The Therapy Files

By Gregg E. Bernstein Ph.D.

Following up on his first two books, The Heart is My Beat, and Therapy Confidential, Dr. Bernstein shares more "behind-the-curtain" stories and perspectives from the heart of his psychotherapy practice. If you've ever been curious what therapy is all about and what it's like to be a therapy patient, or even wondered whether personal growth and change are possible, this book will answer some of your questions. There are also more stories about the journey to becoming a therapist, and a wealth of honest, revealing glimpses into what therapy is really like from the psychologist's side of the room. But perhaps most of all, this is an opportunity to be inspired by one who still finds renewal and deep meaning in his work after a lifetime of practicing psychotherapy, and always feels that being allowed into his patients' most intimate lives is a privilege and an honor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667833378

Book preview

cover.jpg

The Therapy Files

Copyright © 2022 by Gregg E. Bernstein, Ph.D.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-66783-3-361

ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-66783-3-378

Introduction

Like my other books, The Heart is My Beat and Therapy Confidential, this volume is an attempt to share with you some of the wonderful and meaningful stories I have been privy to in the course of my life, both in my development as a person and my career as a therapist.

Over my many years in these small, quiet rooms, my patients’ lives have become a part of me, and I a part of theirs. Their heroic stories will always have a place in my book of life: the fearsome dragons we wrestled down to size, the frozen rivers of emotion that were melted by patience, the fragments of self that dared to come real, the laughter and tears released at long last, like fledgling birds taking to the air.

And my greatest reward is that, at the end of all the work, when I say, I care about you, they simply nod and say, I know.

For me, my whole career has been like working at Disneyland—a Disneyland of the heart. And eventually, like all visitors to the Magic Kingdom, my patients have to leave.

But me—I got to stay!

The only thing that can transcend time is memory, and ultimately, like a pack of wolves relentlessly running down a caribou, time even catches up to memory. But unlike time, which must hurry on, unstopping, we are able to linger on our memories, to revel in them and rediscover them again and again, turning them around in our minds like Christmas presents, unwrapping them with the advantage of maturity, understanding and emotional distance.

Here are a few of my favorite presents.

Table of Contents

Thank You for Shoplifting with Us

Rainy Night in Queets

The Little Golden Book of Hell

Shakespeare in the Park

The Beautiful and the Restless

The Golden Apples of the Sun

Monterey Pop

The Mansions of May

Speech Therapy

Moby Dick at Woolworth’s

On Beyond Philosophy

My Coming-Out Party

Brief Candle

Of Civilization, Watermelons and the Moon

The Time Orphan

Lyric Reprint Permissions

Thank You for Shoplifting with Us

In my entire therapy career, I’ve gotten exactly one referral from the criminal justice system. Mallory Kincaid topped out at five foot zero and looked like a refugee from the sixth grade, although I was told she was sixteen. She smoked, she drank and she took whatever drugs she could get her hands on. She also took whatever objects she could get her hands on. They called her a shoplifter because she happened to be in a shop when she lifted whatever she could get her hands on one day.

In the juvenile delinquency movies of my youth, they would have called her a kleptomaniac. I don’t know if they even use that term anymore, but it’s more accurate than shoplifter because Mallory’s proclivity for borrowing anything not nailed down wasn’t confined to commercial establishments. I would know, because in the course of her therapy I caught her liberating a stapler, two pens, a box of paper clips and a small vase from my office. And those are just the ones I was able to spot as they left the premises.

The referral came from a man I’ll call Patrick Kelly, a cop I had treated for alcoholism back in my days as a substance abuse counselor. He was called by security at a major Oakland department store one day when Mallory had been a little too free with her hands. It seems that a delicate bottle of very expensive perfume and two rings had been seen making their way into Mallory’s brassiere by a store security officer. Though Mallory protested loudly and violently, a quick search by a female employee turned up the items, and that’s where Pat Kelly came in. Saying I felt sorry for the kid, and seeing as all the items were returned undamaged, he convinced the security people to drop the charges by promising them that Mallory Kincaid would see me for intensive psychotherapy.

So I had already been signed, sealed and virtually delivered before I’d even heard of the situation. Patrick Kelly always was impulsive—and righteous. Our first conversation about Mallory was short and to the point:

Patrick Kelly: So, you gonna see her or not?

Me: Gee Gregg, thanks for even considering bailing me out of the mess I’ve created for myself at headquarters, with my intemperate and ill-considered promises.

PK: Okay, okay, you win; I’m sorry to hit you up like this, but I’m out on a limb here.

Me: Of your own making.

PK: C’mon man, be a mensch.

Me: Appealing to my half-Judaism will get you nowhere, Paddy.

PK: Okay then, all I’ve got left is please.

Me: All right then, as a favor I’ll see her. (Pause) Oh Jesus, you didn’t tell them this would be pro bono, did you?

PK: No, no, of course not. I contacted her mother, and the guys are willing to, uh, throw some money into the kitty.

Me: Some money? The kitty?

PK: Well, the mother says she can afford twenty bucks a session, and the guys in the squad room said they’d kick in, you know, a little something, too.

Me: And just how much is this little something?

PK: Oh, maybe another twenty per.

Me: Meaning it’s going to cost me a bundle to qualify as an Irish mensch?

PK: Aw, don’t look at it that way—think of it as a mitzvah.

Me: I already told you to lay off the ethnic appeals; now you’re just making me mad.

PK: All right then, we’ll skip the BS; will you do it?

Me: Oh hell, tell her to come in next Monday at four. (Pause) Hey, what about her schooling?

PK: That’s up to the proper authorities.

Me: Wow, you mean you didn’t commit me to home-school her, too? I’m impressed.

PK: Hey, I owe you, man.

That forty dollars a session is all I knew until I saw Mallory in my waiting room the following Monday at four. The first time you meet someone, all you really have to go on is how they look, and in that department, Mallory Kincaid was a jigsaw puzzle come to life.

She had on a pair of faded jeans with more holes than denim, shiny red stiletto heels with white socks, a yellow David Bowie t-shirt under a purple hoodie, and a big floppy hat last seen on a countess at Epsom Downs. Well, you can’t say she didn’t have a sense of style—in fact I’d say she had three or four of them going on at the same time. But then I guess when you shoplift your clothes, you can’t be real choosy about coordinating your ensemble.

Please, follow me back to my office.

I’ll walk behind you, but I don’t follow anyone.

As long as we end up in my office, I’m good.

She stalked over to the chair and sat down, folding her legs up under her. She was clearly used to the fact that if she sat in the normal manner, her legs dangling in the air would make her look—and maybe feel—like a child.

She threw her hat down on the couch, and I got my first good look at her. With her fine, regular features, narrow face and slightly pointed chin, she looked a bit like the actress Kristen Stewart—kind of tough-pretty, with something withheld behind those wary blue eyes that was worth fighting for.

She cast her eyes around the office (Okay, I admit it, I immediately thought, Casing the joint) and said, So, now what?

I nodded as I picked up my notebook. Hope you don’t mind if I write some things down. I don’t usually take notes, but the first time I like to at least put down a few basics.

Her eyebrows went up. What kind of basics?

Oh, just some background stuff, the sort of things you need to know in order to know someone.

She shook her head defiantly. That stuff has nothing to do with knowing someone.

I nodded. "I know, but it’s a start. And I’m hoping that by the time we get to the stuff that is important, you might be willing to tell me some of it."

She scoffed, Don’t make book on it.

What sixteen-year-old girl in the Nineties said, Don’t make book on it? Was she a reader? A watcher of old movies? A Mafia daughter? I tucked that datum away for later.

Now her eyes really were doing a job on my office; it’s unusual for a first-session patient to bother taking such a detailed inventory of my things. It told me she was a noticer, a sharpie, a filer-away of data. Of course, it could just mean she was a shoplifter and a kleptomaniac, but I hoped that it meant she thought it all might matter sometime later—and that encouraged me.

Her next statement did not.

She tossed her head. I’m not even sure why I’m here; usually I just fuck the security guard, and I’m on my way.

Whoa. I scrambled to find something—anything—to say to that. Uh, I’m so sorry that that happened to you . . .

"What are you so sorry about? They get their jollies, and I get to walk."

Silence was the best I could do for a full minute. Mallory continued to look around the office, then pointed to the bookshelf. "Hey, I see you got Serpico over there; I saw that with my mother on TV once. She paused, then continued in a barely audible voice, When I had a mom, and when we had a TV."

Okay, I understood now: she would be in control of the background check, and she would dole out information as she saw fit. That suited me fine, especially since I was still in shock about the security guard revelation (if it was true, that is; either way, it was intended to shock). The Serpico comment was an olive branch, but also a test, and I couldn’t afford to fumble it now.

What did you think of it?

Her head swung around from the office to me. What? The movie, or having a mom?

We’ll start with the movie.

She nodded. Good—it was good. He was a cool guy. She eyed me and gave a small snort before adding, Not an institutional stooge.

I got the message. But I also got that her obvious intelligence was going to be an asset I could draw on later.

If there was a later.

I tried to get things back on track. And your mom?

Oh, that’s a whole other story.

I took a chance. You mean she gets mixed reviews?

Mallory twisted around in her chair, clearly uncomfortable for the first time. I don’t know; I never thought of it that way. She looked away from me, blinking fast, then went on in a flat voice. I mean, your mother’s your mother, right? Everyone has to have one. She lowered her head, but her eyes flashed up at me for an instant, then back down again. I had one, and I assume you did, too. She threw me a lip-curl.

I nodded, not taking the bait. Go on.

I mean, how do you evaluate a mother? ‘B’ in housekeeping, ‘C-minus’ in love . . . She paused, and the sneer was back. ‘F’ in men?

I shuddered inside—of course the obvious word association for a therapist was ‘men>stepfather>molestation,’ but it was too early to jump. It was her story to tell, in her own good time. My assumptions and I could wait.

And I did, for a good long time. Finally, I said, Why the ‘C-minus’ in love? I wasn’t going to touch men until she did.

Mallory didn’t change expression, but I could feel the tension leave the room as she snorted, You’re not as smart as I thought you were.

I knew it was about the men. Maybe I have my reasons.

For being dumb?

For being patient.

Her head went down again. Okay, maybe you do. Then she motioned to the clock, clearly done now. When do I get out of here?

It was only half past, but I needed to keep the reins loose. Now is fine, if that works for you.

She got her legs out from under her and stood up, heading for the door.

I hope you come back. I meant it.

She was holding the door. What for?

You know what for.

Do you?

That’s what I want to find out.

She stood there a second, biting her lip. Then she said, I’ll think about it, as she closed the door.

We both knew the legality of the situation dictated that she had to come back, at least in body, but we both knew we were talking about something way beyond that.

It felt like a workable start, but I’ve been wrong before.

* * *

The next week I barely recognized her in the waiting room. Her dark hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, and she had on a breezy, flower-print dress that bared a pair of long, coltish legs, ending in pink flats.

She must have read the surprise on my face. Sorry about the get-up. I just met my probation officer, and well, you know . . .

Never hurts to make a good first impression?

Mallory squirmed; was she uncomfortable being seen looking this way, or just faking demureness as a come-on? Can’t we just fast-forward to the session?

You got it. I led us back.

Lots of things went through my mind on the way down the hall; first, that she was probably used to men wanting her, and she knew I had noticed how she looked. It’s common knowledge by now that many girls who have been molested become sexualized and believe that a man can only be interested in them for sex, or at least sexuality. Was this get-up a way of cutting to the chase? Of getting control by being on familiar turf?

So, where were we? She tucked her legs up under her again and scanned the room. I had the feeling that if even one thing was different from last time, she would know it. Then, as I opened my mouth to speak, she added, How come no notes? Am I not worth it this time?

I told you before I usually only take notes on my first session with someone. I angled my head, adding, Why? Do you want me to?

She licked her lips. Well, no one ever took notes on me before.

Did it make you feel important?

She smiled sardonically. No, just . . . noteworthy.

You are noteworthy to me, whether I take notes or not.

I doubt that.

I nodded. Well, you don’t really have much to go on yet. Later, you might feel different.

She sneered, It’s ‘differently’—don’t patronize me.

Sorry, differently. Hmm, she knew English, and gave me credit for same.

So, what exactly are we even doing here? As she looked over at my bookcase again, appearing to examine the books, I saw her hand snaking slowly toward the round pen holder on my desk.

I decided to play. As she made a show of gazing at the bookshelf, I made a show of following her gaze, and caught her taking one of my green-ink pens from the holder. She distractedly reached down to tug at her skirt and slipped the pen somewhere beneath it.

Ding: end of Round One. The referee calls it a draw: she got the pen, but I got her.

There was no reason to comment on it this time, or maybe ever. It was too soon to know what it meant to her to score the pen, and the loss of a pen was a small price to pay for getting Mallory more engaged in her therapy.

I decided to continue with the bookcase ruse. I gestured to the books. See anything you like?

Mallory smirked salaciously. "I thought that was my line."

We’re talking about books.

She shrugged listlessly. If you say so.

The question still stands.

She still acted bored, but deigned to take another look. "Well then, what’s The Courage to Heal? The fat one, she pointed, there."

Silently thanking the gods of serendipity, I went and pulled it off the shelf, then handed it to her. Here you go.

As she took a cursory look at the cover, I could see her face flush with shock. But she instantly composed herself and the familiar sneer was back in her voice. She read, ‘A guide for women survivors of child sexual abuse.’ Oh brother, what’s this—another feminist rant-a-thon?

Hardly. It’s helped a lot of people.

The boo-hoo set, I assume.

Why don’t you take a look and find out?

Is that an order?

If that’s what it took, I would play. Let’s just say a strong suggestion.

She pointed to the clock; it was half past again. Time’s up, sailor; get off me.

I let that one pass. See you next week.

With a brand-new show?

With or without a brand-new show, I’m interested.

Sure, as long as you’re paid.

As a therapist, I’d already earned my doctorate in letting go; with Mallory I could see I was going to need a post-doc.

Mallory left, taking the book, the pen and her skepticism with her.

All that week, I thought about what had happened so far. I honestly didn’t know if I was doing a good job or not. After all, if your patient is a captive audience, with their presence ensured whether you’re a genius or an idiot, and they’re not even paying you out of their own pocket, how do you tell what it means that they’re continuing? Yes, I had a pretty good idea that Mallory was intrigued enough to play along, and I had caught an amazing break when she—not I—picked out The Courage to Heal, but there was no guarantee that she’d even read it, or be open to it if she did. Plus of course I was still just guessing about the molestation—not every seductive girl has been abused. And I still had gleaned virtually no information about her family life—the mysterious mother with the low grades in love and men, or the father who’d never even been mentioned yet.

And then on Sunday afternoon, something happened. I checked my voicemails and to my surprise there was a call from Mallory. Well not really a call; more like a sound—a strangled yelp like a wolf caught in a trap. I could tell it was Mallory from the voice quality, and because none of my other patients at the time could have left a message like that. I immediately called the number I had been given for her. But there was no answer, just endless ringing. I called Pat Kelly at his home number, but his wife Jean told me he was on duty that day. At the police station, they said Pat was out on a duty call, but they would give him my message right away.

In a panic, I called Mallory’s home number again.

Hello.

It was her.

Mallory, I’ve been trying to reach you.

Really? Oh sorry, it was just a false alarm.

At least she wasn’t denying that it was her (or she, as she would have corrected me). False alarm? It sounded like you were . . .

Upset? Yeah, I guess maybe I was, a little, for a minute there.

Well, what’s going on?

Nothing, really.

It didn’t sound like nothing.

Well, you know teenage girls.

You’re not teenage girls—you’re you, and I care. Now come on, tell me . . .

I just did, and it’s nothing.

Look, if there’s someone there and you can’t talk right now, just say yes.

She laughed. No, this isn’t a spy novel, Dr B, it’s just something that—you know, like when you eat something and it doesn’t go down the right way for a minute, then it passes?

Are you safe now?

Another laugh. Of course. I’m the only one even here.

Is there anyone who can sit with you?

Would you stop already? You’re panicking like an old lady.

Okay, but feel free to call me later if . . .

There is no ‘if.’ I’ll see you tomorrow. (Pause) Okay?

That Okay was the first time I had ever heard any human caring in her voice. Strangely, it meant a lot to me. Okay, see you then.

When Pat called that Sunday evening, I explained the situation to him. He offered to go over to the house and do a welfare check, but I told him no, we’d better play it her way this time.

Being Pat, he said, Hey, you aren’t screwing it up, are you?

No, but thanks for the vote of confidence.

Needless to say, I monitored my voicemail obsessively that night, but there was nothing more from Mallory.

Was I being a panicky old lady? I wouldn’t know till I could set eyes on Mallory the next afternoon—and maybe not even then.

* * *

The next day I knew I had to play it cool, that Mallory would be expecting me to make a beeline for her phone message, and maybe the book too. She was dressed in another outré variation of the stilettos-jeans-and-hoodie garb she’d worn that first time. She avoided eye contact until we were in the office and seated.

Sorry about the big to-do yesterday. She was watching me carefully.

Anytime you need to call me, it’s fine.

Pretty embarrassing to ruin your weekend like that, for nothing.

It was good news that she thought it ruined my weekend; it told me she could project that I really did care about her. Maybe my return call had earned me that. If you needed me, I wanted to be there.

She scrunched up her face. I’m not very used to that I guess.

My God, she was being real. I was quiet. She could take it wherever she wanted now.

She said, Did you ever wonder why you were put on this earth?

I smiled. Yeah, a lot. How about you?

And what did you come up with?

Well, sometimes I felt like it didn’t matter whether I was here or not.

And does it?

When I get to work with someone like you, I feel like it does.

She was quiet a long time. Finally, she sighed. "You know, every time I let a man, you know, do me, I feel like I lose a little bit of myself."

Suddenly I felt like crying.

She went on. Like that Janis Joplin song; you know.

Yeah, I know; a little bit of my heart?

But sometimes I feel like it’s all I have to offer—or all that’s worth anything—to them.

You’re so much more than that, Mallory.

Tell me about it.

I thought she was being sarcastic and just gave her an ironic smile. But she said, No, I really mean it. I’m actually asking you; tell me about how I’m more than that. Her head went down. Not that I’ll believe you. But tell me anyway, just for the record.

Once again, we were at a crossroads, and I couldn’t afford to blow it. Well let’s see, you’re smart, you have a great sense of humor, you’re very kind . . .

She gave a snort of derision.

No, I mean it; well, maybe the way you are right now, you can’t afford to show it all the time, but it’s there—I know it.

"Go on—if there is an on."

I nodded. There’s plenty of on. You notice things, you’re very considerate . . .

Oh please, now you’re just pushing words.

I am not; that day I called you, I could tell when we got off the phone that you actually cared. You cared that I reached out, and you cared that I’d be worrying about you.

She knew it was true, and let things hang there for a moment. Then she said, Aren’t you forgetting a few important things on my resume?

Such as?

"I’m a great little shoplifter, I’m sexy in a