The Breaking Point
Recently, I got into an emotional exchange with one of my patients, trying desperately to convince them that their personality is not set in stone, and they have the power to change it. Stymied once again by Sartre’s conception of bad faith—a person’s denial of their own agency by pretending they are a fixed object (like a rock) rather than a conscious, free human being—it irked me.
It was a hard discussion, and I felt badly about it. They ended up crying, and it reminded me of when my father used to try to help me with math homework when I was a kid. I would end up in tears, and he would get frustrated because I didn’t understand the concepts. In the interaction with my patient, I felt much like he must have, but the frustration wasn’t about me or them per se. It was about the gap between knowing what’s possible and believing that possibility doesn’t exist. And that gap is probably what my dad felt when he saw math clearly and I saw only confusion.
Afterwards, as I reflected on my own experience, I finally appreciated my father’s perspective. He was great at math, so why wouldn’t I be? Likewise, I know unequivocally that people have the freedom to change who they are—based on having therapy myself and my twenty-year career as a therapist. So why couldn’t my patient see this? They, like me over forty years ago at the dining room table, didn’t think it was possible. And in that moment, I was my dad and my patient at the same time.
Like me, they were feeling a sense of helplessness about their own perceived limitations. And I guess I felt powerless, too, like my father—not knowing how to reach someone you care about and wanting so much for them to see what you already know to be true.
Under the emotional weight of the session, my patient also expressed frustration towards me, which was understandable. After all, I was challenging their rigid thinking, and much like a rock, it was hard to break. But then it did break, and the abreaction (i.e., an emotional catharsis) gave rise to a whole new way of reacting—proactively and assertively. Standing up to me. Standing up for themself.
Even though it was uncomforable for both of us, it felt like a milestone that needed to happen. In the emotionally charged exchange, there was no longer a passive, avoidant kid looking back at me in the camera. Instead, there was a self-advocating adult expressing themself honestly and openly in the moment. And in that vulnerable breaking point, resistance faded and somebody new took over: a self-respecting person, no longer the wounded child who logged into Zoom an hour earlier.
I was me. I was them. And I was my dad all at the same time. Forty years later, at a desk instead of a table, I finally understood what he was trying to show me.
Photo credit: Susan Mah