[I have several Ashleys in my life. The Ashley to whom this letter is written was my therapist. I say “was,” but I could also say “is” or “will be” because I know she holds a place for me to come back whenever I am ready. For that, I am grateful.]
Dear Ashley,
Does it seem like a year ago that I last saw you? I wasn’t sure a whole year had passed, but after checking my “Therapy Notes,” it’s true: it was March 2019 the last time I drove across town to your office. You have come to my mind many times in the past year, but this past week, you’ve come to mind daily because every time I sit down to read a few more pages of Lori Gottlieb’s book Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, I can’t help but think about you. It is fascinating to understand more fully what the job of a therapist entails, as well as the sort of things that go through a therapist’s mind as they sit with a patient. Now I am seeing what you guys do as so smart, so purposeful, and yet so human.
Wait - I should ask if you’ve read Lori’s book? If not, I hope you can soon. Oh, it’s good! I am learning so much about what happens in therapy, things I didn’t realize were happening even as they happened to me during the couple years I spent coming to you. The book is tremendously funny in parts, but also serious, shocking, and as Katie Couric said on the cover, “utterly absorbing.”
I already respected you and admired you (and liked you on top of that), but now I have deep respect and admiration for the work you do. Reading of Lori’s experience both as a therapist and in therapy herself has given me a better understanding of the difficulty of the task set before you and all therapists, a task she calls “an intricate dance between support and confrontation.” Yet you do it so well, and the book has left me feeling grateful for the time we had. It also makes me miss getting to talk to you.
So I thought I would write you this letter as part of my Lent Letters. I’m trying to imagine now what we might start with if I came for a session after a year away from therapy. Back then, one of the things we talked about at length was the ongoing struggle I have emotionally connecting with Story. She’s still my girl and we are still here, working on our relationship, but it’s still hard. I found a word the other day in a Wendell Berry short story that struck me as the right word to describe how Story behaves on a consistent basis. It’s the word contrarily, and it’s maddening at times because it feels so different from what I consider a “normal” response. You told me in therapy that it might not be helpful to desire that Story conform to my idea of what’s “normal;” in fact, celebrating the fact that she isn’t changing her behavior simply to earn favor or to meet mine and others’ expectations could serve her well down the road.
So, contrarily, we continue, and yet there are still glimmers of hope that sparkle among the rocky ground of learning to love this particular child as she needs to be loved. I want to share one little story, a “small victory” as Anne Lamott would call it.
This past weekend, TJ was out of town for work, and I invited my friend Delnora over to have dinner with me and the kids on Saturday night. It was a nice time, except for the myriad ways that Story chose to act up and act out during dinner and after dinner. I can’t recount all the details in this letter. Just know I struggled to maintain composure and had I not had a friend over, my voice would have been louder and my tone would have been harsher in an attempt to reign Story in. By the time Delnora left, I was tired of dealing with the situation and just ready for Story to be in bed.
At bedtime, Story started repeating what she had said earlier during part of her after-dinner meltdown: I feel like you don’t like me. There were more words than just these, but this was her message. I wanted to say, I don’t like you when you are acting contrarily. I wanted to be done, to end the conversation, to go out of the room, to close the door. But you know what I did? Actually, let me say it this way: Do you know what Grace did on my behalf? Miraculously, these words came into my mind, and then out of my mouth:
Story, you know what I think you need right now to know how much Mom loves you and likes you? You need to bring your pillow and sleep in my bed tonight.
Never, never, never, never do I want a kid to sleep with me. Never have I let a kid sleep with me. The girls have asked numerous times in the past year, and each time I’ve said something like maybe on your birthday, while meaning, maybe never. It has crossed my mind to give the girls each a turn to sleep with me during one of TJ’s trips, but I’ve never “felt” it when the time actually came. And I’ve never followed through.
Until Saturday night. The very night of feeling frustrated, exasperated, and annoyed over what we had just gone through was the night I moved closer to Story instead of pushing her away. The only explanation I can give for what happened has already been said better by others:
“I know nothing, except what everyone knows - if there when Grace dances, I should dance.”
“Nor did I know about grace, that it meets you exactly where you are, at your most pathetic and hopeless, and it loads you into its wheelbarrow and then tips you out somewhere else in ever so slightly better shape.”
That moment of invitation to Story felt a little bit like dancing and a little bit like being tipped out of the wheelbarrow. Story’s response - Really? I really can?! - steadied me, and I knew what I was doing was right, even though it felt strange. Story jumped out of her bed with her pillow and we went upstairs together to get her situated in TJ’s spot in a big, unfamiliar bed. I didn’t actually go to bed at that point, but I made a space for Story, and she was eager to fill it and I’m pretty sure it filled her too.
Here is where I would probably pause, Ashley, and wait for your thoughtful, piercing questions, the ones I mostly don't ask myself in real life: Why do you think Story said you don’t like her? How did it feel to have a friend witness Story in this state? How did it feel to have a friend witness you in this state? How do you think sleeping with you made Story feel? What did that represent to her? What did that represent to you?
Or maybe it’s also okay not to analyze it and figure it out, just to celebrate that I did something that felt hard for the sake of my relationship with this contrary yet beautiful little girl.
Thank you, Ashley, for doing what Lori said her own therapist did for her. You “let me tell my story in whatever way I needed to today.” It’s a powerful thing that you are doing in this world, and I will forever be grateful. I wish you well in every way.
Love,
Ginger