Finally, he lifted his chin an inch, which I took as an agreement.
“Let’s imagine that tonight, while you are sleeping, a miracle will happen. The miracle is that, when you wake up, your pain and anger is completely gone.”
His eyes flashed, a quick and violent jolt that literally pushed me backwards in my chair. I’d stumbled into bad wording. Again. What miracle would Doug actually want? Not to be free of the anger. To be back with his wife.
Damn, I should have acknowledged that.
“We can’t bring your wife back, or escape our past, Doug. Even with miracles. Can you try envisioning a world without so much pain with me?”
His anger was only growing. A vein bulged on his neck, throbbing with each grind of his jaw. I kept going.
“Tomorrow morning, you’re going to wake up and discover you can hold the memory of your wife without the painful guilty sensation that you pushed her away.”
A flush rose along his cheeks. He was fighting me and fighting the session. But I needed him to see this would benefit him, so I kept pushing.
“This same miracle allows you to acknowledge that what happened with your partner was not your fault. That he took advantage of your trust for his own benefit. And that turning him in was the right choice to make because it protected the lives of your colleagues and innocent victims of his crimes.”
His shoulders dropped, just a fraction of an inch. It was hard to tell if that was a sign of progress or not. For someone who could read others so well, he was damn hard to read himself.
“Do you believe that’s possible, Doug? That you can feel completely valid and real emotions about the people you loved and trusted without the accompanying guilt that is also valid, but maybe not as real?”
“Can you do that, Simone?” Oof. Doug could cut to the core when he wanted. His ability was something else. Not only could he see the ebbs and flows of my emotions, but he could also sense the parts I was squashing down.
Or he’d heard about Jeff’s betrayal in town. I wasn’t in New Orleans anymore. Small towns knew everything about everyone. I had to allow for both possibilities.
“I don’t know yet, Doug.” There was no sense in being dishonest or evading the question like he had done. He would know. “I hope to one day.”
Again, that sensation of being read like a book. He slumped in his chair, and a flicker of hope lit within me. I was making progress.
“So back to this miracle, Doug. When you wake up tomorrow morning, what will be the first sense that something is different?”
I’d used a version of the miracle question with Agatha when she’d come to my office. It was an effective tool for helping a client shift from problems to solutions. With Doug, I hoped it would help him see there was an end to this cycle of pain. If only he would grasp it.
Doug closed his eyes. As soon as he did, the feeling of being analyzed evaporated. If he was shutting other people’s sense of self out, perhaps he was digging into his own.
“We slept in different beds.” He opened his eyes briefly, a hint of humor lightening his features. “I snore.”
As I matched his smile, he closed his eyes again.
“I always woke up before Maggie, so I’d put on a pot of coffee before I left for work.” His voice caught, rough with the emotion bubbling to the surface. “I wanted her to start her day easy. And while I was at work, I’d picture her, sitting with a cup of the coffee I brewed for her, looking out at the garden we created together.”
“That’s a nice image. I’m sure it helped you get through the hardships of your job.”
“I’ve been making that same damn pot of coffee every morning since she died.” A tear streamed down his cheek. I wondered if he noticed it. “At the end of the day, the damn pot is still full.”
When he opened his eyes, I knew I’d made a dent. It was as if he was lighter. Not a lot, but just enough.
“So what does tomorrow look like with this miracle, Ray?”
He took a deep breath, and I held mine.
“I don’t make a full pot of coffee. I remember that nice thing I did for Maggie, and lord knows I was a hard man to love but she did, and I remember that I made her happy, too.”
And the dent widened. It’s temporary. I’d seen enough patients to know that this wasn’t a permanent stick. But it allows them to see past the moment, to give themselves an ounce of hope. And they could use that hope to effect change.
“How would that affect the rest of your day?”
He was there, right on the edge of a minor breakthrough. I helped him in our very first session! I wasn’t a shitty therapist after all.
