The Difference Between My Therapists and My Father

First therapist. First session.

I’m nervous. I sit in the waiting room across from my mother. She’s always been supportive and understanding. I’m glad she’s doing this for me, but part of me wishes I hadn’t asked for this. What do I have to be sad about?

“Cameron?” a young tall woman calls out from the opening hallway. I’m the only one here other than my mom, so she’s looking directly at me. I follow her into a small office; a short, relatively young man greets me upon my entering. He’s nice, charming, but seems a bit nervous.

"Cameron?" he asks, standing as I enter.

"Yes," I respond after a moment, a bit surprised. He's not what I expected.

“How ya doing Cameron? My name is Eric. Go ahead and take a seat,” he says as he does so himself. I sit in a large soft couch, the type that you sink a bit too deeply into. He talks for the majority of the appointment, going over what his goals for me are, what he is and isn’t allowed to do. What sticks out the most is that he and I are not friends. He makes that clear without ever being cruel, but he has a job to do and that’s all that this is. Our first appointment comes to a close and, as I walk out it feels less like a successful session and more like I’m getting out of lecture. Our next appointment is the same, only he asks a few more questions, mostly about my siblings and my mom, whom he's talked to twice now, making sure that I understand how this will work and how to get the most out of this. He’s establishing a baseline.

The third appointment is different. He seems more relaxed, more in control, more what I expected. “What would you like to discuss first?” He catches me off guard. I’m not actually sure. I thought that he would guide me through this a bit more. That's how it is in the movies, though I suppose it's a little presumptuous and a bit silly to expect him to tell me what I'm supposed to say, but how would I know? I’ve never done this before.

“Let’s start somewhere simple,” he says as I realize that I’ve been quiet for a little too long, smiling just a little too politely. My mood shifts as he speaks up, and the smile fades away, “Tell me about your dad.”

Second therapist. Fourth session.

I sit quietly and politely in a cold, well-furnished office. I sink into the blue suede couch as a woman who looks to be in her late 40’s sits across from me with her legs crossed and a clipboard in her hands. She bombards me with questions that I’m not actually listening to. She’s asking me about my day. “Did you speak to your friends today?”

“No,” I reply unamused. I’m on autopilot. Going through the motions and she knows this. I don’t care, though.

“Why not?” she asks, probing. I still don't know how I feel about her. She reminds me of the kids I used to know in grade school who would mess up all the marbles when they began to lose.

“I always talk, I didn’t feel like talking today.”

I see it in her face as she writes; she knows that she’s getting nowhere with this. She changes her approach and takes on a more straightforward attitude.

“Have you talked to your dad?” My ears perk up and I look away just as quickly as I looked at her.

“No,” I say shortly; she writes something down.

“Why not?”

“Not worth it.” I sound spoiled. Like I'm still angry at the game of marbles that she ruined.

"Why isn't it worth it?" I'll give her one thing. She's patient.

This goes on for five minutes going nowhere as we have the same conversation that we had last session about how I need to be more "open to emotional honesty with him." As she makes her point I think back on all the good things the man brought upon me. Little league games and fishing trips that seemed too long ago.

But more realistically, I think back angrily on all the bad things. Bad habits that I’m genetically predisposed to and arguments that never seem to be resolved, but rather just seem to stop until the next time, arguments between parents that seemed redundant and tired. A disbelief in the credibility of what I’m doing now. What’s so frustrating is how much I’m like him. Some of my best traits he handed down to me.

“Do you understand?" she asks. Breaking me out of my trance.

"I do, yeah."

"Good. Now tell me more about you and your dad."

Second Therapist. Session N/A.

It’s late as I write in the journal that has served so reliably and without judgement. As I finish the thought and I walk out into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says roughly but quietly, I can hear how exhausted the man is.

“Sup,” I respond uninterested.

“How’d it go earlier?”

“Fine,” I respond sharply.

He looks up at me as I go into the fridge searching for some sort of sustenance. “You know you can tell me these things. I want you to feel like you can talk to me.”

"I know," I reply softly, not buying it. It stays silent for a while as I feel his eyes my back. Silence as I simply stand there. Silence as he stares. I’m frustrated by the silence because it’s giving me time to think, time to realize that he’s not a bad man, just a human being susceptible to the same mistakes as me. When you’re a kid you don’t think about that. When you’re a kid your parents are infallible, it’s not until you’re older do you realize that them, and everybody else is just stumbling trying to figure everything out the same as you.

He’s the first to break the silence in an attempt to repent. I can hear the pain and sincerity in his voice as he genuinely tries to reach out to a son he thinks he’s lost. “Tell me about your therapist.”