Intensive Therapy: A Novel

By Jeffrey Deitz

Psychoanalyst-in-training Dr. Jonas Speller still has a lot to learn when he meets college student Victoria Schone, whose troubled relationship with her parents has her teetering on the verge of suicide. As Jonas struggles to make sense of his feelings for Victoria, he helps her become her own person and stand up to her overpowering mother, while she challenges the budding doctor to become more emotionally forthcoming and involved with her. Years later, a crisis in Victoria’s life reunites doctor and patient, forcing them to confront poignant truths about themselves, their families, and their powerful feelings for each other. Intensive Therapy: A Novel takes readers deep inside the hearts and minds of analyst and patient as they grapple with the limits of doctor-patient propriety. The novel, Deitz’s first, has garnered widespread praise both within the therapy community and the literary world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group
• Release date: Jun 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781626341876

Book preview

JoAnn

1

Friday, November 19, 2004

As Victoria Braun surveyed her closet deciding which suit to wear, she caught sight of the black negligee she had hung on the far side of the rack weeks earlier. She had been hoping to surprise her husband with a steamy night, only that night kept getting pushed back. It’s because of all the late afternoon appointments and last-minute conference calls , she tried to persuade herself. But the lawyer in her knew the argument was far from convincing. Her schedule was no more hectic than it had been for years.

Moments later she heard a commotion break out down the hall. Gregory, her ten-year-old son, couldn’t budge his older sister, Melinda, from her room, which meant keeping the carpool driver waiting for the third time in five days. Friends Select School, on Benjamin Franklin Parkway, was ten minutes away from the Brauns’ townhouse by car, but it was a good half hour on foot, weather cooperating, which it wasn’t. An enormous front descending from the Great Lakes through the eastern seaboard had shrouded the Mid-Atlantic sky in battleship gray, with a cold drizzle veiling Philadelphia’s glass towers behind a glaucous scrim.

Come on, Melinda, Gregory urged, pounding on her bedroom door. Mrs. Caruso will be here any minute. This time, I’m going whether you’re ready or not. Please. I don’t want you to be late again!

Go away, Melinda grumbled. Stop bothering me.

I’m not trying to bother you, Gregory said. You’re in enough trouble already. I hear Mother talk about it all the time; those calls from the guidance office are getting to her. Next thing we know, the school will send a truant officer.

Melinda cracked open the door. I hate that you and Mother talk about me behind my back. She’s such a hypocrite. She’s always late herself.

So? You’re in ninth grade; she’s finished law school. You know, Melinda, being in the gifted program doesn’t mean you don’t have to go to school.

So, now that you’re in sixth grade, it’s okay for you and Mother to gang up on me? Melinda said.

Don’t be so paranoid, Melinda. I’m trying to help.

Fuck all of you, Melinda yelled loudly enough for everyone to hear. I’m tired of your shit.

Do you hear this, Martin? Victoria said to her husband, standing next to her in front of the bathroom vanity adjusting his collar and tie. Something’s wrong with that girl. Dammit, she exclaimed when her eyebrow pencil broke. Now what! Take me away, Martin. Anywhere. I’d be happy with a long weekend."

Oh Vic, Martin responded kindheartedly. Hopefully, Melinda’s just going through a phase. I know how your mind works. Even if we went away—assuming we could get away—you’d find something to worry about.

You’re probably right. There’s just so much to do. It’s so dark out. I wish we could get some sun.

Maybe after Christmas, Martin said.

Jury selection for Barlow v. Duke’s starts Monday, Victoria fretted. I have to meet with Mrs. Arrestia in fifteen minutes. Then I have to be at Broad Street by ten o’clock to defend Dr. Ramey at the performing arts center deposition. All this rushing … I hate it.

Martin said, You know the Colazzo hearing begins at ten o’clock, too. I need an hour to prepare him.

What’s with your outfit? Victoria teased affectionately, noting Martin’s spanking white shirt and red tie dotted with American flags. You’re not running for office, are you?

Martin Braun, six years older than Victoria—not that anyone could tell because he was so fit—looked especially handsome that day.

No, he smiled at his wife’s comment. The presiding judge is a World War Two veteran, so I’m leveraging the patriotic look. You like?

Very nice, Victoria replied, trying to stay in the moment. Soon she was preoccupied with Melinda and the rush to get to the downstairs office. If Melinda needs a ride to school, my schedule will be shot. I’ll never get to that summary judgment motion that has to be filed before Tuesday.

If only you’d learn that voice recognition software I got us, you could bang it out in ten minutes.

Martin, please. Don’t get me started, Victoria said. I’m technologically challenged enough. Thank God Gregory showed me how to do word-processing and e-mail. I can’t possibly manage another thing.

Okay, okay. Take it easy, Martin said. Let’s send Snyder to the Ramey deposition.

Snyder? Are you crazy? He’s worthless. Chris Buddinger is representing the plaintiffs. One look at Snyder and Buddinger will smell blood. He’ll tear Ramey to pieces if I’m not there. I should have listened when you said not to hire Snyder. I can’t deal with Melinda this morning. Can you take her to school? It’s not fair for Gregory to be late.

Speaking of fair, Martin said. Since it’s my parents’ year for Thanksgiving, they asked us to bring dessert. How about fresh cannoli from the Italian Market?

That’s another thing, Victoria said. No matter what I bring your sisters will give me grief. Sophia and Lydia treat me like a gold digger. I can’t help it if your family got here a century before mine. My grandfather waited until Kristallnacht and spent every last penny to get out. At least he got us here. The way your sisters treat me, I wonder if they’re sorry he made it out at all.

Approaching from the side, Martin drew his arms around Victoria’s waist affectionately, as he always did when she was having a fit. Calm down, Vic. Calm down, he cooed, peering over her shoulder as she repaired the smudged eyebrow. He stood back to admire his wife’s profile. Look at you, he beamed. You’re radiant. As for Melinda, let it go. Just let it go.

A floor below, the smell of freshly brewed coffee suffused the Braun’s Center City townhouse with the aroma of morning. Another level below, a glass partition delicately etched with the names Schone and Braun separated their law practice from the privacy of their home. Gail Heath, their paralegal-cum-office manager, was already at work preparing for the day.

Outside, the usual morning cacophony had begun: the groan of a bus on its way up Walnut Street; honking geese gathered by the gazebo on Rittenhouse Square; the whistle of the doorman hailing a taxi for a tenant of The Dorchester. Pots upon pots of yellow and orange mums lined the eight curvilinear steps leading from the pavement to 1912 Rittenhouse Square South’s front door.

I don’t believe you, Melinda. I’m leaving, Gregory said as he slung his backpack onto his shoulders. What a narcissist, he muttered on his way to the stairs.

Victoria stepped to her bedroom door. What happened? she asked as Gregory passed.

Melinda. I don’t know what’s with her, Gregory said. I feel sorry for you. I tried to get her up and out.

What a dear boy. So considerate, Victoria thought. Gregory Braun was Victoria’s nimble skateboarder, merrily grinding his way towards puberty. It was far more than his book smarts—he was already in double-accelerated math and science—that Victoria adored. Gregory was so creative. His way with words made Victoria feel that he got her. Gregory was proof she had made the world a better place.

That’s not your job, she said about Melinda. Is that new? she asked, pointing at his backpack.

Martin got it for me on South Street. Look, Gregory said, showing his mother several zippered pockets. There’s room for my laptop, my calculator, and my Palm Pilot.

Martin? Since when do call your father, ‘Martin?’

Since today. I’m trying it out to see how it feels. ‘Martin,’ Gregory said, mimicking his mother’s inflection. ‘Martin’ sounds more mature than ‘Daddy’ or ‘Dad.’ ‘Father’ is much too stiff. What do you think?

I think you’re special, Victoria said with a delight she felt only in Gregory’s presence. How she wished she could feel that way about Melinda, too.

I’ll pronounce it like you do, Gregory said. You always say ‘Martin.’ Not ‘sweetheart,’ not ‘dear,’ like Mrs. Lester calls Brad’s father. Just ‘Martin.’ Very professional—like your business suits.

Is that a compliment?

I like your business suits. They make you look put-together. Not like my friends’ mothers in their sweatpants. I’ve got to go. Sorry about leaving you with Melinda. Gregory hugged his mother.

You can still kiss me, she said, offering a cheek.

I know, but I don’t want to mess up your makeup, he said, disappearing down the stairs.

After she finished dressing, Victoria marched down the hall. Melinda! she demanded. No response. Melinda! she shouted loudly enough to rattle the door. Get up and get dressed. I have to be downstairs in five minutes, and your father has a hearing at ten o’clock. It’s out of his way, but he’ll drive you. Do you hear me?

Stop trying to run my life, Melinda shouted back. I’ll get dressed when I want to. I don’t care what you and Daddy do.

Martin came up behind Victoria.

Something’s wrong, Martin. Something’s very wrong, she said over her shoulder.

Leave it to me, Vic. I’ll deal with her. Go downstairs and have your tea.

As she headed down the steps, a horrible feeling overcame her; something Victoria had not felt in more than twenty years.

2

Friday, September 18, 1981

Descending the creaky stairs of The University of Pennsylvania’s College Hall after her last class, Victoria Schone was terrified about what was happening to her. Every time she passed an emergency exit door, she went into a panic, plagued by thoughts of jumping off one of the tall buildings on campus. These impulses, which had started weeks earlier during her family vacation in Italy, were becoming stronger and more tempting. What is wrong with me? she kept asking herself. The more she focused on the bad thoughts, the more intense they became—racing through her mind day and night, to the point that she could barely sleep.

Although the clock atop the architecture school read 2:30, Victoria’s 3:00 PM appointment seemed hours away. She had been counting down the hours for ten excruciating days. Stopping for tea at the student union, she collapsed into an armchair and tried reading her English literature book to calm her mind. It didn’t help.

Victoria crossed Spruce Street and entered the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania’s Gates Pavilion. She felt nauseated every time the elevator lurched to a stop on its way up to the ninth floor psychiatry clinic. At precisely 3:00 she arrived in the vestibule, where the secretary directed her to room 921, the office of the chief resident, Dr. Jonas Speller. Walking down the narrow corridor, Victoria imagined her doctor-to-be as a bearded, bespectacled nerd-type. Neutral and non-threatening. What will he do? she wondered. Call my parents? Send me to the hospital? Tell me to stop school? Say I’m beyond help?

The last thing Victoria wanted was for her parents to know how badly she felt, which could give them even more ammunition with which to snipe at her for moving into the dormitory. Her relationship with her mother, Lorraine, was already tenuous. Grandma Jeanine, Lorraine’s mother, paid for Victoria’s room and board, enabling her to leave home against her parents’ wishes and to make the appointment at the psychiatry clinic without having to ask her parents for money.

The door to room 921 was open; Victoria peeked inside cautiously.

She was startled. Dr. Speller looked nothing like she had imagined. He was a moustached and vigorous-looking man in his late twenties, dressed in a fashionable checked shirt with a contrasting bow tie. Caught off guard, Victoria felt self-conscious.

Good afternoon, the man said, as he rose from his desk. I’m Dr. Jonas Speller. You are …?

Victoria Schone, she said tersely, her fear transmuted into resentment that her name had become Dr. Speller’s business.

It’s good to meet you, the doctor said, gesturing for her to take a seat. Make yourself comforta—

Is this the only time you can see me? said Victoria, still standing. I’m missing class.

Dr. Speller seemed unsettled. He remained upright while Victoria looked about the sparsely furnished office. He sat down first, withdrawing into his chair-on-rollers, with an expression like the one that usually presaged her father’s alcohol-lubricated assaults on her character. The longer Dr. Speller stayed silent, the angrier Victoria became.

Don’t you have anything to say? she asked.

Dr. Speller asked her to sit. Victoria plopped down onto a chair close enough to his desk that she could rest her right elbow and arm on it. She waited, drifting into a far-off stare, her fingers tracing circles.

So, the doctor said gently after a few moments, Tell me about yourself and your situation.

I don’t know where to start. Telling her story felt unfair; revealing the suicidal thoughts was unimaginable. I wake up every day with a knot in my stomach. I’m always afraid.

Afraid of …?

I don’t know. I used to know. But now it’s everything. Everything!

Everything? Can you put that feeling into words?

It’s like dread. Whenever the phone rings, I think it’s horrible news. Horrible.

Horrible as in …?

Horrible as in horrible. I just said that, Victoria barked.

Dr. Speller waited. Sounding more detached and clinical, he said, This horrible feeling, does it resonate with anything? Does it bring anything to mind?

Victoria felt she had driven Dr. Speller away. I do this all the time, she thought. I do this all the time, she whispered aloud.

I beg your pardon, Dr. Speller said.

She was surprised when he spoke. What? she said.

I thought I heard you say, ‘All the time.’

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter?

Why would it matter? she said.

Why would it matter? he echoed incredulously.

Yes. Why would it matter?

Because I’m interested in what you think and feel, he said.

What I think and feel? Like you care about what I think and feel. How much does this cost?

We’ll talk about that in a minute. Can we get back to—?

How much? Victoria insisted.

We usually discuss that at the end of the visit.

I don’t give a shit what you usually do, Victoria erupted. You’re telling me you care what I feel, but I have to pay for it.

Dr. Speller rolled his chair back and was silent for a long time. He turned to face Victoria head on. Yes, I’m interested in what you think and feel, he said passionately. That’s what I do. That’s what we do here.

Victoria knew he was telling the truth. She could tell when her mother lied; this was different. But I have to pay for it, don’t I? Don’t I? she said, bitterly.

You sound very bitter, Dr. Speller observed.

What did you just say?

I said you sound very bitter.

Victoria wondered if the doctor had read her mind. The thought made her head spin. She replayed his words like a mantra. I’m interested in what you think and feel. I’m interested in what you think and feel. She pictured receding waves at the Jersey shore where she summered as a child. What did you just say? He didn’t answer. I asked a question. Again no response. This is fucking ridiculous, she huffed and stood up as though to leave.

This? Dr. Speller responded.

"Yes, this. What is this? You don’t talk for minutes at a time, and you can’t remember what I said two seconds ago."

I was thinking. I’m trying to get a sense of where all this anger is coming from.

He certainly wanted to understand her, Victoria had to concede. But she had no intention of letting him off that easy. Really, she scoffed.

Yes, really, he mocked, mirroring her tone with just enough bite to smart. He sounded pissed. "This is called psychotherapy; that’s what this is. This is where someone talks about their thoughts and their feelings. This is about two people working together, and yes, you pay to get a handle on your issues."

Victoria knew she deserved the reprimand. He spoke with just enough I don’t need to take this shit from anybody to make her think he might send her away. She slumped into her seat, her anger giving way to profound sadness and the image of an eddying swirl of water spiraling down a toilet.

Whatever, Victoria uttered dismissively, after which she responded sullenly to the standard questions: where she grew up—a big house in Abington Township; her age—she was twenty; where she lived—Hill Hall; her major—English literature; her family—her parents hated her. Eventually Dr. Speller asked about friends and if she had a significant relationship.

Victoria wanted a boyfriend, because that’s what other girls had. But despite all the admiring glances from boys on campus, no one made it past the third date because she lost interest. What kind of question is that? she asked. How long have you done this?

Dr. Speller sighed and looked elsewhere. Victoria thought he glanced at his watch. Why do I do this? she berated herself. Push people away and then feel bad.

Has anyone ever said you push people away? Dr. Speller ventured.

That was twice in half an hour. How did you know what I was thinking?

Dr. Speller smiled, setting his glasses on his side of the desk.

In truth, Victoria had picked a psychiatrist-in-training not just because it was all she could afford, but also because she figured the therapy would hurt less. Somehow, though, Dr. Speller had already poked her sore spots. She had been nasty to him, but he kept coming back, unlike her drunken nebbish of a father who took his wife’s abuse without standing up for himself.

Victoria looked across the room. Atop the bookcase rested a sculpture of an orchestra conductor next to a thick blue paperback and an aged hardcover entitled Guide for the Perplexed. What did she have to lose?

I’m angry all the time. All the time. And, she said, holding her breath, ever since I went with my family to Florence, I’m terrified of high places. I think about walking off tall buildings all the time. She braced for the worst.

Dr. Speller pincered his glasses by their earpieces, twirled them around, and said, Both ideas are intertwined, you know.

The notion bowled Victoria over. She looked out the window for the first time. It never occurred to me they were related. You really think so?

I know so, Dr. Speller said. As for your anger, how long have you felt this way?

I don’t know. It seems like forever.

Can you remember when you didn’t feel this way?

You don’t give up, do you? she said. I wish my father was like that, but there he sits night after night downing double martinis in front of Walter Cronkite, while my mother bitches at him or me. I had to get out of there.

The room started to spin and Victoria’s stomach heaved. Too proud for anyone to see her on hands and knees over a trash can, she bolted down the hall seeking relief; the men’s room, the women’s room, it didn’t matter. She made it to the commode just in time.

When Victoria returned, it was five minutes to four. Room 921’s door remained open. Dr. Speller was quietly reading the newspaper. He seemed pleased to see her. Are you okay? he asked.

Yes, thank you. I feel much better. Victoria searched Dr. Speller’s face, trying to get a read. It was nice of you to wait for me. I’m sorry I was so nasty. I get that way when I’m overwhelmed. That’s not really me.

I get it, he said with a smile.

Relieved that Dr. Speller had accepted her apology, Victoria said, We’ve run late. I’m keeping you.

There’s still time.

When can we meet again?

Dr. Speller seemed surprised. How soon would you like to come?

The next time you can.

He surveyed his appointment book. That’ll be this Monday afternoon. When does your class end?

At four forty-five.

I have someone then. How about five twenty?

How long do sessions last?

Around forty-five minutes, although some take longer to wrap up than others. I try to stay flexible, but I don’t like making people wait.

Five twenty, Monday, it is. See you then, Victoria said, feeling as though a cannonball had been lifted off her chest.

Good-bye, Dr. Speller said grinning. See you Monday.

3

Monday, September 21, 1981

T o her surprise, Victoria had not thought about tall buildings all weekend. Upon entering room 921 for her second session, she studied Dr. Speller more carefully. Before we get into anything, she said, how old are you?"

That matters, doesn’t it? Dr. Speller replied.

What kind of answer is that? You know about me; I need to know about you.

What does knowing my age mean to you?

Mean to me? It means I want a straight answer. Jesus Christ, it’s a simple question.

Dr. Speller hesitated. I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ll be twenty-eight next month, he said.

That’s good. His age reassured her; it made him seem worldly. So, what happens next?

First, let’s decide on a schedule. You should come often enough that we can follow the themes in your thoughts from session to session. What feels right to you?

How about Mondays and Thursdays, after class? Victoria said.

Sounds good. If it’s too much or too little we can always change, Dr. Speller responded.

Victoria nodded.

So let’s get going, he said. The basic idea is to say what’s on your mind, uncensored, just as it goes through consciousness.

My mind is like a carousel spinning out of control. There are so many thoughts racing through it, I don’t know where to start.

Pick one. Any one.

How will I know if I’m on the right track?

It doesn’t matter. You’ll see. Thoughts are associated. Your mind connects them unconsciously. Among other things, my job is to see the connections.

What other things?

I try to put your thoughts and feelings in perspective. To see the world through your eyes.

Victoria looked around the room, settling on a photograph of Philadelphia’s Academy of Music. Okay, here goes, she said. "I called my mother Saturday night. Lorraine drives me crazy. You never know what mood she’ll be in. This time, she was complaining about Daddy’s drinking. Morris Schone hasn’t said a civil word to me in two years, except to complain about how much money I cost.

See this? Victoria touched her Italian leather coat. Lorraine took me shopping in Florence. When we got back to the hotel, he had a shit fit about how much it cost; but she was the one who wanted to buy it, telling me how good it looked on me. Which is another thing. Lorraine has this thing about my body. She hates certain skirts, because she thinks my hips and legs are too narrow. It’s all about appearances with her. Even though she was furious about my moving away to college, Lorraine would never send some Cinderella to Hill Hall wearing rags, not with the rest of the girls gallivanting around campus in Burberry skirts and cashmere sweaters. So, she bought this jacket just as much for herself as she did for me. I liked it, but I didn’t have to have it. But when Daddy blasted me, she turned on me like I was a greedy pig. That’s what I mean. You never know what kind of mood she’ll be in.

For the next half hour, Victoria surprised herself with how eagerly she shared her thoughts and feelings about life in Abington Township.

I see, Dr. Speller said when Victoria stopped to catch her breath. You mentioned that there were other thoughts on your mind. Feel free to include your memories, your daydreams, and your night dreams.

I never talk about what goes on in my mind, Victoria said. Do you have any idea how weird this is for me? Sitting with a perfect stranger, saying things out loud I haven’t even said to myself?

It’s hard, I know, especially if you’ve never done it before, but that’s your job in therapy. Sometimes it’s best for me to remain quiet, so I don’t disturb your train of thought. Then we try to figure out what your thoughts mean. And one other thing, Dr. Speller added. Keep a pad and pencil by your bedside and write down your night dreams. Dreams are a peephole into the unconscious mind—more for us to work on.

Victoria liked his we and us. There was no we at Abington. Abington was Lorraine and Morris telling her what to think and feel.

Dr. Speller, Victoria said as the session drew to a close, you have no clue about the shit that goes through my mind, hour after hour, day after day.

You’re right. I don’t, he said. But this is a safe place to share it.

Outside the tiny window, the afternoon sky had turned dark orange and pink. There is one more thought on my mind today, Victoria said. "It’s about the girl in the book I’m reading. Her name is Esther. Esther catches smallpox and barely survives, but while she’s recuperating, she meets her mother—who she’s been searching for her whole life—for the first and only time. Her mother has always known Esther’s true identity but was ashamed, because she bore Esther out of wedlock. Now, she was frantic, worrying whether her daughter would survive her illness.

I was thinking about Esther’s pock-marked face, about how scarred I feel, that there must be something grotesque about me that repulses my family. Victoria burst into tears. They don’t like me. I’ve been alone for so long. I have friends so to speak; I have a brother, but except for Grandma, no one knows the real me. They wouldn’t like it. Can you understand that?

I want to. Very much, Dr. Speller empathized.

It had taken only two sessions for Victoria to open up. This she did not expect.

Victoria and Dr. Speller shared a brief silence that felt like a memorial service. At that moment, she felt the loneliness of childhood begin to die. Not with the explosion she expected, more like the bitter sweetness of her favorite poem by Robert Frost.

4

Friday, November 19, 2004

I can’t believe you get nervous before these things, Jennie Speller said to her husband. You must have given this talk a hundred times.

More like thirty, Jen, said Jonas, checking himself in the hotel room mirror. I prefer panels. It’s nerve-racking when everyone’s looking at you.

You’re not fooling anyone, Jo. We know you love the attention.

Well, maybe, he laughed.

What’s so funny?

Remember that German psychoanalyst I trained with when we lived in Philadelphia? Hannah Schmidt. The one who looked like a Berlin disco bouncer?

Sort of. What made you think of her?

You reminded me of my first presentation after residency. What a hoot! Hannah—a die hard devotee of psychoanalyst Melanie Klein—was on the panel that day. She showed wartime pictures made by English children, claiming the aerial bombs and antiaircraft weapons represented turds and shriveled penises. It was all I could to do to keep from breaking up. But she got me thinking how literal children are. Tell a child he has chicken pox and he’s liable to start looking for a rooster! Ironic, isn’t it? That I learned from her.

And me? Have I taught you a thing or two? Or would you rather fantasize about Fraulein Schmidt?

You should see pictures of Melanie Klein, Jen. Hannah cut and dyed her hair to look exactly like her heroine. Her head looked like Brillo. Jonas ogled Jennie. You look good enough to eat, he said. How come I can’t get enough?

Must be all those adoring lady patients and residents you spend your days with. But there’re still a few lessons I could teach you, Herr Professor.

Dressed in olive pants, a yellow blouse, and brown loafers, Jennie looked more beautiful than the day they met, the twenty-third anniversary of

Reviews for Intensive Therapy

[karen59_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Intensive Therapy by Jeffrey Deitz has a compelling story line and kept me interested from start to finish though with some deep reservations. As a therapist, I enjoyed reading about a particular place and time when psychotherapy went through a sea change and the distant patient-therapist relationship became less rigid, distant and codified by theories that were probably more hurtful then helpful. Although I do believe that certain clients call up a deeper response in ourselves as therapists than others, and that this is part of the journey, it is up to the therapist to manage this within certain professional boundaries. Dr. Speller walked those boundaries pretty precariously and, at times, not well at all. Some parts made me laugh especially when it came to Dr Speller putting himself out there as Victoria Schone-Braun's savior as if only he could do that. He seriously needed some supervision to help him with his own issues.. We are supposed to like/be attached/love our therapist but when our therapist becomes too attached to clients the result can be very problematic, especially for clients. Nonetheless, it was a easy read, an engrossing read and I did enjoy how Dr Speller became disenchanted with traditional psychotherapy and was brave enough to make a change. I just think he needed help making this a more productive and useful change for him and his clients.Thank you to NetGalley for allowing me to review this book for an honest opinion.

[catscritch · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Very easy to read novel covering topics of mental disorders, dysfunctional families and the friends we need in our lives to keep us sane. Slipping back and forth in time, a mother’s bi-polarism visits itself on her daughter. But even when you know what the problem is, doesn’t mean you know how to deal. Where most families would close ranks and start to throw blame, Victoria is fortunate enough to understand there is a difference between antisocial behavior and lost souls screaming for help. It still doesn’t make it any easier to forgive and forget, but perhaps, in life, we aren’t meant to do that. Deitz lets us all dissect the human mind to discover the unexpected physical outbursts and while we’re only human, humans are built to love. An advanced copy of this book was provided for an honest review.

[ozzieslim · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is one of those books that I decided I needed to let a few weeks go by before I sit down to write the review. I thought time would help me clarify my thoughts and feelings about this book. I don't feel I am any closer to grasping a definitive answer but maybe by the end of the review, it will make more sense.The story is told in two separate time periods. Dr. Jonas Speller is a psychotherapist. In the earlier period of the story, he is finishing up his training, undergoing psychotherapy himself as part of the processes required to enter the profession while also working as a therapist at a university. Victoria Schone is a student who undergoes therapy with Dr. Speller during this earlier period. She is overcome by feelings of mania, depression, suicidal thoughts and feelings and a desperate need to regain control of her racing thoughts and feelings. As the story opens however, we meet the two leads at a later time in their lives. Dr. Speller is an established and well respected psychotherapist who has been part of the changing face of the mental health field. Although his training and the therapy he undertook was to lay on the couch and speak to a stream of conscious thought without much feedback from his therapist, he prefers to have more of a dialogue with his patients which includes divulging at least some personal details about himself.Victoria Schone-Braun, is now a married mother of two and a successful attorney. She and her husband run a law firm that they actually live above. They are the parents of two teenagers. The oldest is a daughter that is going through some kind of mental health issue of her own and the youngest is their son who is seemingly perfect in his mother's eyes and who is frustrated by the behavior of his sister.The story goes back and forth in a very clear way. The earlier dates tend to focus on the therapy sessions and unfold the issues and problems faced by Victoria as well as the development of Jonas as a therapist and a person. We get to see who and how Jonas met and married his wife but we do not get a very full story about the adoption of his two children.On the other hand, we do not get to know much about the background of how Victoria met and married her husband which is odd because throughout the part set in the more current era, problems in the marriage are constantly alluded to but we have no background on the marriage itself. We are however, given more background on her role as a mother to both her son and daughter.Without giving away any more of the story, a crisis occurs in Victoria's life which prompts her to re-establish contact with Dr. Speller seeking both advice and a referral. The contact prompts Jonas to drop everything in order to help Victoria. He acknowledges that there is a special connection between the two – a connection that Victoria also feels. The book is an interesting look at the doctor/patient relationship in therapy as well as the therapeutic process itself. There are times that ideas emerge that are great jumping off points for discussions around mental health, the impact of parents on our development, how our experiences in youth shape us as adults and questions around what constitutes ethical and unethical behavior.But, there are enough times that the book takes off on flights of fancy and incredible threads that have you shaking your head as a reader and wondering why this author's editor didn't take the bull by the horns and tell the author that he was going in a direction that really pressed the boundaries of reality and taste. There were also threads that I wish the author had pursued more thoroughly such as Victoria's marriage and Jonas' relationship with his adoptive children. Those were touched upon so superficially and yet, they felt like they were important to the story.I give the book a solid three stars. I didn't love it but I didn't hate it either. I was engrossed but I could put it down and walk away for a few days while I read other things in between. It is a book pregnant with possibility but a story not fully realized.