Sliver

Author: The Shrink Copyright © 2008Location:  Kuwait

It’s a fact that more women get referred for psychotherapy than men. The reasons vary, but the net result is that women have more faith in “talking therapy.”  This is a thin slice of the story of a man, his therapist and their shared state of nothingness.

This was a client never seen in the waiting room. Like spring breeze, he turned up at my door each week, precisely on time and unlike other clients. He entered the room with the graciousness of a cougar; he required no time to arrange himself or his thoughts.

At that point in my career, I had only seen a handful of male clients, and every one of my female clients traced her problems to a male in her world; father, partner, son, yet I never accomplished complete insight into the world of MAN.

Silences predominated our first 13 sessions. His silence spoke words when his actions were scarce. And then one week, he began talking and I began absorbing. I came to realize that this was the type of person who was always at odds with others’ expectations. 

He had the looks of a man yet the smile of a child. In his gaze lay years and years of recycled thought and renewed battles. He spoke of his life, being no ordinary rebel for he sought nothing but to solely exist. He had no particular cause to fight, for each day of his life was a battle won and lost between himself. 

He told me about his women, he liked them well made up with exquisite décor for he excelled in undressing them and baring their souls. His curiosity sucked him in; he observed, learned and relinquished. He repelled himself with equal finesse; smirking at their vanity, delighted with their insecurities. He told me that he never got attached to anyone or anything; he was able to leave a situation, or a relationship, in a flicker and never look back.  To him, everyone was an object or a medium of some sort. He allowed all forms of energy to flow through him as he held on to none.  His shared existence with the universe was never eternal and it had no guarantees. This was a man who knew what he wanted this minute but not the next. He told me about his wounds, almost a decade old but still fresh to the touch. Although not bleeding, this was an injury he was not going to let go of. He spoke of his disappointments the same way he described his delights; to him pain was a sweet experience.

As I took mental notes week in and week out, my psychiatrist brain stopped looking for clues and desperately tried to fit him in a classification. He delivered as I interpreted. He intently listened as I vocalized. The state of knowing was gradually dawning on both of us.  All his ventures connected to the stories I have heard. What other women described as abuse, he shrugged as denial. Pictures of negligence were portrayed as desired achievements. He was nobody’s victim. 

In 40 sessions I learnt that the truth was a state of mind, that forgiveness should come from within and that expectations always lead to disappointments. I became the solid rock that held his gaze and the soft wall that bounced his thoughts. I understood my blackness and his whiteness.

In my mind flashed crying images of my previous clients, of how they attempted to do the right thing the wrong way, of how they misread life signs and signals, and of how little prepared we all are for love.

Fully realizing that this would be an ending I would regret, I started preparing for ours way in advance. He seemed unscathed by it. He narrated the benefits of patient/therapist role-play; both exquisitely played by him for his own pleasure.

This was our last session and as I sat waiting in the room, the clock was ticking as I smiled gently. He was not coming was what was going through my mind, for he was no typical client and he did not believe in goodbyes.

The following week I received his farewell letter, neatly written and signed:  

“Thank you for being my guide and companion through this brief tour of my soul. I have enjoyed the silences with you. You reminded me of no one and that is how I will remember you. Till we meet in another venture and along a different track.

Your guide”

To claim I knew him was sinful, for his moods switched rapidly and so did his presence.