Complication

Me: “I’m not so good with shrinks and therapy”

Dr. B: “Oh, we’re not shrinking here, we’re expanding.”

Fifteen years ago, I was a hostile, recently orphaned teenager in therapy who had cynical responses to everything. They changed therapists and family homes for me like people would change clothes, consistently. Yet, when I faced a certain therapist just as sharp mouthed as fourteen year old me, I couldn’t say anything to get out of it. Everything I came up with, he countered with his humorous sarcasm. Nine years later, I became a shrink that helps people exapand after trauma.

Talking to my newest 16-year old patient, Cara, reminds me of my own first session with Dr. B. What would he have said? How do I help this kid overcome witnessing the murders of her parents and little brother? What can I even say that would make her trust me, her new police-assigned therapist? They asked me to get her to share the gruesome details of her survival and what she knows of the uncaught killer. But how does one just ask a child about something so personal and traumatic? How can one make her relive her experience time and again?

10 minutes ago, I introduced myself to her and we sat down. She looked reluctant, so I said that I would be as patient as she needs, and am here to simply support her, that I wouldn’t force her to talk to me. I won’t. I can’t. She nodded her understanding and sighed and asked if we could sit in silence for a little while. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It’s been 12 minutes of complete silence now. I waited. She seemed to be debating something with herself. Maybe whether she should talk to me, or how she should get out of it. Then she cleared her throat and said in a rash voice, trying to hold back tears, “so they told you what happened, right? Just ask me and let’s get this over with.”

I looked up at her and put my hands on the table and leaned forward. She needed to connect with me if she was to trust me. “Sixteen years ago, a thirteen year old girl was orphaned in a car crash. The crash wasn’t an accident. She knew it, she’d been in it, she’d seen the people responsible. But the police stopped believing her after a month of failed investigation. There was no proof. She was put in the system as an orphan and moved around houses and therapists for almost a full year before she started to find some stability in things. She was impatient and angry. She wouldn’t talk to people. Being rude and inconsiderate was her cover. People wouldn’t approach her if she didn’t seem approachable, she figured. That little girl was me. So when I tell you that I understand and that I will be patient, I mean it. I know that this is hard. And healing takes time. So I’m not giving up no matter what you say to me to make me. We can make it hard if that’s what you’d prefer.”

Silence. She blinked at me. Opened her mouth to say something, then stopped and went back to being silent. Processing. Is she lying to me just so I will talk to her? She doesn’t really care, does she? We don’t have the same stories. She can’t help me. Can she? Can anyone? She took a deep breath, looked up at me, and sighed. “Well, if you’re not going to give up I guess there’s no point in trying. How does this work? Do I just sit and stare at you until something clicks and I talk?” I laughed. There was a glint of humor in her eyes, hidden under thick layers of sorrow and horror. When I first started counselling severe trauma patients for the police, my premier lesson was that there are always layers. Every patient has different depths of trauma that they are willing to uncover. But there is always more. It’s true what they say, it’s in the eyes that the story lies. This little girl certainly had an oceanful in hers. But she is strong. There is hope. She’ll never be the same, and it’ll take time, but she’ll move forward. The perception people have of therapists saying everything with hidden meaning and helping the patient can be so misleading sometimes. We are human after all. We don’t truly counsel more than we listen. We try to help, but only fullfilling the human need of being heard; Of being able to speak without judgment and with reassurance of confidentiality.

“We can do that if you’d like to. Or we could start with simply getting to know each other and make it less awkward. We have scheduled appointments every week, but we could change that around to more or less with time per your preference. For now, we can start with simple introductions. I would also like to share some breathing exercises with you. It is entirely up to you to try them or not, and you don’t have to share the results with me either. I will simply go through a handout with you, give it to you, and we can leave it at that for as long as you are uncomfortable talking about it.” She looked unsure, hesitant. I sighed. “It will help bring you back from the nightmares,” I said softly. Understanding shone in her eyes and she nodded. We’re making progress. She looked away and avoided eye contact. Slow progress. It will do for now. The remaining 20 minutes of our session went smoothly but quietly. I went over the handout, as promised, and she silently listened, took it, and left with the officer that came to get her. She looked back at me with something I couldn’t quite decipher in her eyes, just before the door closed behind her. Fear? Anticipation? Regret? It was a knowing look, and not one that should find its way to a child’s face. Alone in the blank room with grey walls, I stared at the chair sitting empty in front of me as her final glance at me floated around in my vision. What was she trying to say? Will she be safe before I see her next in four days?

A tall, bleek man walked into the room. He had an air of authority around him. I blinked. Officer Strautbaum. He looked at me with intensity in his eyes, clearly haunted by many a ghost. “Dr. Harper,” he said with exasperation, “You have already cost us important time by insisting that you speak to Ms. DeVillier alone and without surveillance. There is a killer out there and it is my job to find them. I do not appreciate being told how to do it. You had your chance, but I cannot waste anymore time.” I felt rage. Breathe, Emilia, breathe. I stood up with my own sense of authority, “Mr. Strautbaum. My patient is a sixteen-year old minor who just suffered a tremendous trauma. I understand that this is an important situation, but as the counselor on the case, my expert opinion is to give my client a little space. I have to establish trust with her, for her to speak to me at all.” He looked desperate. “One more session, and if we don’t start getting some answers, I’m afraid we’ll have to find an alternative direction.” With this, he walked away briskly, leaving me in the room, which suddenly seemed darker. With a sigh, I walked out with my little notepad in hand. Until next time then.