Section 2:  Exercise 5 Self-disclosure
Overview: One behavior in a relationship that modulates power is what we might call self-disclosure. Revealing information about yourself requires trust. The more intimate the information is that you reveal, the more vulnerable you become. If someone wants to manipulate you or exert power over you, he or she can take advantage of that vulnerability. One might call the abuse of that power a sort of psychological blackmail. In this part of the exercise, we will explore the role of self-disclosure in mediating power relationships.
Begin by reading the following story.
Fitness
By Jessica Treadway
She chose therapy over joining a gym, because she thought it would be easier. (Ha! Was what she said in her mind, whenever she remembered this decision.) Of course – went her thought process – talking would require far less effort than exercising, any day. Who wouldn't choose to sit in a comfortable office and chat with a sympathetic person, instead of chuffing away on a treadmill or Stairmaster until the room went white?
So the day after her husband told her that she needed more help than he could give her, Nan sat down after he left for work, after one son took off for the school bus and the other was picked up for his play date. She consulted her husband's Employee Assistance Plan, which gave her the names of three psychiatrists as well as of plan-member fitness clubs. Sheldon B. Hersh, Eliot M. Rodney, Cornelia R. Devere. All with an M.D. of course, after the name.
She thought it would be more interesting to talk to a woman than a man (wasn't it always?), so two weeks later she found herself in the waiting room of Cornelia Devere's office, located in the next town over, a better town, in the same professional building as her son's orthodontist. She had put on a skirt, and only as she sat there did she realize that there was a run in her hose. She shifted the run to the back of her leg and concentrated on ignoring it. She was afraid she might throw up, so she flipped through a magazine but could not make out any of the words. She rehearsed the facts of her life – husband's and sons' names, ages the date of her own birth, marriage, and the boys' births – as if she might forget them as soon as she stepped on the other side of that plain white but terrifying door. Reveal nothing, she told herself, in the tone she used when she wanted the boys to clean up their rooms. If she asks you something you don't want to answer, just ask her something back.
When the door opened, the magazine dropped from her fingers and she bent to retrieve it before looking up at the woman who stood in the threshold. “Nan Thornton ?” Cornelia Devere came forward with her hand extended, giving a long, true smile. That was the world Nan thought of – true – and her breath froze for a moment. The doctor let Nan into the office first, gesturing to the chair opposite her own. Nan took her time getting settled because she didn't want to look at the doctor's face again. Cornelia Devere's pantyhose were faultless, the color of peach. Nan focused on a small painting, an old-fashioned bicycle leaning against a barn.
But finally she had to look up. “You're so beautiful,” she blurted, and then she blushed. It was not so much a beauty of the face, she saw, but of the whole person – the kind that makes you resolve to be your own better self. Mostly, Nan thought, it had to do with a sense of comfort and confidence, from loving and being loved; a sense that no matter what happens you will be cared for by the world. Clothing, facial features – everything fits better, when you have that. Your hand held as you drop from the planet. Embraced as you whisper goodbye.
Dr. Devere said thank you, and silence stretched between them. “What is it that brings you here?” she asked Nan finally, in a voice that, despite her resolution, made Nan want to cry.
She shrugged. “I don't know. My husband. He thinks I'm depressed.” She looked out the window and saw ice glinting off the trees.
"Are you?”
“No. That's ridiculous.” Nan let her eyes wander back to the picture of the bicycle and the bar. The barn doors were closed, but behind them she imagined a dark silence inviting anyone who might want to hide. “I have everything I ever wanted. How could I possibly be depressed?”
Dr. Devere raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, I realize how simple that sounds,” Nan said. “I took psychology in college, and I know depression isn't always related to a person's circumstances in life. I know people's lives can look perfect, and they can be crumbling on the inside.”
Dr. Devere's eyebrows rose even higher as she tilted her combed blond head.
“But isn't it just an indulgence?” Nan went on. “Do starving people in India have time to worry about feeling blue? Do they even notice it?” It had started out as a rhetorical question, but by the end she hoped the doctor might have an answer.
Dr. Devere drew her fingertips into a bunch and pressed them to her lips, as if she were going to give an Italian kiss of appreciation for good food. But it was more of a pensive gesture, Nan realized. The doctor said, “People may be starving for different things.” When Nan didn't reply, she dropped her voice and added, “What are you hungry for, Nan ?”
Nan remained silent. She looked out the window again at the silver trees.
The doctor said, “How does your depression manifest itself? What form does it take?”
“I told you, I don't think I'm depressed.”
“Well, what would your husband say, then?”
Another minute or more of silence. Nan counted icicle drips from the roof. “He'd say I have trouble sleeping. That I forget things. He'd say I just don't seem… there .”
Cornelia Devere remained quiet, but Nan could feel that in her waiting the doctor was sending support. One more sentence and then I stop, Nan promised herself. She took a breath and tried to exhale it evenly.
“Sometimes I…” But she cut herself off. “Never mind.”
“Sometimes you what?” The doctor, who had been sitting with her legs crossed, uncrossed them and leaned toward Nan , who in turn pulled back.
“Nothing. Sometimes I just think about dying, that's all.” The truth was the last thing she had intended to say, and now as if to blunt the force of her confession, she shrugged. She thought the doctor might startle or give an expression of alarm. But Cornelia Devere only continued to return Nan 's tentative gaze. “I didn't really mean that,” Nan said. “I don't really think about dying. I don't have time.”
The doctor gave a smile Nan wanted to take a nap in. “There's nothing wrong with it, or unusual,” she said, her voice as soothing to Nan as the moment before sleep. “Especially these days, when things feel so out of control.”
“I didn't mean it,” Nan repeated. Then she remembered her strategy. “Do you live in this town?”
“Why?”
“I just wondered. Are you married?” The doctor did not wear a ring.
“What would it mean to you if I were married, or if I weren't?”
“I don't know .” Nan tried but failed to keep the cross tone out of her voice. “You must be. Of course you are; look at you. Do you have kids?”
The doctor spoke carefully, taking time to select her words. “It's not that I want to keep that information from you,” she said. “But it wouldn't be helpful. We're here to talk about you, not me.”
“How do you know it wouldn't be helpful?” Nan gathered up her coat and purse and stood. She felt a rising rage that shocked her as she grabbed open the door. “Why can't you tell me such basic things? I told you .” She waited to see if her words had been persuasive. But the doctor only said, “I see that we have more to talk about.” She began flipping through her appointment book, but Nan said, “Thanks, anyway. I'm not going to come back.”
But she did. In the next three months, as winter waned and the wind grew warm, she went to Dr. Devere once a week and then, at the doctor's suggestion, upped it to twice. “Why? Do you think I'm crazy?” she'd asked, and the doctor said no, she just thought it might help expedite the process if they saw each other more frequently.
Nan didn't tell her husband about the second appointment each week. The insurance allowed only a certain number of sessions for a co-payment, after which the treatment costs had to be paid by the patient in full. He would never have understood this. “If you need to talk so much, call your sister,” he'd say.
Though she knew it was the wrong one, Nan 's goal in therapy was clear: to find the soft spot in the doctor's armor, discover her secret about life. She knew it was there, beneath the smart scarves and silk outfits, the sympathetic smile – some piece of wisdom or a lesson Nan had missed learning along the way.
Every once in a while, so as to let the doctor believe they were making some progress, Nan talked about her own life. About her younger son, who was four and insisted on carrying one of Nan 's old patent-leather clutch purses wherever he went. Or the older boy's obsession with licking his braces. Or her husband's habit of starting to work the Sunday crossword when he knew Nan wanted to do it, knowing also that once he'd filled in a few words and abandoned it, the whole puzzle would be spoiled for her.
"That sounds incredibly hostile, " Cornelia Devere said.
I think he just thinks it ’s funny. "
"Well, he has some sense of humor. How does it make you feel?"
Nan shrugged" It doesn’t make me feel anything."
"Really? "
"Don’t you believe me? " Whenever she challenged the doctor, she heard her voice shake. She looked at the picture of the barn and the bicycle, drawing strength from the serenity of the scene.
"I believe you, Cornelia Devere said, "but I ’m wondering if maybe there are some feelings there, and you ’re just not, well, feeling them. She pressed her fingertips to her lips in what was now a familiar gesture, and Nana sensed that the doctor was about to say something she did not want to hear. I have been married eight years, she reminded herself. I have a husband and two sons. I went to college and majored in English. I proofread manuscripts at home.
"I probably shouldn t say this," Cornelia Devere said, "but I admit, I ’ m frustrated. We ’ve been seeing each other three months now, and I have no idea what it feels like to be you. You came to me because of depression. Isn’t that right? "
"That ’s what my husband says."
"But you’re the one who keeps coming, You could have stopped after the first time. "
Nan cleared her throat, thought it didn ’t need it." It' s just to make him happy," she said. " I’m fine. What do you expect me to say? There was nothing wrong with my childhood. I have a house and a husband, and a job that lets me stay home with my kids" She paused, measuring the risk of her next words. It was worth it, she thought." What I want to know is what it’s like to be you. "
Cornelia Devere leaned forward, and for a moment Nan was afraid the doctor might reach over and touch her hand. " It wouldn ’ t help, " the doctor said, in the low voice she always used to deliver these same infuriating words. " I think you ’ re using your curiosity about me as a way to distract yourself form the real reason you ’ re here. From the pain, " she added.
"I don’t have any pain, " Nan said.
"I realize you might not feel it. But you’re a smart woman. You know better. Everybody has pain. "
Nan narrowed her eyes at the doctor." What’s your pain? " she asked.
"We’ve been through this. We’re talking about you. "
"But I need to know." The pitch of her own frustration startled her.
"Well," Cornelia Devere said," let’s try it this way. What do you imagine my pain to be? "
Nan hesitated." I don' t know. Maybe your husband thinks what you do is silly — sitting around talking to people all day. Maybe he makes fun of you in front of your children. Is he ever so sarcastic he makes you just want to stab him in the throat? " The doctor managed to keep her face impassive, though Nan could see it was a strain.
She knew a voice in her mind was warning to hold her words back, but it was much too far away for her to hear" Of course he doesn’t. There ’ s nothing to make fun of. There ’ s nothing wrong with your kids either, is there? I bet they’re perfect. I bet you live in a perfect house with clean bathrooms and no cat hairs on the couch.
Your body ’ s perfect, anybody can see that. I bet you never smell when you sweat, or fart in bed, or find hairs growing on your chin. I bet you don ’ t even shit." Although she was horrified at what she heard herself saying, Nan also felt a false sweep of power, like the beginning of drunkenness, as the doctor blushed finally and looked down at her lap. "Do you?" Nan demanded. Her own humiliation was complete.
"Nan ." Dr. Devere made her name sound like a plea." I’m sorry. I can see that you have strong feelings, but we ’ ll have to pick up with them next time." The doctor’s discomposure had lasted only a moment, but her end-of-session smile was briefer than usual. For the first time since they had begun seeing each other, she followed Nan to the white door and closed it between them.
Two nights later, trying in panic to get away from her own reflection in the dining room window (she ’d thought it was somebody watching her from outside), Nan stubbed the little toe of her right foot, hard, on a chair. After crouching until the pain subsided enough that she could stand up again, she made herself an ice pack and took it to bed, where her husband was watching The Weakest Link. At the commercial he asked what had happened and when she told him, he laughed. " You’re just one big emergency room from head to toe, aren’t you?" he said, and she knew he thought he was being cute." Do you want me to kiss it and make it better?"
"It really hurts," she told him." I think it ’ s broken. Do you think I should get an X-ray tomorrow?"
"Even if it is broken, I don’t think they do anything for toes. " He sat up to look at her foot, but she tucked it under the sheet. He shrugged as if to say, Fine, be that way. I think you just have to live with it. "
In the course of doing her free-lance jobs, which included fact-checking as well as proofreading, Nan had learned a good deal about conducting research. And when she realized that Cornelia Devere was not going to crack, Nan took up the project in earnest. She had always been amazed when people didn ’ t realize how much you could find out about another person, if you had enough desire and only a little ingenuity. This had been true even before the Internet, but it was all the easier now.
At her next appointment, about ten minutes into the hour, she asked the doctor, again, where she lived. Cornelia Devere gave a politely weary smile. "We’ve been through this before.
"Actually, I happen to know the answer," Nan told her." In Westford, right? Seventy-nine North Ashbrook Drive."
An almost imperceptible wince crossed the doctor ’ s face, but Nan caught it.
"If you know where I live," the doctor said, "then why are you asking?"
"I wanted to see if you would tell me." Nan had planned to wait for the doctor ’ s response, but instead she blurted," I know what your husband does — vice-chairman of Merriman Trust. And I’ve seen your daughters at their bus stop. They’re pretty girls; they look like you. But Schuyler and Madison — why on earth did you give them such snobby names? Something simple like Mary-or Nan — isn’t good enough? "
In the silence that followed, Nan wondered if she had struck a nerve, because no feeling betrayed itself on Cornelia Devere’s face. Then — to Nan ’s sinking fascination-the doctor gave herself away. "What else do you want to know? " she said, so quietly that Nan thought for a moment she might have imagined the words.
"I know you belong to the Haight Club, where you do the Stairmaster four times a week and then swim half a mile. You do your shopping at Fortunado’s and get your hair cut at Michael Picard ’s. Nan paused. She had already gone too far and she knew it, so there was no reason to hold back. "You like Turkey Hill ice cream — or someone in your house does — and you drink red wine instead of white."
The doctor inhaled deeply. "You went through my garbage?"
"Of course not," Nan summoned an indignation to which she knew she had no right" Just the recycling bin, as far as the wine goes. The ice cream I saw in your cart."
Now Cornelia Devere was making no attempt to hide what wanted to show itself on her face. "I don’t know what to say." Her voice faltered, and Nan felt simultaneously thrilled and dismayed at what she had managed to destroy." I need to think about this," the doctor said, speaking into her silk collar and not looking at Nan. There were still twenty minutes left in the session.
"So should I not come back, then?" She couldn ’ t think about never seeing Dr. Devere again. Instead, she chose to realize that it had never occurred to her that one day she might lose the calm comfort she always felt from looking at the picture of the bicycle and the barn, and that she herself would be responsible for this loss.
"No." Cornelia Devere shook her head. "I mean, yes. Come at the regular time on Thursday. We need to process this."
She sat outside in her car until the session would have ended. Maybe it wasn ’ t too late, she thought. Maybe the doctor would be able to understand what Nan herself didn ’ t — why she had done and said these things. Maybe now she would start to feel better.
But she knew it was over. On Thursday she braced herself for what she already know the doctor was going to say. "I know you don ’ t mean any harm," Cornelia Devere told her" I think you ’ re desperately trying to tell me something, or to get something you can ’ t get by asking for it with words." She was wearing more layers of clothing than usual, Nan noticed — a blazer, a vest, and a blouse.
"I consider it my own failure, in large part, that I wasn’t able to help you," the doctor continued. " I sincerely hope you will get that help. If you’d like the names of referrals, I’d be happy to give you some."
Nan nodded. Although she’d been expecting this, she was astonished to hear herself crying.
Cornelia Devere looked genuinely upset. "I’m so sorry," she said. "Does it help at all to know that this isn’t your fault? "
"What do you mean?" Nan’s breath was already coming in shudders. " I followed you; I invaded your privacy. "The pain was so sharp that she doubled over and grabbed three tissues out of the box to press hard against her eyes.
"But there’s a reason you did those things. And another doctor, in another position, would be better able to tolerate the boundary breaches. Work them into the therapy. Cornelia Devere also reached for the box of tissues and blew her nose. "But when it starts to involve my family, my children, I have to draw a line. I have to protect them. Do you understand?"
Again Nan nodded. She was waiting for the familiar sensation of her mind growing slowly and totally and mercifully blank.
They sat without saying anything for another few minutes. Then Nan got up, and Cornelia Devere put out her hand. But Nan knew she didn’t deserve to be touched by her doctor. She left without saying good-bye.
That night she said to her husband, I think I’ll quit therapy. "
"Really?" He turned the volume down on Survivor. I thought she was helping you. You seemed better to me."
"She did. I was. You get to a certain point, though. You kind of run out of things to say." She tried not to look directly at him; after leaving the docto’s office, she had tried not to look at anyone, even her children, for the rest of the day.
"Well," he said, "it ’s up to you. Are you sure? As long as it’s on the insurance, you can keep going as long as you want."
" I’m sure."
"Well," he said. "If you’re not going to the shrink anymore, have you given any thought to the gym? "
" The gym? "
"Well, I was just noticing." He reached under the covers and patted one of her thighs. "Think these could use a trim, maybe? I was watching the news as you came up the stairs. The quake got a 6.0 on the Richter scale. "He sent an air-kiss her way, and then turned up the volume because the forecast was coming on.
Nan turned over and pressed her pillow against her mouth. "I’ll sign up tomorrow," she answered her husband. "Just tell me which one."
Bellevue Literary Review Volume 2 No. 2 Spring 2002, with permission.
|
