Reviving Ophelia (30 page)

Rita looked as if she’d stepped out of an MTV video. Her brown hair was decorated with feathers and beads, and she was dressed in a skin-tight satiny dress. But Rita’s personality didn’t match her flamboyant clothing. She was soft-spoken, almost shy, and eager to be liked. In a tentative way, she told me that she had just been arrested for drunken driving. This embarrassed and scared her. Her dad was an alcoholic and the last thing she wanted was to follow in his footsteps.

Rita said, “I’m here because I want to get fixed while I’m young. I don’t want to live a screwed-up life like my parents.”

Rita was the oldest of three children. Her dad was a salesman at a discount furniture store and her mother was a homemaker. Things had been bad for as long as Rita could remember. Her mother had arthritis and couldn’t work. Her dad was a womanizer and a compulsive gambler who worked long hours, then hit the bars or keno parlors. He wasn’t around home often, but when he was it was chaos and misery.

“I was hit a lot myself.” She showed me a scar above her left eye where she’d been hit by a beer bottle. “But that wasn’t the worst of it. Dad said horrible things when he was drunk, like ‘You’ll never get a man, you’re too ugly,’ or ‘too big of a bitch,’ or ‘too much of a slut.’ ”

She shuddered. “I stayed out of Dad’s way. I lay awake and listened to him yell at Mom. Sometimes he hit her.”

She pushed her long hair back from her face. “When I was fourteen I told Dad that if he ever touched Mom again I would kill him. He knew I meant it too. He hasn’t hit her since then.”

As we talked, it became clear that Rita had way too much responsibility for a sixteen-year-old. Like many parental children, she took better care of others than she did of herself. She worked too many hours at the rock-and-roll radio station. She comforted her mother, and on the days her father couldn’t make it out of bed, Rita called his boss with an excuse. She helped her brothers with their homework while ignoring her own.

Rita had a boyfriend, Terry, who at nineteen was an alcoholic and a gambler. He worked part-time at a bar/keno parlor. He had met Rita at a street dance and been immediately attracted to her. That night he danced with her and invited her to a barbecue at his place on Sunday. Rita brought a cake and did all the cooking.

She said, “He’s nicer than Dad. I know he’s got problems, but he never gets mad at me.” She paused, embarrassed. “I know dating Terry is dumb, so don’t tell me.”

I decided to save the topic for another day. Like many daughters of alcoholics, Rita was choosing men like her father. Love was connected to anger, violence, unpredictability and shame. She dated Terry in the hope that this time the story might have a happy ending. She dated him because the familiar was comfortable, even if it was the familiar chaos of a relationship with an alcoholic.

Even though Rita considered herself an adult, she really wasn’t. She hadn’t developed any identity except that of helper. She hadn’t thought through issues like her own sexuality or career plans. She had no personal goals or sense of direction. She had bad judgment about relationships, and she was uneasy socially and failing in school.

Like most girls who have been emotionally or physically abused by their fathers, Rita had internalized many of the messages that he sent. She didn’t think that a decent guy would like her or that she was worthy of a loving relationship. She saw her value to men in primarily sexual terms. As is true of many women with abusive fathers, Rita was patient, tolerant and good-hearted, all qualities that helped her survive in the home of an alcoholic. She was competent and responsible, but under the surface Rita believed her value was in serving others.

I wanted to help her develop a sense of herself independent of this family. She needed guidance in even imagining good relationships. She was unsure what a healthy male would be like. Men were like boys to her; they needed patience, care and humoring. Women were either like her mother—weak and ineffectual—or like herself, required to take on the weight of the world and handle it without complaint.

Rita had a genetic tendency toward alcohol abuse; she had observed the misuse of alcohol, and she was under a great deal of stress and unsure of herself. Alcohol was her way to deal with pain. I recommended she stop drinking and find a support group.

Rita was ready for change. She had a difficult background to overcome and limited support. She was young and overburdened, but she had energy, honesty and openness. I was hopeful that Rita would avoid a “screwed-up life like [her] parents.” At the end of our session I asked Rita when she would like to come back. She tossed her lovely hair and said, “Tomorrow.”

Casey came in with her parents after her father discovered diet pills in her purse. This alone might not have alarmed him, but the pills fit with other evidence that Casey had been using drugs. So he called for an evaluation of her chemical use.

Casey sat between her parents. She was a gawky young woman in white shorts who seemed much younger than her eighteen years. Her legs were red and covered with goose bumps from the cold outside. Her mother pointed to them and said, “You should have worn slacks.” Casey flushed. “I thought it was warmer than it is.”

I asked how she felt about coming and she responded with a glib “okay.” Her father contradicted her with a shake of his head. “We had to force her to come.” He outlined Casey’s problems. She was messy, dishonest, irresponsible with money and immature socially. She had come home drunk several times in the last month.

I asked Casey what she thought about her dad’s remarks. She was cheerful and agreeable. “I do drink quite a bit.”

We talked some about the history of the family. Casey was the second child. Her older sister had died as a baby two years before Casey was born. Losing a baby made Casey’s parents protective and indulgent, “worrywarts,” as Casey called them. Her parents worried about her health, her relationships, her schoolwork and her tendency to chubbiness. She’d seen many doctors, had tutors and been sent to special camps for the chubby and socially awkward. Her parents had worked to cushion Casey from the slings and arrows of ordinary life, and now they had a daughter who had no confidence or experience in meeting challenges.

We talked about Casey’s upcoming high school graduation, her summer plans and her new part-time job as a waitress. Her parents were happy she had a job, but worried that she wouldn’t show up for work or that the stress might be too much.

I thought that Casey was being killed by too much kindness and concern. Her parents were “inflicting help” on her. I wanted them to back off and let her take care of herself. Certainly she would make mistakes, but she would have a chance to learn from them and grow. Right now, except for her size, Casey wasn’t growing much at all. I, decided to see Casey alone. Meanwhile I predicted she would do fine at her waitressing job.

At our first individual session, Casey plopped down on the couch and groaned, “I got drunk again last night. I’m scheduled to wash dishes and mow the lawn until I die of old age.”

I decided to save alcohol questions for later and asked what concerns she had about herself. Her face reddened and she was quiet. “I’m fat,” she said. “That’s why I took the pills. I want a boyfriend.”

She told me about her first date her sophomore year. Stan picked her up for a movie, but instead of driving downtown, he opened a beer and headed toward the country. A more experienced or confident girl would have told him to take her home, but Casey was paralyzed. She had no idea what to do. She plastered herself to her door and stared out the window. Stan stopped by a state lake and opened another beer. He turned up the radio and pulled Casey toward him. She was terrified and stiff and Stan tried to warm her up with kisses and joking, but she stayed unyielding. She was afraid he might rape her, and this could well have happened had not another car of lovers pulled up. He swore and called her a lesbian. Then, much to her relief, he started the motor and drove her home.

After that Casey wondered if she was a lesbian. She knew very little about sex and was afraid to tell her parents what had happened. She was afraid to talk to other girls because they might think she was naive. Casey determined that the next guy who asked her out would realize she was sophisticated and a 100 percent heterosexual. When Sam asked her out, she got loaded and offered to have sex with him before he even asked. After Sam, there were others. Always she got drunk and then “did it.” Finally she quit dating. She knew she wasn’t handling things well and she was afraid of getting AIDS.

Alcohol was a way of deadening her anxiety so that she could have sex, and also of killing her guilt feelings afterward. If Casey learned to deal with her sexuality, she would have less need to drink. As we talked, it was clear that Casey had allowed guys to define her relationships with them. She felt so badly about her appearance that she was grateful that anyone wanted her. She was so eager to please that she never considered whether her needs were being met. As an assignment, I asked her to think about what kind of men she liked. What qualities would they have? What would be their interests? How would they treat her?

The next time Casey came in with a list. She pulled it out of her pocket and smoothed it on her knee. She read aloud, “I like guys who are handsome, athletic, caring and good listeners.” She paused. “I know this is asking too much, but I like guys who enjoy what I enjoy—horseback riding and basketball.”

“Do you know any guys who have these qualities?”

Casey thought for a while. “I know three guys like that, but they wouldn’t ask me out.”

“It’s the nineties,” I said. “Women can ask out men.”

Casey giggled at my suggestion, but wanted to talk about how exactly she might do it. I encouraged her to plan something low-key, to pay her own way and to avoid alcohol and sex. She looked at me incredulously. “What kind of a date will that be?” But when I started to answer, she waved it away. “I was joking. I’ll give it a try.”

Next time I saw Casey she had good news. She liked her job. Her room was still a mess, but she had managed to put thirty dollars in her savings account. Best of all, she had asked a guy on a date and he had accepted. She told me, “We went to the basketball game. I drove my parents’ car and met him at the auditorium. Afterwards he took me out for a frozen yogurt and we talked.”

Casey was amazed that she had the power to make an evening go her way. She was surprised and pleased that a man could value her for other reasons besides her sexuality. Furthermore, this guy asked her for another date, something that rarely happened with her previous dates.

We rehearsed saying no to sexual advances. Casey wrote a little speech to give when necessary. “I’m someone who likes to start slow and get acquainted before I get too physical. So let’s go out a few times and become closer friends. Later we can talk about whether we want a physical relationship.”

Over time Casey learned to check and recheck: “Is this person meeting my criteria for a good date?” If he wasn’t, she learned to say good-bye gracefully but firmly. She decided she did not want to have sex with anyone till they had known each other for several months and had talked about what sex would mean to both of them. They didn’t need to be engaged, but they needed to trust each other.

As she gained confidence, she spent less time with her family. She fought less with her parents as she developed more of a life for herself. Even though Casey was more confident socially, she still had the habit of drinking. She had learned to rely on alcohol to relax. I recommended a group called Women for Sobriety. Casey liked the atmosphere there. She had two serious slips in the first months of therapy, both of them triggered by anxiety about dating. But as she grew more independent and took more responsibility for her life with her parents and peers, she became more prudent in her consumption of chemicals.

Because Danielle’s parents were blind, I offered to drive to their home for a family therapy session. Danielle had been to my office earlier to discuss her recent arrest for being a minor in possession of alcohol. She was alarmed and guilty about the arrest. She hated to worry her parents, whom she loved and respected.

Danielle’s family lived downtown in a small pink clapboard house. Danielle, a tall, sturdy girl with red-gold hair, met me at the door. Today she was dressed in jeans and a Mexican-style blouse. She showed me into the small living room where her parents, Martin and Antoinette, waited on the couch. Martin was a studio musician and a piano tuner. Antoinette ran a small telephone answering service. In the early evening calls were infrequent; nevertheless, the phone rang just as we sat down.

The cat, Bon-Bon, sat on Antoinette’s lap. The room was dusty and cluttered with tapes, CDs and records. Harpsichord music was playing on the first-rate stereo system. Danielle poured strong tea for all of us.

Watching Danielle make introductions and serve tea, I was struck by how close this family was. Many things seemed understood—who would answer the door and be hostess, how to hand over the cups of steaming tea, who needed the sugar and cream, how phone interruptions would be handled and who would talk first.

It was Danielle. “Thanks for coming. I told my parents about our talk.”

Martin sipped his tea. “Danielle has always been a good daughter. We don’t want you to think otherwise. It’s highly unusual for her to be in trouble.”

Antoinette said, “She takes care of us and keeps things lively around here. She makes us laugh.” She stroked Bon-Bon thoughtfully as she talked. “Danielle has been quieter this year. We’ve had trouble keeping track of her. There have been nights she came in late and wouldn’t tell us where she’d been.”

“She’s been moodier,” Martin added. “But still, she’s not a rebellious girl. We’re proud of her.”

I was amused by how difficult it was for these parents to speak harshly of their daughter. I assured them that I too thought Danielle was marvelous. However, Danielle jumped in to argue with us. “I haven’t been a perfect daughter. I’ve lied to you and let you down.”