THE DOG IN THE STREET

   It's a minute or so into the session and I am looking at my client. I am silent and waiting for him to start. The client, however, is silent too.

   As usual he is looking back at me and, I assume, waiting for me to say something for him to respond to. I remember previous sessions when he discussed his discomfort and fear whenever he has to be proactive instead of reactive. So this time I choose not to interrupt his process. I breathe, open my heart, and decide to wait him out.

   Nobody speaks.

   Pretty soon it is 10 minutes into the session. We are still silent and looking at each other. I think to myself, here I am doing unconditional positive regard and, knowing him, he's probably playing "stare you down." I begin wondering how I might formulate a metaphorical story that reflects our process.

   Hmmm...something about a boy who thought he was in a contest but it turned out he was just being respected? Nah. Or how about a man who believed someone else was the enemy and then discovered through a twist of fate that the other person was really on his side? Again, nope. I consider a number of other ideas but none of them are interesting to me. And besides, I have to admit, none seem to fit the circumstances.

   Okay, I say to myself. I'll just relax and trust my unconscious. Something will occur to me.

   Now it's 25 minutes into the session. I'm surprised we're still silent and eyeballing each other. I thought for sure that he'd give in by now. The only story I can think of that has any kind of ending is the one I heard years ago about two people who go for a automobile drive with their beloved dog and get in an accident. And while they are standing there arguing with the other driver about who is at fault, their dog lies out on the street dying.

   Okay, that's a relief. Now I have a story. I don't know exactly how it applies to this session, but I like the ending. I'm not particularly invested in telling it, but if the opportunity arises, I like knowing that I'll have one to tell.

   Time passes. This may be the longest hour of my life. What's that story again? Oh yeah.

   Finally it's 49 minutes into the session and I'm thinking, oh no, a minute from now I'm going to have to say, "Our time is up." And because I'm the one who spoke first, he'll be the winner. Rats. Rats. And Double Rats.

   The seconds tick by and then, at precisely 50 minutes since we began, he smiles, stands up and says, "Wow! That's the longest time I've ever been able just to look at anyone without being overwhelmed with fear and feeling compelled to turn away in shame. Thanks a lot. See you next week." Then he strides across the room, opens the door and leaves, jubilant.

   Stunned, I sit there a moment or two before I realize with amusement that all my stories have been about me.

Carol Nichols Hadlock March 2006

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