I’m The One With The Story

Since I retired four years ago, I’ve often been asked if I missed being a clinical psychologist. My answer has, so far, been “no.” Despite my love for my previous profession and the importance of my patients to me, pleasure now abounds in the protracted periods of solitude I’ve enjoyed after a lifetime of listening to others describe their troubles and their joys. “I just needed a break from everything professional,” I answer. “And I’ve managed much more than morphing into a couch potato.”

I’d taken the risk, for example, of struggling and then succeeding to write a memoir about my complicated relationship with both my mother and my daughter, one that is soon to be published. “I never really left the story-telling business,” I insist with a laugh. “It’s just that now I’m the one with the story.”

Until a few days ago, this explanation for my lack of longing for my career of thirty-five years seemed to reflect the whole truth of the matter. But then came an unexpected conversation with Olivia, a neighborhood teenager. In a flash, I was transported back in time, and with surprise: I sat up straight in my chair, hyper-aware that there was one aspect of my former work that, it turns out, I do miss.

Olivia’s Mom, who shares custody of her daughter with her ex, called with an ask: Could I look after Liv until my neighbor returned from a business dinner that night? I was eager to catch up on all that was trending in Teen World, so l happily anticipated time with this vivacious and motivated fourteen-year old whom I’d known since she was in Pull-Ups.

“How’s it going, Sweets?” I chirped, as I ushered my young pal into the kitchen. But before I could sweep her close for our usual hug, she slumped at the table.

“Okay, I guess.”

Inevitably, I picked up on the telltale tone in her voice. Flat. Obviously, I still couldn’t step out of my therapist’s shoes entirely.

“Actually, my day was not all that great.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” The strain in her smile told me she was carrying an emotional weight as heavy as her backpack. She dumped it on the floor, but it didn’t look as if any of that weight had been eased.

“This calls for some serious junk food.” I moved toward a cabinet and gave her a smile meant to reassure.

At this point, with an occasional swipe at her eyes, Olivia described the worry that had shadowed her during the entire day. As we munched on some chips, she told me about a tightness in her chest and a lightheadedness she could not breathe away. The symptoms had apparently been triggered by a class discussion about mental health issues. It sounded to me as if she’d been having a panic attack.

“You probably know that my Dad has some stuff like this, some depression, going on again, and that’s why my Mom said I couldn’t go to his house tonight.”

“Wow, that’s big,” I said, taking the low key approach I always adopted when starting to talk about a tender subject. Then, to underscore the legitimacy of her stress, while helping her to recognize her own grit, I added: “How in the world did you manage to make it through all that today while in school?”

Only then did I become consciously aware of my own emotion: how many hundreds of times had I sat in my consultation room across from a distressed teenager, feeling relaxed and comfortable in my own skin. Fully engaged and hoping to demonstrate that I knew how to listen––with empathy and compassion.

Of course, I wasn’t Olivia’s therapist (or anyone’s therapist, I reminded myself), but I was nevertheless energized by the prospect of assisting her with my innate skills. Those hadn’t evaporated since retirement.

Suddenly, I stepped back into a once familiar world: making use of my unconscious mind, intuition, experience, and intellect, I was guided by my education and all of it was tempered by my practice of the “art” of therapy.

I hoped to “spark” an important and unique connection between us. Perhaps I could forge this and it would help Olivia step into her own world and look at it more closely: first on an unconscious, and then, conscious level––past to present and vice versa. All as a way of understanding what she was feeling and why.

Couldn’t I be an honorary Grandma: someone who understood the steps of this dance and recognized it as the most thrilling part of the therapy process? And so I sat quietly. And waited.

Over the course of the next two and a half hours, minus the time spent paying for a Door Dash delivery of enormous burritos and then digging in, our conversation continued to deepen. She told me of her underlying fear that his “condition” might be heritable.

“Well, I know you understand that this is a very common thing for kids with parents who have troubles, right?” Did she understand anything about all this, even a little bit? “You know, worries like the ones you’re talking about can bubble up sometimes—even though they come out of the blue, like a thunderstorm. Those times can make it hard to breathe, or give you sweaty palms, or leave you with anxiety. Maybe you need to talk about this stuff more. I’m always around the corner.”

A look of relief came into her eyes. As she reached for her bottle of blackberry fizz, I put my hand over hers and squeezed. A smile came my way.

“What’s on the study menu?” I poked then.

“I have to write an essay for that stupid class that freaked me out this morning,” she answered. “About a time in my life that was challenging.”

“So, what are you going to write about?” I asked, guessing that perhaps I already knew the answer.

She giggled. “Resilience!” And then glided down the hall to my writing room, now ready to begin to tackle her subject.

I got up from my chair, overwhelmed by emotions of both pleasure and satisfaction. Our two worlds had collided and started a process that burned brightly in Olivia’s increasing awareness. Days later, the poignancy of our time together lingers with me: I’ve had the opportunity to reflect on why––until that conversation––I hadn’t even been ready to perceive how I missed therapy as my life’s work.

What I realized is that previously I hadn’t allowed myself to confront the emotions that “missing” engenders: I hadn’t felt safe enough to feel saddened by the passing of this significant part of my life. Now, at long last able to accept my feelings of loss, it’s not surprising that saying so long to Therapist Terry is so much more difficult than closing my office door for the final time. Nevertheless, I understand that saying goodbye is an integral part of growing into my older self: now I am the one with the story.

If you were to ask me today whether I miss the exhilaration of the waltz of therapy’s two-way connection, I would respond with an affirmation. Perhaps even with enthusiasm. Yet, I don’t harbor a desire to dig out my dancing shoes for good. However, if another such query about ending my retirement were before me once again, wouldn’t I now take another dip and twirl as an honorary Grandma alongside a kid in need, one who might be asking silently for some solace and a burrito? You bet I would.