December 16

Today, "la brava dottora" got her English patient. Anthony Minghella, eat your heart out.

I have never seen a more insecure and truly frightened young man than P, age 19, who came in during the night. He's from an English-speaking country and moved here not too long ago with mommy and daddy. His German is near perfect as is the rest of him. He is amazing. Perfect. An explanation for everything. A bundle of fear and insecurities like I didn't even think could exist in a person. He is guilty of feeling guilty for not being perfect every second of his life.His biography makes me sick, sick, sick.

The train tracks. The scars on his wrists from another suicide attempt.

It's not fun to stay alive if mommy and daddy want a perfect son.

This is how he begins nearly everything he says (in a very quiet tone of voice, of course):

"This might be a dumb question, but ..."
"I hope it's appropriate for me to say this ..."
"This might not be important ..."
"I hope I'm not annoying you ..."

He's assigned to me because I speak English. As soon as he can speak English he begins to relax a bit. One less opportunity to not have to "perform" and be perfect at it.

"P., you don't have to do anything right for me, okay? I'm your therapist, not your mother. I'll take care of you to the utmost of my ability while you're here with us. There are no dumb questions with me. Everything you want to say to me is appropriate. Everything you want to tell me is important to me. You can't annoy me. It is simply not possible for you to annoy me. I don't give grades and I don't hit."

A silent, incredulous stare.

"Really???"
"Really!"

By now I am really angry. Angry at parents. His, mine, the rest of all the other patients' parents here at the clinic. For a damn good reason.

At the end of the session I ask P. if it's okay if I give him a hug because I love giving hugs to teenage boys. No, I'm not some pervert. I'm a mom when I'm not posing as a psychotherapist.

"Really???"
"Really!"

"I'd love to get a hug from you."
"Really???" Now it's me asking.
"Really."

I have a son exactly P.'s age. His name is Robert, and he's dead. I would have loved to raise him.

Really.

After P. leaves I put my head on the table and cry.