She talked to a friend who was also interested in modeling, and they agreed to exchange information about local competitions and shows. She developed a portfolio of pictures of herself.

I encouraged Jessica to write down her thoughts and feelings and to sort out which values of her mother’s she wanted to keep or reject. Gradually Jessica had thoughts that were not simply reactions to Brenda. She discovered the joy of developing her own ideas rather than rebelling against Brenda’s.

One day Jessica said, “I hate it when Mom doesn’t respect my choices. That’s worse than her not loving me.” That led to a discussion of how important her mother’s regard for her really was. She desperately wanted her mother to acknowledge that she was growing up into her own person.

This case was one in which I needed to set aside my own judgments and stay humble. I shared much of Brenda’s antipathy toward modeling, and I generally work to minimize appearance and develop other qualities in my clients. But I needed to trust Jessica to do what was right for her. Jessica’s interest in modeling helped her reenter the world and develop a self.

At our last joint session, Jessica was dressed in a silky green shirt and neon-yellow tights. Her eyes were lively and she talked easily. She had an opportunity to model clothes for a local store. Her grades were just average, but she was proud of her Bs in business math and merchandising.

Brenda said, “I’m not nuts about modeling, but I’m happy that Jess is happy. She doesn’t have to choose something I would choose. I am trying to acknowledge that Jess is growing up and becoming her own person. I want that for her.”

“You need your own life too,” Jessica said.

Brenda nodded. “I’m working on that.”

I quoted the old saying “Velvet chains are the hardest to break.”

Fay and Sorrel sat in my office late one winter afternoon. A week earlier Sorrel had told Fay that she was a lesbian, and Fay urged her to seek help in understanding what this meant to her life. Mother and daughter both wore jeans, dark sweaters and old hiking boots. I asked Sorrel how she felt about being a lesbian.

“I have known I was different for a long time, but I couldn’t say exactly how. When I was in sixth grade, I imagined kissing cheerleaders and pretty teachers. But I didn’t know any lesbians and I’d heard the word only as a put-down. So even though I was attracted to girls, I refused to label myself lesbian.”

She looked at her mother and Fay nodded encouragement to continue. Sorrel exhaled deeply. “I found some old books written by psychologists about homosexuality, but they didn’t help at all. I wanted stories about girls like me that were okay. There was nothing like that. I was happy when k.d. lang announced she was a lesbian. She was talented and pretty, someone I wouldn’t mind knowing.”

Fay said, “Sorrel has always been unique.”

“I made life hell for Mom when I was little and she was married to Howard.” Sorrel laughed. “Howard was a jerk. He tried to control me and make me into a little lady.”

Fay agreed. “Howard wanted her to wear dresses and she refused. He insisted that we teach Sorrel who was boss, and we fought about that. I never have tried to control Sorrel. I have loved her uniqueness and wanted her to be exactly who she is.”

“Mom and Howard divorced when I was seven,” Sorrel said. “I don’t plan on ever living with a man again.”

Fay continued. “Even as an elementary student, Sorrel was different. She spent a lot of time alone reading or sketching. She collected rocks and leaves.”

Sorrel interrupted. “I liked things that humans hadn’t touched. I liked things orderly and regular.”

I asked how other children treated Sorrel. Sorrel answered, “I didn’t have many friends unless you count imaginary ones. I preferred boys to girls. Girls were catty and superficial.”

“I couldn’t protect her,” Fay said. “At least I had the sense to not try and change her. I knew she was fine the way she was. I tried to make our home a safe haven for her.”

Sorrel said, “Junior high was the pits. I felt like I was on a different planet from the other kids. I was the untouchable of my school.”

She looked at Fay and said softly, “Mom doesn’t like to hear this, but I thought some about killing myself. I didn’t fit anywhere. I didn’t dare admit even to myself why I was different.”

Fay winced at the mention of suicide, but she held her peace and let Sorrel continue with her story.

“I survived by living in my own world. The real world was too hostile so I made new ones. I drew lots of fantasy pictures.”

Fay beamed. “Sorrel had her own vision of the world.”

Sorrel said, “Drawing saved me.”

I asked Sorrel how I could help.

“I need to meet other lesbians. I need to know that I’m not the only one. I want to read more about girls like me.”

We talked about the local Women’s Resource Center and a nearby women’s bookstore. I told her about the gay/lesbian support group for teenagers.

Fay reminded us that Sorrel was different in many ways besides her sexual orientation. She was more self-sufficient that other girls. She had acute sensibilities, sometimes so acute Fay worried they would destroy her.

Sorrel said, “I want to compliment Mom on her support. She’s stood by me through all my weirdness.”

Fay smiled. “I have tried to teach her that intelligent resistance is a good thing. Sorrel has wonderful things to offer the world, and I’ve tried to protect her gifts. As a girl, I was fearful. I wanted to fit in and be popular. I lost a lot by being such a conformist. As an adult, I have spent years sorting out the mess I became in high school. I was determined to help Sorrel resist.”

Sorrel didn’t fit into our cultural categories for young women. She belonged to an invisible population: lesbian adolescents. Particularly in junior high, she had suffered for the sin of being different. Luckily Fay possessed an uncommon ability to give her daughter unconditional love. She accepted Sorrel as she was and valued her daughter when others didn’t. She resisted the temptation to urge Sorrel to conform and fit in. She made their own home a safe house.

Whitney and Evelyn resembled each other with their blond hair and round freckled faces, but stylistically they were different. Whitney was relaxed and wholesome-looking in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, while Evelyn was dressed in an elegant suit with matching shoes. Clearly Evelyn had been a knockout when she was younger, and she still spent a great deal of time on having the perfect look. Today in my office she held herself stiffly and seemed uncomfortable.

Whitney was open and flexible while Evelyn was quiet and cautious. She grimaced when I asked why they were in my office. “Sam insisted. He’s fed up with our fighting. He’s worried about both of us, but particularly Whitney. She doesn’t want to go to school.”

Whitney said, “I wanted to come. I asked Mom a year ago if we could see a therapist, but she said it cost too much.”

Evelyn said, “I don’t think it will help, but I’m willing to try. I promised Sam.”

First I talked with Evelyn, who told me that she had had trouble with Whitney since the day she was born. She had a difficult labor and suffered a major postpartum depression. Immediately after Whitney’s birth, she made Sam promise no more children. Evelyn had been a shy, well-behaved girl and Whitney was boisterous and outgoing. From the moment of her birth, Whitney had stolen the show.

Evelyn clearly resented Sam’s relationship with Whitney. “He thinks she walks on water. He doesn’t see her sneakiness and self-centered-ness. She’s got him snowed.”

I asked about Evelyn’s relationship with Sam. She said it was good when he was around. Sam ran an international business and spent lots of time abroad. Evelyn felt they would get along fine if it weren’t for Whitney. They fought about her constantly. Evelyn felt he spoiled her, and Sam felt Evelyn was cold and uncaring.

As Evelyn talked, I was impressed by how lonely she was. If she had any affection for her daughter, I could not find it. She had no close friends and seemed utterly dependent on Sam for companionship and support. And Sam was a scarce commodity. She was devoted to him and resented that his devotion was divided between her and Whitney.

Evelyn said, “Sam doesn’t know Whitney like I do. She drinks and she’s had sex. I wasn’t raised that way. I was a virgin when I married.”

I asked about her relationship with Whitney. Evelyn said, “She’s mouthy. I never, ever yelled at my mother. I don’t want her to touch me or talk to me. I’m counting the days until she moves out.”

In fact, Whitney was pretty well behaved for the nineties. She worked part-time at a sporting-goods store, and until recently she was an honor roll student. She was on student council and active in the Young Republicans. She was sexually involved with her boyfriend of a year, but she’d been honest with her parents about this. She’d made her own arrangements for birth control pills.

I suspected that Evelyn’s antipathy came from deep within herself—perhaps from her own unsatisfied needs for love or her disappointment that Whitney was not a replica of herself. Evelyn wasn’t able to change with the times and appreciate that Whitney lived in a different world from the one she inhabited as a girl. She seemed stuck on the idea that things should stay the same.

When I met with Whitney alone, she was surprisingly positive about her mother. She clearly respected her mother’s talents—as a homemaker, an expert on grooming and a seamstress. She yearned for more connection and less competition between them, but she was baffled about how to make that happen. She said, “I can’t be someone I’m not just to please her.”

Whitney felt closer to her father, who she knew loved her. But he was gone so much, and when he was home he had to be careful not to side with Whitney. She said, “Mom notices who Dad hugs first. She tells him stories so he’ll be angry with me.

“Mom calls me a slut because I’ve had sex,” Whitney said. “Nothing I do is right for her. She gives me the silent treatment, and sometimes I can’t even figure out what she’s mad about.”

She began to cry as we talked. “I need Mom. Things happen that I wish I could tell her, but I’m afraid to.”

I asked for an example. “Right now, I’m being bugged by these guys in the parking lot after school. They gawk at me and call me names, and one of them tried to pull my blouse off. If I told Mom, she’d say it was my own fault, that I deserve what I get. That’s one reason I hate school now.”

Whitney had other problems too. She was working too many hours and worried about balancing her time. She loved her boyfriend, but they fought almost daily and Whitney wanted to talk about improving that relationship. She didn’t bring these things up with her mother because she was certain she’d be blamed for her troubles.

At the end of that first session we all met together. Evelyn said, “The basic problem is I don’t respect Whitney’s morals.”

Whitney said, “No. We need to communicate more. I need you to understand me.”

Evelyn was white-lipped as she talked. “I’ll never approve of what you’re doing. That’s not the way things were done in my family.”

I thought to myself, But Whitney is not you and the world isn’t the same. I searched for a way to end the session on a positive note. This was an unusual case because the mother had broken her bonds with the daughter. Evelyn seemed more fragile than Whitney and more rigid in her thinking. Until Evelyn felt better about herself, she couldn’t care for Whitney. Evelyn needed more friends and interests, a life besides waiting for Sam to come home. I asked if Sam could come with them next time, and I complimented Evelyn on her honesty. I would have to nurture her before she would nurture her daughter.