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PART IPresenting Problem
Being entirely honest with oneself is a good exercise.
—Sigmund Freud
CHAPTER1
Day One
THE NEW PATIENTcalled yesterday.
“Can you get me in today?” she asked. “It can’t wait.”
I’ve gotten calls like this before. Sometimes people are in deep emotional pain, desperate for immediate help. Other times I learn, after the fact, that they lack boundaries. I told her I had no openings and offered to squeeze her in at seven this morning.
“That’s even better,” she said. “Fewer people will be around then, right?”
Her question made me wonder if she’s self-conscious about being in therapy—I’ve had my share of patients who are. Or maybe she’s famous and doesn’t want to be recognized.
As a therapist with a private practice in Beverly Hills, I’ve had a few celebrity patients, some of whom I didn’t know were famous until I Googled them.
It’s 6:42AM, and I’m tired. I sip my coffee, trying to wake up, regretting offering up the 7AMtime slot.
Eddie and I stayed up until one thirty in the morning, having the same conversation we’ve been having for the lastfew months. He wants me to move in with him, and I’ve been waffling.
On paper, it makes sense. We’ve been together for almost two years. He’s a wonderful guy—loyal, funny, and a dedicated father. But I know moving in together will be the final step before he asks me to marry him. And I already went down that path a decade ago, unsuccessfully.
I also worry it’ll be hard on Sarah, his seven-year-old daughter, if things don’t work out between us. Eddie’s late wife unexpectedly died when Sarah was just four years old. If I step in as her mother figure and our relationship falls apart, Sarah will lose another mom. And this time, it’ll be worse, because she’ll have memories with me, ones she doesn’t have with her own mother since she was so young when her mom died. I know that pain all too well.
And what if I don’t measure up as a day-to-day mom? Eddie says Sarah adores me, but I don’t tuck her in every night and wake up with her every morning. The three of us spend weekends together and see each other a couple of times during the week for dinner. Moving in with them will mean being there for herall the time—from nursing fevers to planning birthday parties to taking her to the dentist.
I take another sip of coffee, trying to swallow down my thoughts. I Google the new patient’s name. Nothing of note comes up for an Audrey Gladstone in Los Angeles.
The call light turns on. She’s fifteen minutes early. Left to my own devices, I’d bring her in now. Setting boundaries is something I have to continually work on. I remind myself that if I do it this time, she’ll expect it the next, and next time I might not be able to if I have a patient before her. I scroll through the news on my cell phone instead.
After fifteen minutes, I leave my office to get her from the waiting area. She’s seated on a chair wearing a nondescript, black baseball cap with her head facing down. Both ofher knees are nervously bobbing up and down. And one of her hands is wound tightly in a fist.Anxiety disorder?
As soon as she notices me, she jumps up. She looks like she’s in her early twenties, but there’s a worry on her face that ages her.
I bring her into my office, close the door behind us, and motion for her to sit on the couch.
“Please take a sea—”
“I only have a few minutes,” she interrupts, still standing. “I’m not here for therapy.”
What? I came in early because she made it sound like she needed to be seen as soon as possible.
“I don’t understand,” I admit.
“Your mother’s in danger.”
“I’m sorry?” I’ve heard a lot of things over the last decade between the walls of this two-hundred-and-fifty square-foot office, but this is a first.
“You need to find her to let her know,” she implores.
“My mom died twenty-six years ago,” I tell her, though I don’t owe her an explanation.
The woman shakes her head. “No, she didn’t.”
