Letting Go (Healing Hearts)

by Michelle Sutton

  “What did he say?”

  Diane’s eyes burned and she sucked in her tears. “I can hardly stand to think about it, let alone say it out loud.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll just wait until you’re ready. We can talk about something else first if you’d like.”

  “No, that’s okay. That’s the reason I’m here. He—my father—he . . . in my dream he called me stupid . . . ” She glanced at Dr. Rhiner and blurted, “Then he touched my thigh and said, ‘At least you’re beautiful.’ As if that was supposed to make me feel better.”

  “Hmm . . . ”

  “So, what do you think that means? Why am I suddenly having weird thoughts about my father?”

  “Have you talked to anyone about this? Anyone who knows you?”

  “No. The few times in my life when I brought it up to Mother, she changed the subject. When I pressed her, she said there was nothing wrong with a dad admiring his daughter and it was only natural considering how attractive I am. Those are Mother’s words, not mine. I know I’m not ugly, but she seemed to think I was much better-looking than I actually am.”

  Diane winced. That sounded weird, as if she was begging for a compliment.

  “What do you mean? How do you know she thought you were better looking?”

  “Mother used to enter me into beauty contests. I didn’t have a normal childhood.”

  Her finger stung. She peered at her hand and discovered that while talking she had picked at a cuticle until it bled.

  “Um, may I have a tissue?” She sucked on her finger. She couldn’t stand the sight of blood or the tinny taste.

  Dr. Rhiner handed her several. “Do you usually pick your skin when you’re nervous?”

  “No. Usually I twist my sleeve. But the sleeves on this blouse aren’t long enough to twist.” She chuckled at how stupid her answer sounded and wrapped her finger with the tissue.

  “Why do you call your mother ‘Mother’ and not Mom?”

  “I guess because she’s never been like a normal mother. Plus that’s what she insists I call her.” She examined her finger, which had stopped bleeding.

  “Are you uncomfortable with me talking about these things?”

  She glanced up. Was she uncomfortable?

  “A little bit.”

  Dr. Rhiner was a nice, grandfatherly-type man, so she decided that her anxiety probably had more to do with what she was talking about than who she was talking to.

  “Is there anything I can do to put you more at ease?”

  “I don’t think so. You know, you’re about the same age as my dad would have been if he hadn’t died, but you don’t remind me of him at all, so I don’t think that’s it.”

  “Is it the content of your dreams that’s bothering you?” The doctor’s intense gaze made her insides quiver.

  Tears burned behind her eyes. Something was bothering her. Maybe his attention reminded her of something painful. Or was it because she couldn’t recall ever having a man listen to her so intently before? Maybe both.

  “I . . . I’m not sure. That may be part of it.”

  Nibbling at her bottom lip, she tried to hold a smile. Her gaze shifted to a plaque on the therapist’s desk.

  When God closes one door, He opens another.

  “Why do you feel like crying?”

  His gentle voice caused her to glance up. The wall holding back her grief burst wide open. Silent tears streamed from her eyes. She broke eye contact, afraid she would start sobbing.

  Dr. Rhiner offered another tissue. She accepted it, covering her mouth as she sobbed anyway. “I . . . I’m sorry. I’m not sure what’s come over me.”

  “It’s okay to cry. You know what’s bothering you. Tell me what’s upsetting you right now.”

  His kind eyes reassured her, but she didn’t know where to start.

  “Well, I . . . I’m not sure, exactly. Maybe because you’re actually listening to me, and I just realized today that no man has ever really listened to me before.”

  “No man?”

  “Not that I can recall. Then it hurt when I thought about how I had to pay you to listen to me. My own father never listened. He just . . . he just . . . ”

  “He just what, Diane?” His calm demeanor encouraged her.

  “He just listened when he wanted something from me.” She choked on her tears.

  “How did you feel when he treated you that way? You seem more sad than angry.”

  She nodded. “I’m both, but more sad, I guess.”

  He picked a notepad off his desk and grabbed a pen. “I hope you don’t mind if I take notes. That way I can remember what we talked about the next time we get together, and you won’t have to remind me.”

  She wiped her nose with the tissue in her hand. “That’s fine.”

  “Good. So tell me what’s upsetting you.”

  She thought about his question. “I don’t remember my dad ever listening to what I wanted to talk about. I just remember that if I didn’t do what he wanted me to do, he would insult me or ignore me. That hurt a lot.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Swallowing hard, she said, “I’m not sure which bothered me more, but I suppose they both felt like rejection. His love just seemed so . . . conditional.”

  “What were the conditions?”

  “Well, for one, if he approved of what I’d done, he rewarded me with whatever I wanted. Usually I wanted new clothes. Daddy spoiled me that way, and Mother hated that. I think she was jealous of the attention he gave me.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Sometimes she looked at me as if she wanted to claw me, like a feral cat.”

  “That’s interesting. What happened if you didn’t do what your dad wanted? What would he do then?”

  “If he didn’t approve, then he ignored me until I practically begged him to forgive me. I wanted him to love me. But he always confused me.”

  “Tell me what confused you.” Dr. Rhiner propped his hands under his chin as he listened.

  She scrunched her face, bile climbing in her throat. “I’m ashamed to even say it. It’s so . . . gross, and so . . . embarrassing.”

  He waited for her to continue. He didn’t look shocked or appalled.

  She picked up her purse and dug around inside. “Ah, here they are.” She held up a roll of antacids. “I have to carry these with me all the time or I can’t function. Some days are worse than others.”

  “Is what you are about to tell me bothering your stomach?”

  She nodded and ripped open the roll. She popped two into her mouth, chewing them thoroughly.

  “May I have a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  He went to fill a paper cup with water from the cooler and brought it to her. She took the cup and emptied it.

  “Thanks. So where were we?”

  “I think you were about to tell me what you meant when you said you were confused and that what happened was gross and embarrassing.”

  “Right. I’ll try.” She shut her eyes. “My early memories are very fuzzy. Most of my childhood is a complete blank. I honestly can’t remember a thing. I see pictures of myself at certain ages, but it’s like my brain erased those years completely.”

  “Have you thought about why that might be?”

  “Honestly? I try hard not to think about it.”

  “Did something traumatic happen when you were a child?” He doodled on the notepad.

  Let’s play our secret game before Mommy gets home.

  She shuddered and shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “I don’t remember much. I . . . I don’t want to.”

  “Why did you close your eyes and tremble? Were you thinking about something?”

  “I hear my father’s voice in my head sometimes, and he’s saying things to me. Embarrassing things.”

  “Tell me what you just heard.”

  “I can’t. Not yet. I’d rather tell you about my actual memories or my dreams.”

  “Okay. We can sa
ve the topic of hearing your father’s voice for another day.”

  “Yes, next time. Anyway, when I was about ten and started developing—you know, breasts—I remember my dad watching me. He’d ask me personal questions and stay in my room when I changed my clothes. He’d have this weird look on his face.”

  “Describe the look to me.”

  “I don’t know how to describe it.”

  “What do you think he wanted?”

  Her head hurt from trying so hard to remember what she’d blocked out, and she rubbed her forehead. “Me? I’m not sure. He used to ask me to try on different clothes, and he had me pose in them. My dad was a photographer. Can you guess his favorite subject?”

  The doctor nodded. “How did that make you feel—to pose for your dad?”

  “Well, sort of powerful, I guess. I knew when my daddy smiled at me that he loved me. But then he would look at me as if I—well, as if I wasn’t his daughter. If I said I didn’t feel like having him take my pictures, he would get angry with me and not talk to me. Not until I broke down and told him I’d do it because I wanted him to feel better. Then he’d act as if he loved me again.” Tears streamed down her face.

  “This is painful for you to talk about, isn’t it?” He leaned back.

  Images passed through her memory that she wanted to forget, and her cheeks heated.

  “A few times he had me pose in a bikini. He said I was the perfect model, and he wanted to use my photo for a swimsuit ad. I never saw my picture published anywhere. I think he said that so I’d agree to do it.”

  “Anything else bother you?”

  “In the ninth grade not long before he died, I remember him offering to pay me and a friend a hundred bucks to model some lingerie for a photo shoot. My friend said no way and told me she thought my dad was weird. I always thought what he asked me to do was normal until she said that.”

  “It’s not unusual for girls who were abused to think things were normal in their family until a friend points it out to them. That’s often when the abuse stops—when the victim realizes it’s wrong. How did you deal with what your friend said?”

  “Are you saying he abused me?”

  “That’s what it sounds like you’re describing to me. So how did you handle the situation?”

  Diane shrugged. “I didn’t know how to handle it, so I agreed to pose for my dad the same as always. The outfits he had me wear were, um, skimpy, and I felt almost naked.”

  She giggled. Saying it out loud sounded so embarrassing and awful. Why had she let her father talk her into so many things?

  Your body is sheer perfection. I love you, baby.

  “Tell me a little more about posing for your dad.”

  She started picking at her cuticles again, but this time caught herself before she drew blood. What had her dad done with her photos? She shuddered when she thought about the possibilities.

  “He’d have me turn around so he could get shots at different angles.”

  “And how did that make you feel?”

  She smiled nervously. “Like a model. He especially liked to take pictures of my, um, breasts. I remember him telling me how gorgeous I looked as he touched me—ah, to move me into different poses or positions.”

  “Was that the only time he touched you?”

  Her finger slid into her mouth. Sucking it, she hesitated, then removed her finger and stared at it while she spoke.

  “I don’t remember much . . . other than to move me into different poses for shots. Sometimes his hands lingered, but he never touched my private areas.” Diane glanced up, worried that she’d said too much. “Not that I can recall, anyway.”

  Dr. Rhiner nodded.

  She twisted the tissue around her sore finger. “He just looked at me a lot. It was so weird, now that I think about it. Why do you think he did that? Why would a dad look at his daughter like . . . like—well, that’s just sick.”

  “What made you believe he wanted to touch you?”

  “The look in his eyes. Men look at me the same way when they want a date. Why would my own father look at me that way?”

  Dr. Rhiner adjusted his position and scratched his chin. “Honestly? I don’t know what his motivation was. I could speculate all day and still not know what went on in his head. One thing I do know is that it wasn’t your fault, Diane. You didn’t want him to see you that way.”

  “Really? Part of me liked it when he focused on me. I enjoyed the attention I got from him and from the judges at the pageants. I just didn’t like the way he looked at me. Sure, I wanted him to admire me, and I’d even go out of my way to show off when he entertained friends because I knew it would make him happy. Maybe I encouraged it. Maybe I made him that way because of my need for attention.”

  “You didn’t encourage his perversion. It’s normal to want to please your parent, to crawl up on your father’s lap to receive his affection. The desire you felt to please him was normal. How he wanted to be pleased was the part that confused you.”

  Diane’s mind whirred with all of the possibilities. “Do you think that’s why I’m usually attracted to men I can’t have?”

  You know you want me to, Diane.

  Her eyes grew wide and she covered her mouth. “Do you think it’s possible that on some level I was attracted to my dad?” She bent over and clutched her stomach, nauseated at the thought.

  “No. Not at all. It’s normal for little girls to think their daddies are wonderful and handsome. That’s what makes what your father did to you so confusing.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Your feelings for your dad were normal. But if you add the slightly off-color perception on your father’s part into the mix, it convolutes a perfectly normal situation.”

  “So you’re saying you don’t think I made him want me that way by always trying to get his attention and wanting to look pretty for him?”

  “No, of course you didn’t. He’s responsible for his own behavior. You didn’t make him do anything.”

  “I think I know what you mean.” Her voice hitched. “But then why do you think he would say those things to me if they weren’t true?”

  “What things, Diane? What did he say?”

  “He said stuff like, ‘You’re so beautiful. Sometimes I wish you weren’t my daughter.’ ” Then he’d kiss me.

  Looking down at her hands, she examined them as fresh tears slid down her cheeks. She tore little pieces of tissue from the wad in her hand, rolling them between her fingers.

  Dr. Rhiner placed the wastebasket in front of her. She tossed the shredded pieces into the basket.

  “That wasn’t the worst, though. He also said stuff like, ‘Why do you have to be such a hottie?’ And ‘You want Daddy to love you, don’t you, Diane?’ before he kissed me goodnight.”

  “I can see how that would confuse you and make you feel responsible. But it’s not true. You can’t help what you look like.”

  “So why did my dad’s friends always look at me the same way he did?” The thought that he might have shared her photos with his friends turned her stomach, so she shoved it away.

  “You’re a very beautiful woman. Most men would have difficulty not noticing you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What about you? When you look at me, what do you see?”

  “Well, the outside of you is the ideal woman. You happen to be gifted with good looks. But I’m also a trained counselor, so I see much more than just the outside person. I see the pain in your eyes. The pain you try to hide from the world.”

  She swallowed hard. “You can see pain in my eyes?”

  “Yes. I see a soul who is hurting and needs a healing touch.”

  She didn’t like the idea of being so transparent even if he was a therapist. Pain sounded like weakness.

  “Sometimes I really hated him. I was so relieved when he died.”

  The doctor said, “That doesn’t seem difficult to believe, given your situation.”

  “So why are you dif
ferent? I mean, why don’t you look at me the way most guys do? Do you like men or something?”

  Dr. Rhiner’s eyes widened and his face turned crimson. “No. I’m married to a wonderful woman, and I have two kids in college. I’m also a Christian. I try to keep my mind pure, and I pray a lot. But I’m just as human as the next guy.”

  She remembered his wife was just down the hall, but she wanted to test him to see if he really was safe.

  “What would you do if I made a pass at you?”

  He shifted in his seat. “I’d have to stop seeing you as a patient.”

  For some reason, the thought made her sad. She needed someone’s help. Someone she could trust. Someone who would not use her for her body.

  “What are you thinking about right now?”

  “I’m thinking, ‘No wonder I’m such a mess.’ Is there any way to fix this problem I have? Why do I end up picking the wrong men to love? Will I ever be able to trust a man? To love a good man?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Why do you believe that? How can you know?”

  “God made us all that way. We aren’t happy when we don’t love others, when we’re lonely. He created us to need each other.”

  “But what about trust?”

  “That’s the hardest thing for people to learn. Trust means letting go. Many people find it too difficult, so they never take that risk.”

  “I don’t think I know how to trust.”

  “That’s not true. You’re trusting me right now with what you’re telling me. You’ve been open, and that’s not easy.”

  “Yeah, but that’s different. I’m paying to tell you my troubles, and you can’t share what I say with anyone. That’s not the same.”

  He nodded. “Maybe not. But it’s a start.”

  “So you really think I can change?”

  A broad smile pulled at his lips. “I believe anything is possible with God. Anyone can change if they want a fresh start.”