BACK “HOME”

When I first came home, my mother treated me better for a time—because of my abortion, I believe, realizing that it had been a painful experience for me. She even allowed me to keep the cockatiel I’d bought in southern California—“Mutty,” for “muttonchops,” because when he fluffed up his neck feathers, it looked like that old-fashioned style of beard. But it wasn’t long before she lapsed into abusiveness again. As for my brother, he was as hostile towards me as ever. When I went out of my way to be nice to him, he snarled, “Leave me alone. I don’t want to be your friend!”

They’d moved to a new condominium in Concord, only a few blocks away from my grandmother and Uncle Rob. It had cream carpeting and mostly cream upholstery—and one wall of the living room was a mirror, which made the place look bigger. My mother always sat in a blue velvet chair facing the mirror—and when she caught a glimpse of herself, she would adjust her mouth into an odd, artificial-looking smile, apparently trying to look prettier or put on a more pleasant expression.

I slept on the living room sectional, while my mother and brother occupied the two bedrooms upstairs. Most of the few possessions I’d packed into a trunk before my move to southern California wound up in a cramped storage closet off the tiny back patio.

When I’d visited my dad, I’d told him how depressed I was and asked if he would help me financially to resume therapy with someone I chose, rather than someone who was assigned to me. He agreed—but said he would pay only as much as my mother did. Mom also agreed and recommended Dr. G, who had impressed her when he spoke at a conference she’d attended.

It was clear to me from our first session that Dr. G engaged far more with his clients than either of my psychiatrists had—and I left feeling a rush of hope. After the second session, however, I wrote:

I’d hoped that therapy would be different this time, that I’d find a therapist who would be a friend—someone who would like me, believe in me, trust me. I wanted a place to pour out everything that was inside—good and bad— and be able to trust my therapist to understand, to forgive the bad and appreciate the good.

But today when I walked out of Dr. Goren’s office and headed for the john, I felt a storm of tears threatening. And later I thought about committing suicide again. I feel I need empathy and understanding from a therapist—and that if I can’t find these things, the only alternative is suicide because I can’t go on living with these feelings—either half-dead with a desolating emptiness or in the throes of wild despair.

The main purpose of the session today was to find out why I was so excited after the last one and why I walked in so scared today. It was his theory that I became excited because I thought I was going to be remade by him in therapy. “A beautiful fantasy,” he said, “being remade.” But I think I was elated because, when he guided me in his questioning last week, it gave me a feeling of partnership. I imagined that I’d found the rapport I’ve been so starved for there aren’t even words to express it.

I saw Dr G only a few times, deciding to quit therapy with him after a session in which he tried to bully me into an admission that I was a lesbian. I’d gone home and cried bitterly, afraid he might be right, when all I’d ever wanted was a man to share my life with. I was so suggestible at the time I couldn’t even factor in what should have been obvious to me—that I was attracted to Dr. G himself.