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Monthly Archives: October 2015

Time to Take a Break

I’ve decided to take a break from writing and from my blog. I had wanted to publish a few postscript type bits on The Story of Hanna and one last post in the Family Rules thread first, but….

I’ve posted almost everything I had written in advance of starting my blog in February. Now I am finding it very difficult to keep up with work, family, rest, my spiritual life and writing/blogging. So until my life slows down a bit and I get a feeling for what it is I have to say next, I am going to take a break and catch my breath.

Image credit here.

Image credit here.

Just being honest about where I am, and telling you all that I can’t keep, up is bringing a physical sensation of relief which affirms that it is time for me to take a step back.

So, I won’t be posting for now. And I won’t be reading your blogs, either. I will miss you a lot–you folks with whom I frequently interact–but less time on social media will give me the inner quiet I crave right now.

I will continue to respond to any comments and, of course, if you wish to, you can email me through the blog.

Have a wonderful Fall!!!

Jane

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The Last Time I Saw Hanna

Image credit here.

Image credit here.

October 20, 2015

I do not believe I have it in me to write this with eloquence. I am just going to tell it. I am weary this week, and relating this ending draws on scant reserves. Please view my friends with compassion. I will put some links to prior posts in blue in case you have not been following along and want to read this in context.

As Hanna and Niko packed to leave our home for good, Hanna made one final request:

“On the day of our flight, will you drive ahead of me to the airport?”

She was afraid she would get lost on the way to the airport and cause them to miss their flight.

I agreed.

Since our friends would be returning after all, they packed only what they needed for the next 10 days and left the rest of their belongings in our basement apartment.

Hanna and Niko pulled out of the driveway with the dream of salvaging their vacation. They had wised up and escaped our false friendship and the “jail” of our basement.

I breathed a bit easier.

A few days later, Henry and I realized we all needed to get away for a few days of rest. We decided to visit my mother in the country, three hours away. I reminded Henry of my promise: I had to be back by 11:00 a.m. on Sunday to make sure they got off safely. We drove separately.

I returned early as planned. I waited in the ancient green wing chair, trying to avoid feeling the horse hair poking out of the arm rests.

Hanna did not come. Noon came and went, and still no Hanna. By 1:00, I was pacing. Hanna had no phone, and I had no idea where they were staying. I am not entirely ashamed to admit that while I was concerned for their well being, by this point in the summer, I was most terrified by the possibility that something would prevent their return to Germany; and we would be left as their only financial, emotional, and logistical supports. I knew their financial resources had to be perilously low.

Around 1:15, I heard a key in the lock. The door popped open, and Hanna nearly fell into the entryway. She was frantic. And this is a woman who always keeps her cool.

“I forgot what day it was.”

Niko had tried to tell her their flight was that day, and she had shushed him. Why? Because he was psychotic. She had assumed he was confused. Hanna had known it was only Saturday. At least, until she had left the hotel room to buy milk. She had happened to look at the receipt as she was putting it in her wallet.

Hanna ran down to the basement and began throwing things into bags.

Here is what I learned about how they had spent the last 10 days of their much anticipated vacation. (These are the days they had tacked onto their visit to our home, against our express wishes, in the certainty that 10 more days would enable them to do all the sightseeing which had not been possible in the first 32 days due to my refusal to loan Niko my laptop. I am uncertain how they could have been so sure of their plan, if the success of their vacation indeed hinged on the matter of the computer, as they had left our home with the same number of electronic devices they had had when they arrived–zero. I don’t know why I even mention this as it is, by now, clear that many things about that month did not make sense.)

Our friends had left our house and headed to a Best Western in a nearby town. In no time at all, Niko had completed his disintegration into psychosis and had been unable or unwilling to leave their room. His unrepentant chain smoking in a non-smoking room had not gone unnoticed. The consequent eviction was troublesome but in the end, Hanna managed to get Niko to leave without out (much) police intervention. I am ever thankful he complied, which you will understand if you are familiar with some of the ways things can go wrong when the police are not properly trained in working with the mentally ill.

And so Hanna and Niko finished their vacation in a small, smoke-filled room. Hanna ran out quickly for food now and then, but that was her only relief. Niko hadn’t really been sleeping, and Hanna had stayed up nearly around the clock to keep an eye on him.

I helped Hanna carry the bags out to the car. Niko was waiting. As I approached the car, Niko approached me. His hair was a stringy mess, and he reeked of body odor and cigarettes. He did not much resemble my jovial friend as he shoved his fist under my nose.

“Stop trying to manipulate my wife or you will have to answer to me!”

I don’t think I answered back. I was too scared. As Hanna and I headed back to the house for one last check, I asked her, “Do you think he would actually hurt me?” I had never been on the receiving end of this type of threat.

Hanna had always insisted Niko would never, ever, hurt a fly, even when psychotic. At their 2006 visit, she had remained unruffled as he roamed the house, muttering. This time, she shrugged. She had too many worries to hold my hand. “Well, I think you never really know.”

In a very short time, I was going to be behind the wheel of a car bearing a corpulent psychotic man who had just threatened to flatten me. I knew that if I were to ask my therapist colleagues, they would advise me to keep my distance. So I wasn’t asking them. I knew I was going to bank on the history of the friendship and take my chances.

Hanna encouraged Niko back into their rental car and followed me to the car return near the airport.

I pulled over onto the shoulder of the busy access road and put on the flashers. I was afraid to follow her into the lot lest I be unable to exit without difficulty. Time was of the essence. Hanna told Niko to get into the back seat of my car and wait. He was unhappy to be left with me but she promised she would be back soon. Hanna drove through the gate, down a long drive, and disappeared from sight.

Niko, restless and uninterested in conversation, exited the car. I was afraid of him. I was also afraid for him. I loved him, and he had been a good friend. What if he walked into traffic? What if he wandered off, and got into some other trouble? As it turned out, he only wanted to heed the call of nature—in full view of passing motorists.

“Oh God,” I thought, “let him not attract notice!” We were at a major airport, after all, and security came and went every few minutes. After taking care of business, Niko took off at a clip towards the car rental place in search of Hanna. I called to him but he kept going.

After some time, he and Hanna returned. It was as though the sun had come out. Niko was happy to see me! He was very chatty as he hopped into the back of my car.

“We’re going on the Space Taxi! You and Henry and the girls are coming too, right? Where are they?”

“I’m so sorry, Niko. They are at home. We weren’t able to get tickets,” I explained, hoping to keep things light. My heart filled.

Once in the terminal, Niko continued to speak nonsense. It was was German and Greek nonsense, so nobody was any the wiser as they checked their bags. I hoped his gently-elevated mood would last until they arrived safely in Germany.

I tried to engage Hanna while we watched Niko wander here and there for a few minutes, taking in the airport. Our talk was strained. She did ask: “Tell me the truth. How bad do I look?”

I was honest. “Bad.”

“We saved for this vacation for so long. I was run down when we arrived. I can’t even imagine how shitty I look now. “

What could I say to that?

“I dread the questions I’m going to get when I go back to work,” she went on.

“Yes.”

It was time.

We hugged. I reassured Niko we would see each other again.

And then they were gone.

I felt taut for several hours after their scheduled departure time. I kept expecting a call saying Niko had not been allowed to board or that the pilot had been forced to land. Relief of a sort, came by midnight; however, I maintained a degree of numbness and denial for months leading up to my depression.

I learned later that Hanna had taken Niko directly from the airport to the mental hospital. In her letter, when it finally did arrive, she told me how proud she was of Niko, that he had still been “himself” enough to manage until she had shepherded him safely to the hospital. “No thanks to you,” was heavily implied.

You know most of what came next.

This post is part of The Story of Hanna. The prior post in the story is here.

Therapy Tales

Here are some slices out of my life as a therapist. While the tales are based on actual experiences and client stories, identities and specific circumstances have been altered so as to make client identification impossible.

90837

90834

90834

Image credit here.

Image credit here.

“He used to let me do everything for him.”

“Life was so good,” she sighs, “until the accident.” She wasn’t even sure how it had happened. Sherry recalled having felt out of sorts that day. She had asked Marco to put an extra shot in her Americano but the creeping nausea had caused her to reconsider. She had broken the rules and stolen a few moments on the cool leather couch in the women’s lounge off limits to staff. But in the end, she had thought it better to get up and push through. Sherry had been an athlete, and she understood this paradox: the cure for too much activity is more activity.

She had finished her shift at the restaurant, pulled out into traffic, and come close to waking up in the afterlife. Instead, she had come to in a hospital room, awakened by the sound of her own breathing. Her first thought: “And I didn’t even finish ironing John’s shirts.”

Sherry’s heart attack had left her with one good eye, one good arm, and one shiny blue wheelchair. “Cobalt,” she smiles, “I thought it would bring out my eyes. John always did like my eyes. He used to tell me what to wear and how to do my hair so I’d look like a million bucks.”

Past tense.

John had visited Sherry in the hospital. Once. After that, their conversations had taken place through attorneys. However, Sherry is not one to dwell on her misfortunes. She understands his wanting to protect his assets–what, with her care being so costly–and she doesn’t take it personally. “He is very, very close to his mother,” she confides, “and it seems only fair that he should have her money to himself once she’s gone.”

Sherry is a mite disheartened that John has not returned her calls. A few times she has used a paratransit service to organize a ride to his new condo. One time, a woman answered the door. “The cleaning service, I guess.”

Sherry doesn’t mind living with her mother for now. Not really. She had been disappointed to learn that she would not be able to return to the cape cod she had shared with John. She had had little choice but to go from the rehab facility back to her childhood home. The house isn’t fully accessible but she manages well enough with help from mother–though she is sometimes impatient and rough. Sherry imagines her mother’s disappointment at spending her golden years negotiating ostomy bags, and she forgives her.

“Now that the divorce has been final for a few months, we should be able to get back together. What’s a piece of paper, after all? I know John has been holding off to be sure all the legal stuff has settled.”

I take a deep breath, blink, and lick my lips, as I buy a moment to formulate my response. Before I can speak, Sherry continues.

“So do you think I should try calling this time or just show up?”

90834 is the billing code for a 45 minute individual counseling session. This is the code most commonly approved by Medicaid for individual therapy. You can find another post about a therapy experience here.

M&M Days

Image credit here.

Image credit here.

Sept. 14, 2012

Don’t even ask me why I thought of M&Ms. I was having a hard day today–after having had a hard day yesterday–when the image of an orange M&M presented itself to me. Not having the energy to fight off this tiny UFO, I capitulated. So today I am an M&M. Yes, the candy. I know it’s dumb, so save your breath.

I’m orange and shiny on the outside. I am smooth and pleasingly shaped. A perfect little pod of Happy. I create a cool and pleasant “click” as I collide companionably with all of you other M&Ms in the larger M&M community.

Except that there is brown stuff inside me. Brown stuff which is threatening to liquefy at any moment. In fact, maybe it already has. Well, and you would assume it’s chocolate and shrug it off. But what if it’s not? What if I happen to be the one poop-filled M&M in all of M. County, XX, and you just haven’t figured it out yet?

I dropped by our administrative offices today to pick up some materials. The ladies who work there are great, great people; and I look forward to stopping in. I am not exaggerating. I ADORE them! But today was difficult. My neediness scared me, and I had to get out fast, before I had an accident. I longed to join their little fun-size bag of office camaraderie even if it meant volunteering for grunt work. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. The caring and warmth of these women would have resulted in melting, and who knows where that might have lead? One little sneeze, one unintentional elbow or funny look, one chance remark….In fact, one false move of any sort would have started the hairline crack in my Happy, and poop would have happened.

Just being in the office this morning took great effort. It was hard to focus on the small talk and the task at hand because of the energy drain inherent in having to operate on Manual Override. On the one hand, I noted how much healing, growth, and self awareness I have under my belt at this ripe old age of 48. I realized, with surprise and gratitude, that I rarely have to operate on manual at all these days. On the other hand, this insight meant that today was a trip back into the familiar land we counselors like to call emotional dysregulation. Ain’t it grand? Come to think of it, that thought is probably why the M&M was visited upon me in the first place. M&Ms: pretty on the outside, crazy on the inside. M&Ms: melt in your mind, not in your hand.

I am just so darned experienced that I can (mostly) hide the craziness and (mostly) function normally until I wrangle the gerbils back into the cage. You can do this too, and here is a quick lesson. You just have to ask yourself about every 30 seconds: Am I being appropriate? What would a Normal Person do now? Then you do it. And you hope nobody sees the brown stain slowly blossoming on seat of your shorts. Afterwards, you go have a good cry and take a nap because Manual Override takes everything you’ve got.

It’s challenging to be professional at best, non-life-sucking at worst, when you crave a haven of unconditional love. Instead of unloading on the Executive Director, who is one of those Moms around whom you can’t help but feel safe, I had to try to be that normal person. Surely the chocolate-filled M&M wouldn’t throw herself on her superior, an overworked mother of three young boys (who is, by the way, at least a decade younger) and demand care. I am a counselor, for God’s sake, and this woman is my boss. Certainly Normal Me would not cry and feel left out because the director now has, as her office administrator, the woman who has been her best friend since childhood. They get to hang out together all the time! What–do I want her to be my best friend? YES! I mean, wait, NO! No offense intended. That’s the poop talking. I hope the office owns a canister of Febreze.

What is wrong with me!? Do you know that in the last two days, I’ve been doing my errands in a daze, once briefly forgetting where I was and feeling lost? This afternoon, I found myself unable to remember if I had eaten breakfast. Yes, counselors, we call this dissociation. I was in a haze like this once in the days after learning of the death of a dear friend. Same kind of weirdness.

I have friends. Very, very, very good ones! Well, yes, but they are very busy, and I don’t want them to think I’m dumping on them.

What I need most is to call my best friend, Hanna; or Skype with her; or write her a long letter. She knows my whole life. She always, always understands me, and she never gets tired of me–even when I have to process a-million-and-one iterations of the same matter, in my completely obsessive and annoying way, in order to bring my mind to rest. Sadly, reaching her is tough. She lives in Europe, and she works full time, and her husband tends to take over every conversation, but still….

Oh no! I just remembered: She fired me 9 months ago.

My direct supervisor, Tim, is very wise. Yesterday morning, I met with him to consult about a new case, a new couple I had met for the first time the day before. I was trying to figure out why worry had kept me from sleep. I was uncharacteristically distressed and felt completely stuck. The husband had assured me he didn’t have anything he needed to discuss in counseling. The wife had maintained she had come only in support of her husband. Hmmm, where did that leave me since they had asked for couples counseling and intended to return.

Part of what disturbed me about this couple was the wife’s denial. She had been alarmed enough about her husband’s behavior and the potential for violence to set up counseling. However, once she got him into my office, she had pooh-poohed (more excrement) and minimized everything. Obvious manifestations of mental illness were, in turn, labeled charming, fun-loving, rational, insightful, and demonstrative of superior intellect. Tim wondered if she had acted this way because she was scared of him. I’m not so sure. The couple owned a kennel, by the way, and spent a lot of time scooping…poop.

I lamented to Tim, “How can you know something and not know something at the same time, especially when it is so obvious?”

A long pause followed.

“Interesting you should ask that,” he replied with care….”I don’t think I can ever recall your saying a case kept you up at night. You don’t have to take this case, you know.”

It took a few moments for his meaning to penetrate. I had both known and kept myself from knowing so many things. At so many junctures. About Hanna and her husband Niko, who suffers from paranoid schizophrenia. My eventual refusal to collude with their reality had cost me their trust and a lifelong friendship.

“I can’t help them,” whispered. And then I just felt like crying.

I referred them out.

Later I climbed onto Jesus’ lap, curled up, and buried my face in his chest. He held me and told me I was good, and He stroked my hair.

His hand felt like my Dad’s.

This post is the latest in the thread The Story of Hanna. For the prior post in the thread, click here. For the next post, click here.

R. O. Y. G. B. I. V.

Image borrowed from this site.

Image borrowed from this site.

Objective reality may exist but I will never know it.

The Reality of the dissolution of my 37-year-old friendship with Hanna could not help but separate into its constituent realities when subjected to the Prism of Truth. The reconciliation of these fragments is unlikely, as I suspect the Prism has suffered too much damage to allow them a return trip even if it were possible to retrieve the individual rays and direct them backwards. I feel sure that, spouting from the Prism at different angles, these rays, or Opinions, have traveled too far and too wide in the time since our disastrous end ever to be corralled and re-fused into an Amen. Imagine rewinding onto a Popsicle stick the string of a kite which has ascended beyond your line of sight and perched at the top of Everest. Or being flattened by a violent jet of water as you push against it, bucket turned out as a shield, in a fruitless attempt to trace it back to its source and cap it.

Here are the players in that 2011 drama:

Myself: Jane
My husband, Henry.
My best friend, Hanna.
Hanna’s husband, Niko.
Our oldest daughter, Lindy.
Our middle daughter, Bec.
Our youngest daughter, Claire.

And here is what emerged from the Prism:

Niko:
I suspected our RELATIONSHIP had become a RUSE, and I was RIGHT. But I had no idea how much you RESENTED me. It must have been due to my RELAPSE during our last visit. And yet for five years you REPRESENTED everything as being fine between us. You waited patiently for your chance at RETRIBUTION, didn’t you? You waited until we visited to RETALIATE. Now you have exacted your REVENGE, and I hope you are happy. You did wreck our vacation but you did not REALIZE your aim. You did not RUIN my marriage to Hanna. In fact, you didn’t even cause a RIFT.

Hanna:
ONLY you, my OLDEST friend would know where to insert the knife and how to twist it. ONCE, I trusted you. I came to you OVERWHELMED and in OVERT need of kindness and rest, and I was made to feel like an OUTCAST, an OFFENDER. Niko is a keen OBSERVER of people, and he warned me you had changed. I OVERLOOKED his misgivings as OBSESSIVE. Your deceit should have been more OBVIOUS to me. I regret ignoring the OMENS. Thank goodness Niko and I are ONE.

Henry:
YES, this is painful, Jane. But remember it is not all about YOU. Try not to YIELD to anger. You point out that you are not YELLING but I can feel your agitation. We don’t know for sure how this story ends–it may not be over YET. Let’s get through this crisis with as much grace as we can now and save our Ys for later.

Lindy:
I feel GUILTY if I complain because Uncle Niko and Aunt Hanna are our GUESTS. I’m GOING to stay at a friend’s house for a while.

Jane:
I know I have made my share of BLUNDERS this summer but your BRAZEN disregard for our BOUNDARIES is BEYOND BELIEF. I BELIEVED in our friendship but now I just feel BULLIED and BATTERED. I am really not trying to be a BITCH, BUT…it is hard not to become BITTER when your BEST friend BETRAYS you. I can’t wait to say ‘BYE and get this visit BEHIND me.

Bec:
Mom, Uncle Niko has a mental ILLNESS. I think you are being IMPATIENT and INSENSITIVE. His INTENTIONS are good. I’ve been talking to him and Aunt Hanna, and I have gotten a lot of INSIGHT into how hard his life is.

Claire:
Hello? Am I even VISIBLE? Tell Uncle Niko to stop acting like a VICTIM and hogging all the attention.

You see? I could not present the whole. All I could do was imagine its complements, a process which is inherently tainted. Nevertheless, fairness demanded my best effort. Because, while these fragments may never fit back through the Prism, I cling to the foolish hope that they may one day coalesce into a Rainbow.

This post is part of The Story of Hanna. The prior post in the story is here. The next post is here.

90837

Image credit here.

Image credit here.

I have known Avril for precisely 203 hours. I have known Avril for 8 days and 11 hours.

I have known Avril one hour at a time for 6 years and 8 days. She was barely out of childhood when we started our secret meetings. She had to sneak around so that her grandma wouldn’t learn about me and kick her out of the house. Now she is a career woman, a single parent, and a home owner. I am her therapist.

Today when Avril left my office, I dashed for the ladies room in the darkened part of the building. My swollen heart was near bursting. I drew a few quaking breaths, grabbed it in both hands, and wrung. When just enough of it had squeezed out my eyes to ensure that it would fit back into my chest until lunch, I allowed myself one luxurious minute more. Maybe two. Another client was on her way. I dabbed my kohl and returned to my post.

I was not sad. The culprit was gratitude. It had been welling and swelling all morning, and Avril’s face had set me off.

Four weeks ago, Avril had returned after a six-month break. She was aware she was starting to falter. I had held up the mirror and shown her how far she had come. She had curled into herself:

“Stop!” she had cried, “Stop it now!”

Two weeks ago, she knew was flirting with disaster. She was scared because she had stopped feeling scared. Would she grasp for the help she needed before she was all used up? Avril had been taught that depression is not real, that medication is an affront to Jesus. She had gutted it out before–but the stakes had seemed smaller back then.

Avril was but a nub that day. Her face was stony, her voice a near monotone. I thought I spied a spark of “Fuck You” simmering behind her eyes but I couldn’t be sure. It both reassured and alarmed me. The starving, the cutting, all those games.…These had been her tools, both comforting and despised, to secure her care. They had been friends once upon a time. Now they fit her like a too-small skin. Weary from trying so hard to embrace her new size, she sought solace in the familiar. She panicked when she realized she couldn’t go back, and this made her strain even harder. In trying to force matters, she had nearly done herself harm.

She had not yet become small enough for me to intervene. I was worried but I would not mother her. Avril had become a woman, and she had to choose for herself.

Today, Avril arrived with a gaunt face, a giant mug of tea, and no hello. She started talking and left me to fill in the blanks:

“The medication is making me really tired. But I stopped trying to avoid food. I know my appetite will come back if I wait.”

Her face was soft and almost shy.

90837 is the billing code for a therapy session lasting 53-60 minutes.

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