The President's Wife Is on Prozac

by Jayne Lind

  Interesting, this uniquely American thing of honoring past first ladies, she mused. She was certain no such practice was done in Britain, where it was much more likely for the wife of a prime minister to have her own career and not have to give up everything just to carry out the duties given her by her husband’s job. Hillary Clinton was an attorney; it would have been unheard of for her to continue her law practice once her husband became president.

  Portraits of the presidents, these women’s husbands, were hung in the Cross Hall, a wide expanse whose majestic marble pillars and floor reminded her of the interior of Buckingham Palace. She wasn’t as interested in them, only wondered if some day a woman’s portrait would be hung there with her husband’s portrait residing in the other room with the ladies.

  A wide staircase led up from the hall. “That staircase leads to the family residence,” Susan remarked as they passed by, “so you won’t be allowed to use it.”

  No one seemed to pay attention to them as they walked around. Susan was dressed in a trouser suit, as was Taylor, and they looked like two professional women there on business. This was somewhat reassuring; it seemed there was so much hustle and bustle about that surely no one would notice her. “Wouldn’t it have been better for me to come and go every day as so many people do?” she asked.

  Susan looked thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t know why this was done. I’m not the one who makes decisions, but I do know that the First Lady’s time is very restricted and having you here, available at a moment’s notice, is of utmost importance.”

  The tour concluded with the kitchen, the one-lane bowling alley, the movie theater with plush armchairs, and a myriad of offices. “I’m not allowed to take you to the East Wing, where the First Lady’s staff works. And, of course, I’m not allowed to take you to the West Wing, where, I’m sure you know, the Oval Office is located.”

  As they walked back up the stairs to Taylor’s rooms she asked, “Do you know how many rooms there are?

  Susan smiled, “Yes, I happen to know there are 132. We learned all these facts in our training, but it doesn’t seem that big, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t. “Well, I guess that includes the basement?”

  “Yes, and that’s another place I’m not allowed to take you.”

  Taylor presumed the basement held some sort of bunker, used for emergencies. Everywhere they went, there were the ever-present secret service men and women, endlessly talking into their sleeves and watching. She didn’t hear anyone say anything about sunflowers, but she wondered if they were all remarking that she had just passed by.

  Soon after lunch, Lillian phoned, telling her the First Lady was available for a session.

  “You look rested,” Taylor said, as she and Beth both sat down in their accustomed places.

  Beth nodded. “Um, some, I am sleeping much better. You know, I don’t want to insult you, but I have thought since you came here, since our sessions, that what I needed most of all was a confidante, just someone to talk to. I feel as if….as if the lid on one of those old-fashioned pressure cookers has been lifted and I’m able to breathe for the first time in a very long time.”

  Taylor smiled at her reassuringly. “Don’t worry about my feelings. The important thing is for you to be able to tell the truth, to say whatever is on your mind. You know, Freud was a genius because he was amongst the first to find out that people felt better just by talking. He invented talk therapy.”

  “So do you follow his teachings? Is that the kind of therapy you do?”

  “No, not at all. I just wanted to explain to you why you feel better just from being able to let it all out. If you were anyone else, apart from, let’s say, the Queen of England, or someone else on your level of importance, you’re right, a friend would have been very beneficial, and might even have kept you from sinking into depression.”

  Beth smiled, “I have to tell you, I’m relieved to hear you don’t follow Freud. I only took one basic psychology course in college, and I thought some of the things he said were…well, just bunk!”

  Taylor nodded in agreement, “Like what in particular?”

  “Oh, like women having penis envy and about the anal personality having come from the child withholding his bowels. I couldn’t believe at the time that he really believed that.”

  Taylor laughed, “Well, I’m glad you agree with me; I felt much the same way when I studied. Yet he did have some good insights, and you have to remember, he was the first. He did pinch some theories from a few others here and there, but he really didn’t have a lot of built-up knowledge to go on as we do today.” Beth seemed interested in what Taylor was telling her, so going along with this theme, she continued, “This is as good a time as any to tell you about how I do therapy. The method I use is called cognitive-behavioral. Have you heard of it?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I had heard of it vaguely, some documentary or something, and then when Frank told me I needed a therapist, he said that method was the best for depression.”

  “That’s right, it works well for depression and has been researched heavily. The theory is that all of our feelings come from our thoughts.”

  “You mean negative thoughts?”

  “Yes, negative thoughts, but actually, all our thoughts.” She looked around the room, feeling a bit helpless without a pad of paper and a pen. Meeting in this tiny guest room had its disadvantages; there was nothing to write on and she didn’t even have a pen. “Since I’m not supposed to write anything, I want you to imagine a whiteboard with three columns on it. The word situation is the heading for the first column. Something happens, an event, which we either see happen, or hear, or remember. It can just as easily be something from the past.

  “A memory?” Beth asked.

  “Yes, memories are a good example. Then imagine the second column as being headed with the word thoughts. And on the next column, the word feelings. We see, or hear, or remember something and then are usually aware of a feeling that results from it. It could be a neutral experience and we might not be very aware of any feeling. Or it could be a happy event or memory and we might be aware of how we are feeling. Or…”

  “Or it could be a terrible event.” Beth looked up with tears forming pools in her eyes.

  Taylor waited. One of the hardest parts of being a therapist is learning when to talk, when to listen, and when just to wait. To let the silence build. To let the client think or feel. Once again, she felt the luxury of time. She didn’t have to watch the clock and she didn’t have to worry about a set number of sessions.

  “Obviously, I was thinking of something which made me unhappy,” Beth said in a soft voice.

  Taylor took in a breath, realizing this could be an important moment in the therapy. “Yes, I could see that. Do you want to tell me about it now?”

  Beth looked down at her lap and twisted the tissue in her hand. “No, not now. But I will tell you about it, I promise,” she said quietly.

  Do you see how what just happened illustrates the chart? You thought of something and it made you feel sad.”

  “Yes, but it was something very negative. Are you telling me I should try to think something positive about it, something positive that came out of it?”

  Beth had a very soft voice and sometimes, she spoke in an even lower tone than usual. Taylor found she had to concentrate more than even she was used to doing. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. Cognitive therapy isn’t learning to think positively. If something bad happens, something which is hurtful to us or that makes us angry, then it isn’t truthful to tell yourself it was a good thing.”

  Beth nodded.

  “Let me make up an example. You are in a store and the clerk is rude to you,” Taylor smiled ruefully, “Well, I guess that wouldn’t happen anymore. No one is rude to the president’s wife.”

  Beth’s shrugged her mouth, “You’re right. That’s one of t
he terrible things, like being famous or fabulously wealthy, you don’t know who your friends are.”

  “It must seem surreal at times…”

  “Yes – exactly.”

  “Should I continue with my example? Or maybe I could come up with a better one. Suppose someone on your staff is rude to you. Again, it might not happen, you’ll have to tell me.”

  Beth took in a breath and sighed before she replied. “Yes it does happen. There are two women, secretaries, who I feel don’t really like me.”

  “What do they do that makes you think that?”

  She thought for a moment. “Um, just being unsmiling or curt. I don’t think I’m overly sensitive, but I always feel uncomfortable around them.”

  Taylor nodded. “Okay, let’s narrow it down to one of these women. I want you to have her in your mind and think of a time recently when she made you feel uncomfortable.”

  Beth sighed. “All right…do you want me to describe what she did?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “She hardly ever smiles. And she hardly ever even looks at me. I’ve often wondered if her political beliefs are different than ours, than Sam’s.”

  “All right, this is a good example. You have described the situation, so if I could write, I would write “secretary doesn’t smile, doesn’t look at me” under the situation column. So what is your feeling when she does that?”

  “I feel uncomfortable.”

  “Could you describe ‘uncomfortable’?”

  “Uneasy, nervous,” Beth said, frowning.

  “Angry?”

  She shook her head from side to side. “No, not angry. Maybe a bit annoyed, but mostly I think I wish I didn’t have to deal with her.”

  “Ah, now you have a thought, ‘I wish I didn’t have to deal with her.’ So what if, we’re talking hypotheses here, what if you found out that she just has an unpleasant countenance, that she doesn’t smile or look at anyone. Would your feelings change toward her?”

  “Yes, I guess I would feel sorry for her.”

  “So the event, the situation is the same, but your feelings have changed. Why have your feelings changed?”

  “Because I now know why she is acting that way?” Beth asked.

  “Yes, but actually, the interpretation of why she is acting that way has changed your feelings. It’s always our interpretation of an event that gives us the feelings.”

  “So I should always look for a positive rather than a negative interpretation?”

  No, not at all, but when a person is depressed, he or she thinks many more negative thoughts than does a non-depressed person. You have negative thoughts more frequently and you believe them more deeply. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes. And does the Prozac help?

  ”Taylor nodded. “Definitely. It will keep your thoughts more realistic. That’s an important word—realistic, rather than positive. But Prozac isn’t a happy pill; it doesn’t give people who take it a feeling of euphoria, but rather it brings a person up from low to normal. Depression causes a lack of enough serotonin in the brain, one of the feel-good neurotransmitters we all have, or in the case of a depressed person, do not have enough of.”

  Beth looked at Taylor intently, silent for a moment, before she said, “This is a lot to take in. I’m beginning to understand that I’m not just talking to you, confiding in you, that you know a lot about depression and how it works.” She gave a rueful looking smile. “Well, obviously that’s why you were asked to come here.” She paused for another moment and then, “So I understand what you just taught me, but how does that apply to my situation? Am I not interpreting events or memories in my life realistically?”

  “From what I’ve learned about your situation so far, it doesn’t seem to me you are just being negative, not at all. But it seems to me that the sense of hopelessness in your situation could be interpreted differently if you began to think there was a way out of all of this,” Taylor said, as she gestured around the room. However, as she said the words, she wondered if in Beth’s case, this really wasn’t possible.

  Beth looked at her wide-eyed. “How? How could I get out?”

  “Is separation from your husband totally out of the question?”

  “Yes!” Beth rose from her chair and stood looking out the other window behind Taylor. “Yes, it is—that’s why I feel so trapped! I wish I had left years ago, before all this became so impossible. If I left, there would be all sorts of gossip and it.....”

  Taylor didn’t respond, waiting for her to go on.

  Beth came back and sat down. “Don’t you see? I’m trapped, as trapped as any woman could be. I can’t do anything that would bring disrepute to Sam or to the party.”

  “Why? I know I probably don’t understand politics like I should, but it sounds like you’re saying you have to sacrifice your life to your husband’s job.”

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s it. My life is no longer my own.”

  “So you have no hope, there isn’t a different interpretation we could put on your situation?”

  Beth shook her head silently and sat back in her chair.

  Taylor was feeling a bit hopeless herself and what’s more, couldn’t think of a way to change her feelings. They were realistic. “What’s going through your mind right now?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking that your method of therapy doesn’t apply to my case. And since you were chosen because of your qualifications, then it means that I’m hopeless as well, that it’s not just my situation.” Beth’s lips were compressed to a tight thin line after she finished, but there was no sign of tears.

  Taylor gulped mentally. Was this going to be a colossal failure? Was the most important client she’d ever treated going to need someone else to help her?

  “There’s no hope, is there? There’s no hope for me. I’ll still be trapped. And what if he does win another term—what then? I can’t see any way out of this. I feel hopeless. Hopeless and helpless.”

  Hopeless and helpless. Classic symptoms of depression. It was Taylor’s job to convince her that her situation wasn’t hopeless and that she wasn’t helpless. “Beth, you said you felt hopeless, that’s the name of a feeling. But the thoughts behind that feeling were that you would still be living with Sam, whether you’re still in the White House or not. That is a realistic thought; you aren’t catastrophizing, but are you helpless? Isn’t there another way out? Is there no way in the world you could separate?”

  Beth shook her head. “Do you know, do you understand what would happen if I left Sam? If the public knew about our marital problems, it would for sure nix any chance of re-election, which would mean that everyone here would lose their jobs, all the people he’s appointed, so many of them who are dependent upon whether he’s re-elected.”

  “And if that happened, if Sam did lose the election, what would that mean to you?”

  Beth looked at her steadily, biting her lower lip for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess that’s what’s so scary. I don’t know what would happen to me.”

  “Okay, let’s follow the scenario,” Taylor said. “Let’s say you go to Vermont and stay with your mother, let’s say that when you’ve been gone a long time the press begins printing little rumors about you, and then let’s say it’s said in the newspapers that you have left Sam. What would this mean to you, not to Sam, not to the general public, but to you?”

  Beth was silent and Taylor gave her time; she knew she was building the scenario in her head. After a few moments, she urged her again. “Don’t think about Sam, don’t think about the children. I want you to picture yourself in Vermont. What would you be doing, how would you spend your days?”

  Beth smiled a gentle smile with her lips closed. “I’d be out in the garden, helping my mother in her vegetable garden.”

  “Close your eyes, tell me more—is the sun shining? Is there a gentle b
reeze? What are you and your mother talking about?”

  Beth closed her eyes. “We’re talking about Dad, what a wonderful person he was, and how much he loved the garden.”

  “Are the birds singing?” Taylor asked.

  “Oh, yes, there is a virtual concert going on,” she replied, her smile growing broader.

  “Now, stay in that scene and tell me how you are feeling.”

  “I’m happy.” Beth’s eyes opened and she laughed. “I’m happy…..and ….free! I’m free!”

  “And how does being free make you feel?”

  “Liberated, light, it’s as if the depression is gone, it’s the exact opposite of depression.” Her voice had changed with these last words, she did indeed look happy.

  Taylor waited for her to say more, but the silence stretched long. “So is your situation hopeless?”

  She opened her eyes as she responded, “Well, that scenario was based on Sam’s not being re-elected, but what if he is? He certainly thinks he will be.”

  Taylor nodded. “But at least there is hope. Couldn’t you make this scene you imagined happen? Isn’t there a bit of light, of hope?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes. You’re right. It could happen.”

  “I want you to hang onto that scene you’ve imagined when you feel helpless and hopeless, I want you to bring up the memory of that scene and cling to it. After all, there’s at least a 50-50 chance the President will lose. It’s certainly happened to others; there have been several one-term presidents.”

  Taylor didn’t want to get into anything else emotional this session; she didn’t want to overload her client; she wanted her to remember what they spoke of and the visualization she’d done so well, the imaginary scene which brought her temporary happiness.

  For once, she was relieved when Beth looked at her watch and grimaced. “I’m late. Sorry, Taylor and thank you.”

  Chapter Eight