IMPULSE

As I can attest, the more a therapist is like your parents, the more powerful your transference—your positive and negative feelings towards them—will be. Of all my therapists, Beth was most like my mother, and consequently, I developed a violent crush on her.

When George Salikas’s offer to me of a stint as boat tour guide fell through (my dad never explained why), I took a part-time position as the secretary for a Sofabed Warehouse that had just opened in Pleasant Hill—and was glad I landed where I did. I was making more money, the workload was light, my boss was affable and the salespeople lively and companionable. I found it such a congenial atmosphere I looked forward to going to work each morning. Until I was unceremoniously fired a month later by the owners—just told one Friday not to come back Monday—because they’d decided their secretary at the main branch in S.F. could handle all the paperwork.

The afternoon I lost my secretarial job at Sofabed Warehouse, I wrote:

“On impulse, I took the exit and found my way to Hill Crest, which oriented me. I knew Beth might not be at the Center today, and even if she was she might not have time to see me. It was a hair-brained thing to do, so I resolved not to be disappointed whatever happened.

“I paused at the Center door, knowing my face was puffy from weeping. To my relief the receptionist had gone, and the waiting room was empty. On the main desk was a schedule with today’s date—Beth’s name headed one column, her appointment times listed down the side. At four, a name was entered. She’d be finished in twenty-five minutes, I calculated.

“I went down the hall to the kitchen unit and opened a cupboard to get a styrofoam cup. As I fixed myself some tea, I pressed my cool fingers against my hot cheeks and forehead and smarting eyes. It felt soothing. In the bathroom, I blew my nose and collected a handful of tissues.

“There was a recreation room, red-carpeted and strewn with enormous beanbag chairs. I curled up on one of them, putting my tea on a folding chair. The bag was soft, the tea warm. Crying, even silently, was a relief. I lay back on my cushion, cradling my head in my hand, daubing my nose, which kept running, and wondered what I was doing there, what I would say to Beth. A man’s voice rose and fell in the next room. I whispered, ‘Beth, don’t stay overtime with him! I need to talk to you.’

“Eventually I heard footsteps in the hall and saw two people pass the door. But the woman wasn’t Beth, which confused me momentarily, until it occurred to me that it was a couple she had been seeing.

“I hurried out into the hall, saw her office door standing open and the front door just shutting. Had I missed her? Had she been ahead of them and gone to her car for some reason? I opened the front door and looked out, calling her name. The young couple, at their car, glanced around at me. I went back in, bewildered—and saw Beth walking toward me from her office.

“’Beth?’ She looked at me without emotion, not—apparently—perplexed or surprised by my tear-stained face or unexpected visit. In fact, there was no glimmer of response in her face at all. It felt to me in that moment that our acquaintance only existed during a certain hour on a Tuesday morning. Now she was a stranger who admitted no claims upon her. ‘Are you about to leave?’

“’Yes,’ she answered briefly. ‘You’re upset about something?’ The question sounded perfunctory. Her eyes were vacant of concern.

“’I lost my job today.’

“She turned without comment and walked to a desk, where she busied herself with some papers. Her reaction was so strange I didn’t know what to do, so after a moment I turned and walked down the hall.

“I sat on my beanbag and began to buckle the straps of my sandals in slow motion. My body felt unendurably heavy. Would it be wrong to ask for something for myself—a few minutes of time? Would it be wrong to just ask? But I couldn’t, after such a chilly reception; I’d felt dismissed. I began to cry, wondering whether this was some test Beth was devising for me. I saw her pass by the door. I picked up my coat and went looking for my purse. When I entered the hall, she’d shut herself into her office.

“So I got in my car and drove off, reassuring myself over and over again that it wasn’t wrong to have tried to get help. There wasn’t anyone else I could go to. Or so I thought.”