A couple of days ago, I had one of those transcendent therapy sessions. Before that, I had been for a long couples session over the weekend, and it had not gone well—understatement! Hours after that session, I grew more and more hurt. Out came a poem, which I posted here earlier, with themes of abandonment and betrayal. I was so hurt, that's all I could call forth. (Poetry is like that, isn’t it? Reserved for the strongest emotions that are hard to express any other way.) As more time passed, I just got effing pissed off at my T for letting that couples session go the way it did, for failing to protect me and provide a safe space for conflict, for some of the boneheaded things he said in the session that showed he totally misunderstood everything, and for seeming to “get” my husband more than he got me. I was so angry at him, and it just grew worse and worse. By the time my individual session rolled around two days later, I could barely contain my anger, and I was terrified of expressing it. I have never been angry at my T before. Plus, I am really bad at being angry, and tend to just stuff it inside, where it lives forever in dark, labyrinthian corridors. Who wants that stuff to escape, cascade over their trusted therapist, and bury him?

When I first arrive at my individual session, I keep him at a distance and deflect his efforts to engage me. He knows something is up. After some false starts, I say, “the session this weekend wasn’t that great for me.” Tell me more, he says. I blurt, I’m never going to do that again, a line ripped from my poem. I’m never coming here again with my husband, I hurl at him. What? he says. Sunny, wait. Slow down. What? He sounds a little exasperated and somehow, that pleases me. I can’t go any further. Suddenly I become concerned that my water bottle shouldn’t be resting on his wood end table, because it might leave a ring. I have never been concerned by this before. There is a stack of wooden coasters in a circular frame. I try to take the top coaster, but it won’t lift out. Have you ever done that box before? he asks. No, I say, looking more closely at it and realizing it is not a stack of coasters. He comes to sit on a stool right in front of the end table, right in front of me. We are so close, inches away. I feel him. I feel our bond, which I have been avoiding so far this session, not allowing it to be. It is so strong. I want to hum I want to purr I want him there forever. I take the wooden pieces apart and set them in a circle around the frame. I try to lift off the hidden lid, but it doesn’t come. He leans in closer and shows me how to slide the lid off sideways. He is so close. We are together. I feel us. The sound of his voice holds me--what is he saying? Just stay here, I want to say. This is enough. We reassemble the puzzle box. Then he leaves and returns to his couch across from me. Don’t go, I want to say. I am left with a very visceral and real reminder of our bond, a physical memory, and it gives me strength. I feel our connection at last, and our shared history in that connection, of all that has passed between us before. Now can you tell me? he asks, and I do.

You said I could bring him here and we could have our conflict. That it would be safe to do that, and it wasn’t, I accused. You said you would protect me, and you didn’t. Silence. After a while, he offers an interpretation. I think you felt abandoned when you were here. Abandoned by me. We weren’t connected. And you watched me with your husband, and we lost each other. You have been abandoned a lot before. I can feel your hurt. (Basically, T said what was in my poem, without even having to read it.)

Yes, I agreed. There’s that and more too. I’m really angry with you about some things you said at that session. Angry about what? Tell me. I begin again. Here I am having these problems with my husband, the divorce, the whole thing. The last few weeks have been really hard. And now I’m getting mad at my therapist. I don’t need to be mad at my therapist now, I say, rather vehemently. Yes you do, he says, gently. What you need right now, more than anything, is to be mad. You can hardly contain it. Sunny, it’s OK to be mad at your therapist. It’s OK to be mad at me. Tell me why you’re angry at me. Then we can explore it. And I can show you how we can fix our bond.

Silence. Can’t do it.

He leans forward toward me. You and I... our relationship, he says, is very special. When it is right between us, it is beautiful. This is intimacy, he says, gesturing at himself and me. And it is different than any other relationship and may be the most intimate relationship you have ever had. I nod. It’s true. When you come here, he continues, and sometimes when we talk, the way we weave together, we are so connected. It is phenomenal. His eyes are tearing up. He leans forward even more. I am tearing up too. I lean closer. You are so dear to me, he says. And he makes a fist with one hand, clasps it in the other, and places both hands against his heart. I hold you in my heart, he says.

He gives me some space then by pulling back and talking about cycles of rupture and repair, Winnicott, and the good enough mother/therapist. He tells me it is OK to be angry at him. That he will show me that he can accept my anger and it will only strengthen our relationship, not break it. He will not yell at me and blame me like my husband does. Or like my mother did. He will tolerate my anger, and we will work through it together, and it will be OK. That is part of our therapy. We will come out the other side, closer than ever, still feeling the same about each other. And each time we do this, it will be easier, and our relationship will be stronger. That we can’t be connected all the time, and sometimes when we are not, we need to repair those times. “So go ahead. Tell me why you are angry, and let’s start repairing.”

Well, who could resist that? And we work through each thing I am angry about, and after each, he asks, is there more? Finally, there is no more and I’m no longer angry at him. And he and I understand how we miscommunicated and what lead to my anger. I understand a lot more about what went on during the couples session. He discovered there are big chunks of that session I have no memory of, when really significant things were said by him, or my husband. “You dissociated,” he said. “A lot. You were in so much pain, both from your husband and how you felt abandoned by me, that you checked out. I’ll have to watch for that. I know now that when your husband is here too, I have to stay more connected to you so I don’t lose you, so you don’t dissociate. I’ve learned something important that will help us when you bring him here next time. Thank you. I am so proud of you for being angry at me.”

When I get up to leave, he is standing, and I must walk past him to reach the door. I approach him and hesitate, just barely. He says, “share a hug?” and I am instantly in his arms. He holds me so tight for so long. And he says some things, but who knows what. I think I say thank you. Then I am out the door.

(If you read this whole thing, thank you! Writing it out helped me to process what happened.)