You’re supposed to be fully “in” the session. You’re supposed to be empathetic and caring. My friend, who is all those things, tells her clients she loves them. I have never said that to any of my clients. Sure, I say I care (which I do). I am (mostly) present for the session. Sometimes, I think of the walk I’ll take at 5:00pm once we end at 4:50pm. Or I might think about dinner and how I’m going to eat the potatoes this time, not just watch my husband eat his while I salivate.
Lots of times I glance at the clock. I’ve become good at that. I dart my eyes over, register, calculate, and return. 3 seconds max. I don’t think the clients notice. And when the bigger hand mercifully passes the half-hour mark, inching towards the ten-to end, I think “you’ve got 20 minutes more, honey” or “well, it may be on your mind day and night, but you’re going to shut up about it here very soon.” One client commented one time: “I saw you look at the clock.” That was embarrassing. Mostly, I put on my serious face and nod. Sometimes I even hold my chin. I figure I’m sixty now; I can get away with that.
So, when Marcie (not her real name, of course) announced that she was going to find a hoarding* specialist, I had to rearrange my facial features into a countenance of concern and wise but reluctant approval. This is an instance of appropriate chin holding. Marcie’s always been a pain in the butt. “If I don’t clear the study piles, at least the one blocking the door, I don’t really see the point in living. It’s that bad.” Really? Well, do something about it. I say it much more nicely, of course. And even so, for the ten years you’ve had a pile blocking the door to the study, that’s a reason to end your life? Right. Marcie brings my mood down, all the way to the ground floor.
Now she’s telling me she’s going to leave me. She’s going to attack the hoarding issue straight on. It’s an excellent idea. I have to hide my giddiness. The “oh, goody” I have to keep to myself. I tell her it may well be a time we stop while she pursues this targeted help. I say this with brow furrowed and kind eyes. Marcie looks tearful… and determined. She was probably worried about my reaction, how I’d beg her to stay. “No, honey, go…and don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”
I don’t offer her the three sessions of termination—or what we were taught to do in grad school. Termination is a stage, they’d hammer into us; you need to review progress and do a transfer of learning. You need to validate your client for making this difficult decision. You need to talk about the journey you’ve taken together and how brave it is for the person to leave now and practise skills on his or her (or their) own. I validate Marcie now. I tell her it must have been tough to bring this up. I tell her she’s very brave. She looks happy I called her brave.
I’ve certainly done the whole termination regimen with clients in the past. Often, I’ve meant every word. Often, I’ve been angry or hurt. “How could he just do that? Why is he really leaving? What did I do wrong?” I’ve had to process the termination in my own therapy. Often, I’ve panicked and worried about my practice disappearing.
But now not. Not with Marcie. Now I just cross my fingers and hope she likes this hoarding specialist enough to vanish, to disappear into that crowded space she’s been talking about for years. It’s good for her too, I know. She might even clear that pile behind the study door. And I, in all my sixty years of splendor, with all the intention I can muster, I now get to plan out this newly found hour of freedom. I finish Zoom at the ten-to mark, close my laptop, and say a soft “goody!” to myself.
*I altered “Marcie’s” primary issue as well (of course). Confidentiality, confidentiality.
