Hitting Home

I didn’t see her until Monday, and the election was the Tuesday prior. Having worked together for 8 years, I knew she’d be devastated by the results, and I was aware that I was looking forward to sitting with her, knowing we’d be aligned in our grief. She walked into my office and started tenderly crying. Getting ready to sit down, she said, “The chair is too far away,” and shimmed it closer to mine. I smiled, recalling how our relationship has expanded over the years. Her quiet tears continued, and I felt my eyes starting to well up, ready to join her in mourning

for all we lost postelection. I was surprised when she unexpectedly offered, “I don’t think I am crying for the reason you think.” Mentally I started shuffling the cards in my head in an effort to quickly shift gears and prepare: Death of a friend? Illness of a family member? A concern with one of her own patients? I thought I was ready for whatever she would say next—I pride myself in being ready—but was stunned by her next statement. “I’m crying for you.”

The illusory deck of psychoanalytic cards collapsed in my mind, and I was speechless, feeling completely vulnerable in my unpreparedness. Why would she cry for me? For the first few years, our work was all about pushing out her intrusive, neglectful mother, eventually demanding that there be one space she could not occupy. In an early session, she said to me, “I am not going to ask you about yourself. This needs to be all about me.” It wasn’t said with malice, rather a profound understanding of what she truly desired, what she never had received. What we both knew was needed for her to heal deeply.

Once she had severed her relationship with her mother, I was invited, on occasion, to come into the session. But rarely like this. She was crying for me. She continued: “I know I have never asked directly, but I assume, given how I envision your family, your rights could be in danger. You could be in danger.”

Hearing her words, tears spilled from my eyes. It