Get Me Out of Here (39 page)

“I've told you before,” he said, “that the BPD diagnosis is an incomplete definition—a rough guideline that's useful in some ways but very broad, encompassing all kinds of different people who manifest the illness in many different ways.

“In a lot of cases the writers you talk about are right. Some borderlines are destined to spend the rest of their lives in and out of psychiatric wards and prisons. But I've never looked at you as a borderline or used some cookie-cutter approach for treating borderlines. You're an individual.”

“You still haven't answered my question,” I sighed.

“I think the changes within you are significant and real. The agony you felt made you act as you once did. But at your core I've always seen you for the exceptional person you really are. Together we revealed that person and let her sparkle like a diamond.

“You're a strong person. One of the strongest I've ever met. And your future holds a lot of promise. The potential you've always had now has a chance to be realized.”

After he finished I reflected. Some answers could not be found in a textbook or handed to me by a specialist. I had to discover them within. As it should be.

All I knew is that I now viewed both life and myself in a way I never would have dreamed possible. And the man now sitting a few feet away from me had stayed with me every step of the way to guide me and had seen my potential long before I'd been able to see it myself. Even in my darkest moments, Dr. Padgett had never given up hope. He believed in me until the day I could finally believe in myself.

Dr. Padgett was human and imperfect but one of the most remarkable, compassionate, and generous people I could expect to meet in a lifetime.

Saying my final good-bye to this man would be agonizing.

As July moved into August, the prospect of termination became more real. I was already beginning to mourn my imminent loss as the number of remaining sessions dwindled into single digits. Seven more visits before the final good-bye. While Tim understood how difficult this was for me, I found myself wishing I could be among my friends in the city who knew my history.

The people of Nottingham were friendly, but I didn't feel comfortable sharing my feelings at this time. To reveal the history of my mental illness could risk attaching a label to myself in a town that had not yet fully defined me. My friendships were just beginning to develop; the whole BPD and therapy scene might be too much to share.

Had I been mourning the loss of a friend, a family member, or a debilitating disease, I wouldn't have been as reluctant to share my pain in this community. But even my friends in the city who did know me well would find it hard to understand just how emotionally gripping the entire therapy experience had been and just how difficult it was to say good-bye. Even Tim, supportive as he was, couldn't fully grasp it.

With the bulk of settling in completed and most of my client base too far away to keep, I was home with Jeffrey and Melissa a lot. Emptiness and boredom descended upon me. I was tired and had too much time on my hands to be filled with second thoughts about the wisdom of the move. I began to retreat within myself. Had I been in the city, my old friends would have noticed this and asked what was wrong. Here, however, no one knew me well enough to notice or even care.

I'd considered picking up the phone and calling one of my old friends a few times but chose not to. I hadn't been keeping in touch as much as I thought I would and hated for the first words out of my mouth to be that I was down again. They'd supported me enough, I decided. I had to handle this on my own.

Was depression happening again? Had my chemical balance gone askew? Was this what Dr. Padgett had meant when he spoke of the subconscious motivation to keep therapy going on forever? Or were the experts right: once a borderline, always a borderline? Was I destined to be an emotional mess for the rest of my life?

I was slipping quickly.

Why don't you just call him? You can't keep running back to him, Rachel. What are you going to do when he's gone? He won't be there anymore. He'd want me to call if I were feeling this way. You've got to get used to handling things on your own, to flying solo. These feelings scare me. I need him! I just need to hear his voice. It's the subconscious thing, Rachel. The little girl's “last stand,” a way to manipulate your way out of terminating when you said you would. I can't help it. I need him. I can't be the first patient he's ever had to go through this. He'll know what to do
.

The internal battle settled, I picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Padgett's service, now a long-distance call. A part of me felt ashamed of what I saw as failure. But a stronger part of me desperately needed a solution.

The phone rang a few minutes later. Hurriedly I picked it up.

“Hello?” I said anxiously.

“This is Dr. Padgett,” he said in the same calm tone he'd used to greet me with every emergency call. It was strange, though, to realize that his voice was coming from a different city. It had been months since I'd made a crisis call to him, and I was beginning to regret this one. But I went on nonetheless.

“It's coming back, Dr. Padgett,” I told him, my voice beginning to shake. “The depression. Horrible feelings. Can't eat, hard to sleep, hard to get out of bed. I've tried to deal with them, tried to put all of this into perspective. To handle it on my own. But it just keeps getting worse. I haven't done anything destructive, but I'm afraid I might if this keeps up. I'm so scared, Dr. Padgett. That's why I called. I'm sorry to bother you at night like this.”

“You did the right thing,” he assured me gently.

His words calmed me considerably. Obviously he wasn't taking my call as a sign of manipulation or failure.

“I don't know what to think,” I continued. “I'm almost sure this has something to do with anxiety about termination. That's why I hesitated in calling you. I didn't want to keep clinging or anything. I figured I should get used to solving things on my own. I've tried. I really have. I've been writing like crazy, sitting here racking my brain to find a way out of this. But it isn't working. It's getting worse. Is this normal right before someone terminates therapy?”

As the words came out of my mouth, I realized just how neurotic I sounded.

“It's a normal reaction, and it's temporary,” he said patiently.

“But I'm still afraid,” I went on, in tears, unloading the burden now that I knew I had him with me. “What about all the progress I've made? Is it gone now?”

He paused for a moment.

“Have you ever seen a fire burn in a fireplace?” he asked, his voice soothing, almost a lullaby. “Can you remember that point when it really gets going, burning so hot that the logs are glowing red?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, sniffling back the tears so I could hear him.

“At that point the logs still have the same shape they did when they were first lit. Only now they glow in heat, almost daunting, so hot, so burning. But it doesn't last. The logs look like the same ones you put in the fireplace, but they aren't. They aren't solid the way they used to be. They are just a temporary illusion. Pretty soon the glowing embers fall to the fireplace floor. Just ash. The fire has changed them. They look solid for a time, but they aren't anymore. The fiery hot vision of the log turns quickly to harmless ashes.”

“Uh-huh,” I repeated, listening intently, unsure of the point of his analogy.

“The feelings you used to have, hopelessness, despair, real depression, were like the logs before they were lit in the fireplace. They were solid, entrenched. But they've changed forever. For a short time it looks as if they are exactly the same, just as the glowing log looks the same. In a way they seem even more intense than they were before, shimmering red-hot as they are.

“But there's no real substance to them anymore. And soon they'll break apart and fall to the floor as harmless ashes.

“It doesn't feel that way right now, perhaps, but it's temporary. When you feel these momentary feelings of intensity, this temporary anxiety, you can know that they won't last. The things that used to solidify and fuel them aren't there anymore.”

Now it made sense. Already the angst had begun to fade into relief.

“Thank you, Dr. Padgett,” I told him, no longer crying. “Thanks for being so patient and for taking my call so late. I understand what you're saying. It really does help.”

“I'm glad you called me, and I'm glad I could help.”

“You really are a wonderful man,” I said wistfully. “I can't imagine how I'm ever going to get through that last session.”

“You'll get through it,” he assured me. “We can talk about it more next session.”

“Okay,” I said, for once not trying to prolong the conversation. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too. See you Tuesday.”

As always his words had made me think in a new pattern. Without making me feel foolish or as if the call had been unnecessary, he had found a way to reassure me that my disturbing feelings were short-lived, that my progress had not been lost.

I thought of how I could step out of my shell—call my old friends, develop a new support network somehow in my new community. Bolstered by our conversation, I began to think of solutions, the first sign of re-emerging hope. All was not lost.

I had just completed the final touches on a cover letter when the phone rang in late August.

“Hi, this is Joe Blackburn from Enterprises, Incorporated.”

He represented the company I had applied to a week before. Apparently my interview had gone well, or Joe would not have called.

“We've discussed it and decided we'd be pleased to have you as our new controller.”

My heart leapt with joy.

“Great! When do you want me to start?”

We set a date and said our good-byes. Finally I was going somewhere. My career wasn't therapy anymore. Now I had a real one. I already felt as if I belonged in the working world.

At the close of the next-to-the-last session, I could tell Dr. Padgett was also saddened that, at the same time next week, our four-year therapy relationship would come to an end. Driving home, I cried so hard I could barely see the road.

At least I knew that I had expressed every feeling of love, warmth, and appreciation for him in the previous months of sessions. He knew how I felt, and I knew how he felt.

One more session. All that was left was to tie a ribbon on the most painful, arduous, uplifting, and cathartic experience of my life.

The last week of August I made sure that the household and our finances were completely organized before I took on the hectic schedule of a full-time career mom. But, in spite of having the logistical details under control, my enthusiastic anticipation of my new job had been fully eclipsed by termination, which consumed me.

Of all the books I had read on psychotherapy, only one dealt with the termination process to any significant degree. Leaving therapy was as emotionally raw as any issue I had faced in the four-year process, and I longed for a road map.

I read that some patients did not pay their final therapy bills, delaying payment for months. Some couldn't face the pain of opening correspondence from the therapist who had been so critical in their lives—and who they would no longer see. For others the nonpayment was a strategy to keep contact alive as therapists were forced to make follow-up calls to collect.

Determined to make a clean exit, I had called Dr. Padgett's receptionist the day after my second-to-last session to obtain my invoice balance. Adding a prepayment for the final session fee, I'd immediately mailed a check for the balance in full. I wanted to walk into my last session as an equal to Dr. Padgett, owing him nothing.

From there I spent a lot of time holed up in my home office in tearful reflection about the past four years of my life and what was left to come. Jeffrey and Melissa were confused, trying anything to cheer me up. They'd be rewarded with a flash of a smile from me before the tears resumed. Tim tried to explain that Mommy was just going through a rough time; she missed people, but she would be okay. It was best to leave her alone. Disappointed and still confused, they nonetheless complied.

Over the course of four years, I had faced many countdowns. Every vacation, every weekend had its dwindling “magic number” until I knew I could see Dr. Padgett again. This final countdown was bittersweet. For as much as I longed to see Dr. Padgett, I knew that when the magic number had reached zero, the countdowns were over. At least now I was still his patient. But on Tuesday, September 12, at 4:00
P.M.
, I would no longer be. Dr. Padgett's life, of course, would continue to go on. Another patient desperately seeking a second chance would soon be using my time slot. In a career that had spanned nearly three decades, he had obviously been through termination many times. For me, however, it was a first. I wondered how my own life would go on. On Sunday I decided to find him a parting gift, something that would always remind him of me. I had noticed in my very first days of therapy that the bookshelves and walls of his office were filled with small ceramic collectibles and little wooden sculptures.

Now I wondered about their origins. What patients did they represent? Who had given him the carved wooden elephant, the gold-etched coaster set, the porcelain bluebird that sat next to the clock? What pain had they shared? What were they doing with their lives right now? As much as I had resented his other patients, I wished that I could reach one of them now and ask how to say good-bye. Was there life after Dr. Padgett?

Tim had a golf outing with a prospective client that day, so I'd been forced to bring Jeffrey and Melissa along as I sought the perfect gift, a nearly impossible challenge. We strolled in and out of stores, scrutinizing every small item on the shelves.

“Why don't you just buy something, Mommy?” Melissa asked me.

The pained look I gave her stifled the question. I saw Jeffrey nudge his sister on the shoulder and heard him whisper, “Chill out, Melissa. Mommy's going through a rough time.”

Even at the tender age of eight, having lived with a mother like me for as long as he had, Jeffrey had developed a sensitivity far beyond his years. His admonishment reminded me that as much as I was mourning termination, I was still an adult, still a parent. Even if for only that one reason, I was going to have to move on. My kids deserved to be kids. I should be comforting them, not the other way around.

“Don't worry,” I said, forcing a smile that I didn't feel. “We'll find something in here.”

The shelves of Bull's China Shop were cluttered with small collectibles. Angels. Babies. Puppies. Teddy bears. In the far corner was a collection named “Teddy Angels,” small ceramic figures just the right size for Dr. Padgett's bookshelf. Marked down to twenty-five dollars, I could afford them. A full-grown brown bear and a young tan one, both with angel's wings, were posed in a number of different settings, none of which seemed just right.

Then I saw one, nearly hidden behind the others, with the adult bear tucking the little one in to sleep using a blanket of stars. The inscription on the bottom read: “There Is Magic In The Simplest Things We Do”—
Casey Tucking Honey In
.

I knew I'd found my gift.

The statue, with its traditional parenting scene, symbolized the father-daughter relationship we'd had. Both figures had angel's wings to show the goodness inherent in both of us and the generosity of his goodness enabling me to find my own goodness within. The peacefully sleeping little bear was being gingerly covered in the blanket of stars, as Dr. Padgett had helped me to find my peace. It was goodnight not good-bye, a symbol that even though I would not see him anymore, he would still be standing by my side, comforting me, the blanket of stars the legacy he had left with me.

After much deliberation I selected a blank card with a photograph of a happily beaming little girl on the front. I had the sculpture professionally gift wrapped and walked home to write my own message inside the card. On the way home Jeffrey asked me whom the special gift was for.

“A good friend back in the city,” I answered, eyes welling with tears.

“Is it her birthday?” Melissa asked.

“No. He's just a very special person. The gift is to let him know just how much he means to me.”

Someday I would tell both of them just who that friend was and why he was so special. For now I retreated once again to my office, trying to find the words to summarize the most intense and healing relationship of my life.

Where once there was darkness

Now there is beauty
.

Together we have taken the coal

And uncovered the diamond
.

New life has begun
,

A second springtime filled with wonder
,

One that will never fade…
.

Whenever I am happy
,

I will think of you
.

Whenever life has got me down
,

I'll think of you and make it through
.

Whenever I see beauty
,

I will see your smiling eyes

And never forget the man who came—

The answer to my prayers and cries
.

Time won't fade my love for you
,

Thus I hope you'll always know
,

My love, best wishes, and my prayers

Will be with you wherev'r you go…
.

Your daughter in spirit
,

Rachel

A teardrop landed on the card, and I carefully blotted it away. I sealed the envelope and set the neatly wrapped gift and card high up on the bedroom dresser, realizing that in fewer than forty-eight hours the little sculpture would be the only part of me to remain physically with him.

The alarm buzzed, and the morning sun burned through the window as I awakened from a dreamless sleep. For a moment I was energized by the sunshine. Then realization struck.

This was “The Day.” Not wanting to take a chance on traffic or any conceivable delay, I left Nottingham a few hours earlier than usual and spent the extra time walking the hospital grounds. A group of psychiatric patients, recognizable by their plain clothes and hospital bracelets, sat on the grass just outside the psychiatric unit, squeezing a cigarette break into a heavily scheduled day.

Some were boldly outgoing, some quietly in retreat—laughter and conversation of camaraderie belying the emotional angst that had brought them there. I saw pain in their eyes. Most of them, no doubt, were feeling the hopelessness I had once felt. Another wave of broken hearts and lost souls searching for a second chance, finding it impossible to believe in the existence of any light at the end of the tunnel.

A part of me wanted to walk over to them and tell them that life could get better, that people could change, hearts could be healed, and souls could be lifted. But I knew that, in their state, they could not yet understand that concept, just as I wouldn't have. The only way to see the light at the end of the tunnel was to crawl through the mud in darkness.

Another part of me wanted to join them, be one of them again. To start the journey all over, with all its pain, so that the four years with Dr. Padgett would be ahead of me rather than behind me. Finally, with the colorfully wrapped and carefully ribboned package nestled on my lap, I sat in Dr. Padgett's waiting room for what would be the last time. I didn't bother picking up a magazine to skim as I waited. I drank in the surroundings, etching them in my memory.

At three o'clock sharp Dr. Padgett appeared with the same warm smile that had preceded every single session over the years, as if this one were just one more.

“I don't know what to say,” I told him. “There aren't enough words, aren't enough ways to put them together to tell you how I feel right now, how much you mean to me. I just hope that you know. I hope, over the last few months, I've let you know.”

“You have,” he said.

I then handed him the gift, which he meticulously unwrapped as if the paper itself were also a part of me. As he looked at it and read the card, his eyes filled with tears. The blank screen was not hiding his personal emotions today. Soon both of us were in tears. We cried together for a few minutes, sharing the moment, grieving together, until he reached for a tissue and dabbed his eyes. I did the same.

“You know,” I said, voice choked, “the irony is that all this therapy has brought us so close only to have to say good-bye. I realize why I can't see you anymore, at least for a long time. Sometimes I wish it didn't have to be that way, but I know that it does. I want you to know, though, that I consider you to be a lot more than a therapist. I consider you a father, a friend. If circumstances were different, I would never let a person like you slip out of my life.”

He nodded, for a moment unable to speak. Then he said, “I feel the same way about you, Rachel. You're an exceptional person, and it's been an honor to know you and have you as part of my life. I'll miss you too.”

“Sometimes,” I said, reaching for another tissue, “I feel like I've taken so much more than I've given in this relationship. I wish there were something I could give you back.”

“What makes you think you haven't given me anything? What greater satisfaction is there for a parent than watching his lessons be learned, watching his little girl grow up to be a beautiful woman, someone who makes him beam with pride?”

My tears flowed again.

“But if you were my real father, we'd be entering the next phase of life. I'd return the love by supporting you as you grow older. Visiting you. Bringing the grandchildren. Taking care of you when you get really old. You know, Dr. Padgett, I would do anything for you, anything in the world. If you ever called on me, I'd be there in a heartbeat.”

“I know you would. And just knowing that you feel that way, knowing that you would, is a gift in itself. You've returned the love by meeting the challenge, by facing the changes, by never giving up. You return it by sharing it with your husband, your children, the people you know, and the people you'll meet.

“Believe me, Rachel, in many ways I've gained as much from this relationship as you have. You've learned from me, but I've learned from you too.”

“I don't know what I possibly could have given, what I could have taught you, but if you feel that way, I'm glad that you do,” I said.

“I honestly feel that way.”

I glanced at the Teddy Angel sculpture resting on the end table next to the clock. Precious few minutes remained in the session.

“I know there's a difference between idealizing and overidealizing someone,” I said. “But I want you to know that, human and imperfect as you are, you are one of the most exceptional, generous, compassionate people I've met. The world is a better place because of you.”

“Thank you,” he replied, obviously touched by the compliment. “The beauty of it, though, is that I'm not that exceptional. When you open up your eyes to see them, compassion and generosity—kindness—are everywhere. And the world is a better place because of you too.”

We sat there for a moment, eyes fixed upon each other's, savoring the moment, the strength of emotions that words couldn't summarize, neither of us trying, instead just feeling.

I wished the moment could last forever.

“Well, that's about all for today,” he said.

The same words that had ended so many sessions. This time they were final.

I rose unsteadily into an awkward moment when both of us stood there. I took a chance and reached out to embrace him. He stepped toward me, and, to my surprise, hugged me tightly. It was the first and only time we ever had physical contact. The warmth of his body, the slightness of his stature suddenly made him all the more human. The mighty Wizard of Oz was revealed to be nothing more than just another human being, only this one far kinder than most.