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Authors: Rachel Reiland
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to ring with an undeniable truth. Disgusted with myself for having reacted so vehemently, for having made a complete ass out of myself, I was ashamed. Yet I was overwhelmed by the aching need to see him again. I could barely tolerate the time until our next session, all the while despising myself for my growing dependency.
In the waiting room I buried my face behind Newsweek so the receptionist who had witnessed my raging lunacy wouldn't see me. On my very first day of therapy, I'd managed to shatter every rule and erupt with vicious emotion at a time and place that were out of bounds. I braced myself for the coming lecture, admonishment, terse retribution, or—the worst conceivable possibility—that Dr. Padgett would decide he no longer wanted me as a patient.
“You can come on in now.”
It was The Voice again. The soothing-tonic voice. Frozen for a moment, cowering behind Newsweek in burning shame, I finally looked up to see him. The trademark smile was there again, as if the telephone incident had never occurred.
Once seated in his office, my eyes cast downward to the floor, afraid and unwilling to meet his, I began to stammer through profuse apologies. In a darkened confessional of the soul, he was God and I was the sinner. The remorse and penance began.
“I'm sorry, oh my God, I'm so sorry. I lost control. So out of line. I don't know what to say. I'm such a horrible patient. The report—it's true. Every word of it. I showed it. I proved it. You must hate me. I'm disgusting. I understand if you don't want to go through with this anymore after all the shit I've pulled, all the horrible things I said.”
I continued with my tearful apology for a while longer before realizing that Dr. Padgett had no intention of scolding or criticizing me or of concurring with my scathing self-assessment.
“I'm not here to judge your behavior,” he said gently, as my eyes remained fixed on the floor. “I've committed to therapy with you, I want to help you, and I will honor that commitment. Maybe people have left you before or turned their backs when things got too rough. I won't do that. So long as you keep coming here, no matter what might happen, what you might say or do, it isn't going to drive me away. I'll be here. You can count on that. The only person that will leave this therapy is you; you will make that decision, not me. I'll be here for as long as it takes.”
Clearly this wasn't what I had anticipated. Looking up to see his face, I saw it filled with genuine concern, with sincerity. But how could he say such things without knowing what I might do? As much as I wanted his words to be true, I found them impossible to believe. It wasn't that I thought he was dishonest, just that he didn't know how crazy and awful I was inside.
“You probably find this hard to accept,” he continued, reading my thoughts once again. “But it's the truth. It's genuine. It's called unconditional acceptance, the kind of unconditional acceptance and love that every child deserves, that every child needs to make her whole. The kind you never got from your own parents.”
How does he know anything about my parents? I've never said anything about them. Why do they have to be an issue here? This isn't about them. I'm the screwup, not them. Dad was right; these guys all blame everything on the parents .
“This makes it hard to trust. Trust is very, very hard for you. I know that. I don't expect you to believe me or trust me right now. And I don't expect you to take me on my word. Talk is cheap. I'm sure you've heard plenty of talk. No, trust can't be proven by anything I say, but by what I do. You should be skeptical—questioning me at every turn. That's part of the process.”
I was numb. It was almost too much to fathom, to absorb. I didn't want to be skeptical, didn't want to doubt him. How could I dare doubt him after he was kind enough to say these things, considering the horrible things I'd said to him? Yet I doubted him
In the waiting room I buried my face behind Newsweek so the receptionist who had witnessed my raging lunacy wouldn't see me. On my very first day of therapy, I'd managed to shatter every rule and erupt with vicious emotion at a time and place that were out of bounds. I braced myself for the coming lecture, admonishment, terse retribution, or—the worst conceivable possibility—that Dr. Padgett would decide he no longer wanted me as a patient.
“You can come on in now.”
It was The Voice again. The soothing-tonic voice. Frozen for a moment, cowering behind Newsweek in burning shame, I finally looked up to see him. The trademark smile was there again, as if the telephone incident had never occurred.
Once seated in his office, my eyes cast downward to the floor, afraid and unwilling to meet his, I began to stammer through profuse apologies. In a darkened confessional of the soul, he was God and I was the sinner. The remorse and penance began.
“I'm sorry, oh my God, I'm so sorry. I lost control. So out of line. I don't know what to say. I'm such a horrible patient. The report—it's true. Every word of it. I showed it. I proved it. You must hate me. I'm disgusting. I understand if you don't want to go through with this anymore after all the shit I've pulled, all the horrible things I said.”
I continued with my tearful apology for a while longer before realizing that Dr. Padgett had no intention of scolding or criticizing me or of concurring with my scathing self-assessment.
“I'm not here to judge your behavior,” he said gently, as my eyes remained fixed on the floor. “I've committed to therapy with you, I want to help you, and I will honor that commitment. Maybe people have left you before or turned their backs when things got too rough. I won't do that. So long as you keep coming here, no matter what might happen, what you might say or do, it isn't going to drive me away. I'll be here. You can count on that. The only person that will leave this therapy is you; you will make that decision, not me. I'll be here for as long as it takes.”
Clearly this wasn't what I had anticipated. Looking up to see his face, I saw it filled with genuine concern, with sincerity. But how could he say such things without knowing what I might do? As much as I wanted his words to be true, I found them impossible to believe. It wasn't that I thought he was dishonest, just that he didn't know how crazy and awful I was inside.
“You probably find this hard to accept,” he continued, reading my thoughts once again. “But it's the truth. It's genuine. It's called unconditional acceptance, the kind of unconditional acceptance and love that every child deserves, that every child needs to make her whole. The kind you never got from your own parents.”
How does he know anything about my parents? I've never said anything about them. Why do they have to be an issue here? This isn't about them. I'm the screwup, not them. Dad was right; these guys all blame everything on the parents .
“This makes it hard to trust. Trust is very, very hard for you. I know that. I don't expect you to believe me or trust me right now. And I don't expect you to take me on my word. Talk is cheap. I'm sure you've heard plenty of talk. No, trust can't be proven by anything I say, but by what I do. You should be skeptical—questioning me at every turn. That's part of the process.”
I was numb. It was almost too much to fathom, to absorb. I didn't want to be skeptical, didn't want to doubt him. How could I dare doubt him after he was kind enough to say these things, considering the horrible things I'd said to him? Yet I doubted him
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