December 15

Thanks to those of you who wished me better health. I have it. The same to you. Gesundheit.

Once again following a hunch, I've decided to try a different approach with Signore L., our dear sad Italian. My colleague R. and I are going to do a double session (two therapists). We sense severe anger and fear in the man, and I think I know exactly what is bothering the past middle-age guy, but he just can't let it out. So, we are going to try a harmless version of the good cop/bad cop criminal interrogation approach to finally get to the core of all this Italian sadness. My colleague R. is excited to try it because it's so unlike him, personality-wise. It's a crazy-Judith-idea, but it is in complete harmony with the tenets of his training as existential analyst and theologian. Usually women are the good guys, right?, but today I'm going to be the bad cop and suprise Signore L., which will hopefully throw him for an even bigger loop because he thinks I'm such a nice, gentle, sweet, understanding, honest, decent person - la brava dottora, as he likes to refer to me.

So, R. and I listen to another 20 minutes of more quiet tears and sadness -- listless, aimless, colorless sadness, all drawn out to amazingly great lengths -- the exact opposite of your stereotypical Italian who'll jabber at you about food, wine, and amore at 200 miles per hour. No,  listening to Signore M. is like watching an entire funeral service in slow-motion. Now, R. gives him all the empathic action Signore M. is used to from our sessions while I kind of just sit there the entire time,  seemingly paying more attention to the construction work outside the office window than to the session.

Then the following scene takes place at a very rapid pace, almost like firing a machine-gun:

Very suddenly and completely unexpectedly for the poor guy I nearly shove my nose in Signore M.'s face and ask in a very sharp tone of voice, "WHAT EXACTLY IS IT THAT YOU ARE SO SCARED OF, SIGNORE M.???"

He doesn't miss a beat.

"EVERYTHING!!!!", he yells.

Bullshit.

"IT'S DEATH, RIGHT?", I yell back.

"YES, DEATH!!!!" Signore M. shouts back at me, exploding in pain and tears.

Bingo.

Buona sera.