In Treatment (2008–2010): Season 3, Episode 16 - Adele: Week Four - full transcript
Adele gets Paul to open up about his lack of passion.
Are you alright?
I made a terrible mistake.
I let Max use my computer.
I didn't realize I hadn't
cleared the searches and
just knew from his face
exactly what he'd seen and
he asked me if I was sick.
Maybe you can tell me some
more about Kate's fiancee
can you tell me what
disturbs you most?
Apart from the fact that
he thinks he knows
what's right for my kid?
I think I'm beginning
to understand how
the dynamic between you
and Gina developed,
how was it you say she
presented you in the novel?
Childish, poor husband,
deficient father?
Is it possible that you
convinced her that
you were incapable?
Why would I do that?
What she told you
was hard to hear.
Of course it was.
All this time going on
and telling you about
how traumatized my son was
by his stepfather,
and turns out
he's in love with the guy.
He's in love with...
it's a figure of speech,
but it's basically
what Rosie told me
in so many words.
I mean,
Max and Steve spent
the whole weekend together
going to museums.
They draw together.
They...
Steve brings him into
the architecture studio,
teaches him...
I don't even know the terms...
line drawing, drafting,
whatever it's called,
how to use
a mechanical pencil.
Have you spoken
to Max about this?
I haven't spoken with Max
about much of anything.
I was gonna sit him down
as soon as he came back
from Maryland
and talk to him
about what he found
on my computer that night...
you know,
my Parkinson's research.
But since my conversation
with Rosie,
I haven't been able
to bring myself to do it.
What are you afraid
to hear Max say?
Are you...
are you really gonna
make me answer that?
I mean, you...
you saw perfectly
what was happening last week
more clearly
than I saw it myself.
I'm sure you know the answer
without me having to say it.
You think I know
what you're going to say
before you say it?
I was getting my son
to worry about me.
He won't tell me about Steve
because he's trying
to protect me.
I...
I can't stop myself
from wondering
if, you know...
if he'd actually be
better off in Maryland.
With his mother and Steve.
It's hard for you
to consider that.
They share this passion
for drawing, for art.
And Steve feeds it.
I mean, how can I
deny my son that?
If I did, I'd be
doing exactly what
was done to me.
I'd be... I'd be
dragging him away
from his vibrant teenage years
and taking him to a dreary,
lifeless apartment
with a sick parent.
Is that how you see
your existence...
as dreary and lifeless?
I'm sure that's how
Max sees it.
I wasn't asking about Max.
I really wish
Rosie had never told me
about the fucking
twin drafting tables.
I really could have done
without that detail.
Is that what gets to you most?
It all gets to me...
the whole picture.
And it's not just them either.
Just about everybody I know
has some kind of passion.
Something or somebody
drives them.
But not you.
Sometimes I...
I try to pretend I do, yeah.
How do you do that?
What does that mean,
you pretend?
Wendy...
uh, my girlfriend...
she stopped by the apartment
at lunchtime today.
And she knows I have
an hour and a half
without any patients.
And...
We... we haven't had sex
for a while.
And...
Since she can't stay over
and I can't
stay at her place
because of Max...
Max was away this weekend.
Right. That's true.
I hadn't told her that.
But you saw her today.
She has this thing,
you know... she...
for some reason
she's been wanting
to have sex on the couch
in my office.
So we did.
This was your attempt
at being passionate
about something.
I suppose you're right.
And?
I was...
I was distracted.
I was...
I was...
I was thinking
about other things.
What were you thinking about?
I don't know.
Not her.
I have this...
I have this boat
in my office.
And I just found
myself staring...
you know, staring at it
after Wendy and I
were finished.
It's a... a model,
a sailboat.
It's about that big.
I used to have
about 26 of them,
different sizes, you know,
schooners, sloops.
Do you like to sail?
Never been.
Anyway, these...
these boats are...
actually, the boats are
the closest I've ever
come to a hobby.
And when Max was little,
he really loved it.
We used to go searching
at these antique stores.
Sometimes we'd build them
from kits, you know.
And we'd give them each a name
and we'd make up these stories
about the places it had been
and the places
that it would go.
How come there's only
one boat left?
He lost interest.
Then when I moved up
to Brooklyn,
I just left the rest
of them behind.
They... I don't know,
they just started
to feel a bit pathetic...
22" reminders
of all the places
I'd never been and
I would never get to.
The one that I saved...
I keep it in my office.
I see it over
my patients' shoulders.
So I sit and I listen
to them talk,
and every single
one of them, they...
no matter how sick
or screwed up they are...
they... they all have
a real passion.
You find all your patients
have something you don't,
something you're missing?
I do feel that way
a lot, yeah.
Jesse... he loves
photography.
He's got this
fierce attachment
to his camera.
And frances has
her acting.
Although it's hard for her
to admit, with all the guilt
she has around it,
there's no question
of what it means to her.
Other people...
Kate devoted to her clinic,
now to Max's new father.
I mean, even Gina...
suddenly a novelist.
As much as
I fucking hate her
for what she's written,
she has found her...
you know, her calling.
And there's...
there's you.
Me?
Why do you include me?
What do you consider
my passion to be?
Well, isn't it this...
your work, your patients?
I mean, not that
there aren't other things
that you might feel
strongly about,
but from where I sit,
you seem to be
pretty engaged
even in your cool detachment.
Am I engaged or detached?
I'd... I'd say both.
But... but it is clear
that your work is
very important to you.
Am I wrong about that?
My work is important to me.
I'm just wondering
why you say that,
how you arrive
at this impression.
I went online, you know,
the other night.
It's become kind of
a bad habit really.
And I found myself
back at my desk,
typing in this thing
on Parkinson's/
olfactory symptoms.
And I...
I just stopped.
I made myself stop.
And I...
I just happened to type in
your name instead.
Did you know there's
another Adele Brouse,
also a therapist,
in Portland, Oregon?
I wasn't aware of that.
Yeah, an m.S.W.,
not a psychiatrist,
not nearly as prolific as you.
I mean, all this...
a list of stuff comes up,
all the articles
that you've published
over, you know...
the amount of conferences
that you've attended
in Chicago,
Prague, Paris.
What did seeing that
mean to you?
Well, the last article
that I wrote was in 1998.
Why have you stopped?
Adele Saskia Brouse.
Is that Dutch?
Wasn't Rembrandt's wife
called Saskia?
My mother's father
was from Holland.
I don't believe it.
What?
You just... you answered
my question.
You still haven't
answered mine.
Why have you stopped?
Well, let's say that I...
that I no longer share
your professional drive.
My work does feel
meaningful at times.
When I'm in the room
with my patients,
I'm still interested mostly,
but am I passionate?
You mean in the way
you think I am.
Were you ever?
When I was your age,
I published.
I still thought
I could save people.
Do you ever think that now?
Monday, for 40 minutes,
I had a flash of that feeling.
What happened monday?
You remember Sunil.
I told you about him.
He took...
he took a huge step.
I'd been trying
to get him
to express his anger.
And he'd been inching
toward it.
So we were sitting
in my office over tea
and we were talk...
you were talking over tea?
It makes him feel
like we're having
more of a conversation
than therapy.
You know, he's a guy
who spends all his time
feeling like an outsider
in what he perceives to be
this strange,
aggressive country.
So he locks himself away
in his room.
So sharing tea with me
makes him...
you know, draws him
out of his shell.
Are you talking
about him or you?
I'm talking about him.
Last week you told me
that you didn't want
to be my supervisor.
Now you kind of sit there
silently supervising.
It's kind of obvious
what you think.
What do I think?
He opened up to me.
He... he told me about
this deeply passionate affair
that he had at university...
something he's never
spoken of before
to anybody
and that's haunted him
for years.
You should have seen
how transformed he was
when he spoke about
this love affair.
It's like he...
he came alive.
I mean, this man isn't...
he's not old.
He felt passion
at one point in his life.
And I thought,
"why couldn't he
have that again?
Why couldn't he... ?"
Why couldn't he...?
I don't know.
It was...
it was fleeting,
what I saw in him,
but a glimpse of somebody
different, you know?
Maybe I'm making
too much of it.
This recent session with Sunil
had a powerful effect on you.
You seem especially focused
on his early love affair.
Well, it's a pretty powerful
story, don't you think?
Have you ever felt
that passion
romantic passion?
My lunchtime session
with Wendy doesn't qualify?
Not according to you.
With Kate,
I suppose,
when I fell in love with her
all those years ago.
Even with Wendy last year,
at the very beginning.
But now I...
I'm beginning to realize
I've got this pattern:
I seek out people
who have... who have...
who have themselves
a passion for life
and I feed off them instead.
I allow them to...
to feel for both of us.
You allowed both Wendy and Kate
to do your feeling for you?
Yeah, at least...
at least in part.
Whatever emotion you do feel,
do you openly express
yourself at the time?
Not entirely.
You hold yourself back?
Is... is that
what you think?
Earlier, when you were
talking about Sunil,
you became engaged, excited,
as you came alive yourself.
You spoke with energy.
You sat forward in your seat.
And then you stopped yourself.
It was striking.
Does that description
seem accurate to you?
Do you find you have
passionate or excited impulses,
but stop yourself
from expressing them?
I made a similar observation
a couple of weeks ago
about you
holding yourself back,
and you had
a strong reaction.
Do you remember?
What... what are you
talking about?
You told me
about the beginning
of your dream...
running toward open gates
along a wrought-iron fence,
and then being
dragged down, paralyzed.
I asked if you were
stopping yourself
and you got very angry at me.
You insisted
it was your father
who was stopping you.
It was my school.
I'm sorry?
It was my school.
The fence...
the iron fence
ran around the outside
of the boarding school
I went to.
When was this?
I... I was 12.
- You were Max's age.
- Yeah.
Lancaster royal
grammar school
in the north of england.
I wasn't there for very long,
just a term and a half, but...
well, my parents
had already started
to fight with each other.
And yeah, it was
our last year in dublin.
And they sent me away
to school.
Was that hard for you?
No, not at all.
Most people talk about
how miserable they are
at boarding school,
but I was really happy there.
But I was there
for less than six months
when my father
got his position
at union memorial
in Baltimore.
Two weeks later we landed in...
in America.
Well, I'm...
I'm sure that's part
of the dream
that I'm, you know, reliving...
being torn away from school
by my father,
from that feeling that I had...
that great feeling
of contentment
that I'd found there.
Can you tell me
what was so nice about
the boarding school?
The place was...
was just filled with activity.
There were scores of clubs
and things that you could do,
teams you could sign up for...
to play rugby,
cross-country running,
the school newspaper.
It's just all these things
my father tore me away from.
Cross-country running...
did you run at school?
Well, I was going to
join the team.
Did you play rugby,
join the paper?
Well, I was planning to.
I'm not sure
what you're getting at.
The point I'm making is
that I was happy there.
Actively engaged,
content.
It's interesting
to hear you speak
of the school in this way,
because in your dream
you're running outside
the gates.
When you told me the dream,
you described a feeling
of anticipation, of excitement,
not of contentment.
To me that difference
seems significant.
You say you planned
to join the newspaper?
Well, I hadn't been
there that long.
A semester and a half?
Surely that's enough time
to join the paper
if you'd wanted to.
No, I'm just saying
that if I had stayed,
I would have thrived.
It was my father moving here
that just took away
that possibility.
And what did you
find here instead?
The move to Baltimore marked
the end of my childhood.
My father walked out;
My mother got sicker;
And I was...
I was forced to...
to take care of her.
The beginning of a very
difficult period.
And your father
bears a great deal
of the responsibility.
Yeah, who else?
My mother... she was...
she was ill.
I understand.
You mentioned more than once
how strongly you identify
with Sunil's alienation
in this country,
that you continue
to feel it at times.
And I imagine you felt it
when you first arrived.
Yes, I...
I went from
Lancaster royal grammar
to p.S. 233,
from beautiful
gothic stone buildings
and open green fields
to brick and asphalt.
That's tough for rugby.
The kids played stickball.
And I remember watching them
with such determination
from the edge
of the schoolyard.
Determination?
What does that mean?
I was...
I was determined
to decode them,
you know, to figure them out...
how to play their game,
how to fit in.
Because everything
about them was alien...
the music
that they listened to,
the clothes that they wore,
even their curse words.
And the girls...
the girls...
forget it.
They wouldn't even look
in my direction.
You stayed on the edge
of that schoolyard as well,
outside the gates.
I was trying to join in.
I was trying to find my way.
And I just... I just
didn't get a chance to.
You were pulled away again.
Mm-hmm, yeah.
How long was
your family in America
before your father walked out?
18 months.
A year and a half.
Oh okay, I get the point
you're trying to make...
that I had time,
like at boarding school,
to join in.
But see, the thing is,
my father was...
he was working
really long hours.
And my mother was
already unwell.
You were expected
to stay home with her.
Yes, I was.
And I did.
Yeah.
It was a terrible blow.
Was it?
What do you mean?
Was it a terrible blow
or was it also a relief?
- I was trying
to be a good son.
- I understand it.
- Is that so awful?
- Of course it's not awful.
What I'm saying is that
it may have been easier
than the alternative.
Do you think I wanted
to spend my teenage years
with my chronically ill mother?
I mean...
The first day I met you,
you insisted
that you and Gina
had it all figured out,
that your need to save people
started with
your mother's illness.
And does that seem
far-fetched to you?
It doesn't.
But I think
caring for your mother
was also a way
of saving yourself.
It was miserable, yes,
but it was also safe
and familiar.
And it kept you
from having to find
any real connections elsewhere,
from risking yourself
in the outside world.
And it also had the convenience
of allowing you to blame
it all on your father.
And it's really
not so different
from what you do
to this day, is it?
You cloister yourself
in your apartment
or your burrow like office.
You convince yourself
you're sick.
You accept a growing paralysis
rather than taking
a risk of finding
where or towards whom
your real passion lies.
Is it any wonder
you haven't found
what drives you yet?
You're 57 years old.
At a certain point
you have to move past
the stories that you've
assigned to your life,
these steadfast explanations
you've settled on years ago.
You have to look
at yourself again
for real answers.
You have to take that risk.
Well...
You're so young
and yet you're so confident.
About what?
You just seem so certain
that you're right.
You see everything clearly.
Do you think I see you clearly?
Because I'd like
to see you more clearly,
but I find you're fairly expert
at obscuring the view.
That's not the first time
you've heard that, is it?
In so many words.
I... I told you earlier
that I was distracted
when I was with Wendy.
And you asked me
what I was thinking about.
And I said I didn't know.
You asked me
if I hold myself back,
and I didn't answer.
Well, I do hold myself back.
Do you know why?
I was thinking about you.
I hear your voice
a lot.
I admire your clarity, your...
you see me.
I noticed that you don't
wear a wedding ring.
And I've imagined
that you might understand
something of my life,
my loneliness.
I know, I know...
textbook transference.
I know it's ridiculous,
a fantasy.
And it's my comeuppance
for being on the receiving end
of these sorts of feelings.
But you did ask.
I'm glad you answered.
You look...
you look kind of shocked.
Why do you say that?
Nothing.
Do you recognize
what you're doing?
You're holding
yourself back again.
As soon as you express
your feelings,
you dismiss them immediately,
call it ridiculous,
offer an excuse.
What...
what exactly are you saying?
I'm saying
that between now
and next session
you may want to think
about why you do that.
Are you telling me...?
Are you trying to say...?
We have to stop.
Let's pick this up next week.
This will be an excellent
place to start.
Okay.
We'll talk more next week.
Have a good weekend.
I made a terrible mistake.
I let Max use my computer.
I didn't realize I hadn't
cleared the searches and
just knew from his face
exactly what he'd seen and
he asked me if I was sick.
Maybe you can tell me some
more about Kate's fiancee
can you tell me what
disturbs you most?
Apart from the fact that
he thinks he knows
what's right for my kid?
I think I'm beginning
to understand how
the dynamic between you
and Gina developed,
how was it you say she
presented you in the novel?
Childish, poor husband,
deficient father?
Is it possible that you
convinced her that
you were incapable?
Why would I do that?
What she told you
was hard to hear.
Of course it was.
All this time going on
and telling you about
how traumatized my son was
by his stepfather,
and turns out
he's in love with the guy.
He's in love with...
it's a figure of speech,
but it's basically
what Rosie told me
in so many words.
I mean,
Max and Steve spent
the whole weekend together
going to museums.
They draw together.
They...
Steve brings him into
the architecture studio,
teaches him...
I don't even know the terms...
line drawing, drafting,
whatever it's called,
how to use
a mechanical pencil.
Have you spoken
to Max about this?
I haven't spoken with Max
about much of anything.
I was gonna sit him down
as soon as he came back
from Maryland
and talk to him
about what he found
on my computer that night...
you know,
my Parkinson's research.
But since my conversation
with Rosie,
I haven't been able
to bring myself to do it.
What are you afraid
to hear Max say?
Are you...
are you really gonna
make me answer that?
I mean, you...
you saw perfectly
what was happening last week
more clearly
than I saw it myself.
I'm sure you know the answer
without me having to say it.
You think I know
what you're going to say
before you say it?
I was getting my son
to worry about me.
He won't tell me about Steve
because he's trying
to protect me.
I...
I can't stop myself
from wondering
if, you know...
if he'd actually be
better off in Maryland.
With his mother and Steve.
It's hard for you
to consider that.
They share this passion
for drawing, for art.
And Steve feeds it.
I mean, how can I
deny my son that?
If I did, I'd be
doing exactly what
was done to me.
I'd be... I'd be
dragging him away
from his vibrant teenage years
and taking him to a dreary,
lifeless apartment
with a sick parent.
Is that how you see
your existence...
as dreary and lifeless?
I'm sure that's how
Max sees it.
I wasn't asking about Max.
I really wish
Rosie had never told me
about the fucking
twin drafting tables.
I really could have done
without that detail.
Is that what gets to you most?
It all gets to me...
the whole picture.
And it's not just them either.
Just about everybody I know
has some kind of passion.
Something or somebody
drives them.
But not you.
Sometimes I...
I try to pretend I do, yeah.
How do you do that?
What does that mean,
you pretend?
Wendy...
uh, my girlfriend...
she stopped by the apartment
at lunchtime today.
And she knows I have
an hour and a half
without any patients.
And...
We... we haven't had sex
for a while.
And...
Since she can't stay over
and I can't
stay at her place
because of Max...
Max was away this weekend.
Right. That's true.
I hadn't told her that.
But you saw her today.
She has this thing,
you know... she...
for some reason
she's been wanting
to have sex on the couch
in my office.
So we did.
This was your attempt
at being passionate
about something.
I suppose you're right.
And?
I was...
I was distracted.
I was...
I was...
I was thinking
about other things.
What were you thinking about?
I don't know.
Not her.
I have this...
I have this boat
in my office.
And I just found
myself staring...
you know, staring at it
after Wendy and I
were finished.
It's a... a model,
a sailboat.
It's about that big.
I used to have
about 26 of them,
different sizes, you know,
schooners, sloops.
Do you like to sail?
Never been.
Anyway, these...
these boats are...
actually, the boats are
the closest I've ever
come to a hobby.
And when Max was little,
he really loved it.
We used to go searching
at these antique stores.
Sometimes we'd build them
from kits, you know.
And we'd give them each a name
and we'd make up these stories
about the places it had been
and the places
that it would go.
How come there's only
one boat left?
He lost interest.
Then when I moved up
to Brooklyn,
I just left the rest
of them behind.
They... I don't know,
they just started
to feel a bit pathetic...
22" reminders
of all the places
I'd never been and
I would never get to.
The one that I saved...
I keep it in my office.
I see it over
my patients' shoulders.
So I sit and I listen
to them talk,
and every single
one of them, they...
no matter how sick
or screwed up they are...
they... they all have
a real passion.
You find all your patients
have something you don't,
something you're missing?
I do feel that way
a lot, yeah.
Jesse... he loves
photography.
He's got this
fierce attachment
to his camera.
And frances has
her acting.
Although it's hard for her
to admit, with all the guilt
she has around it,
there's no question
of what it means to her.
Other people...
Kate devoted to her clinic,
now to Max's new father.
I mean, even Gina...
suddenly a novelist.
As much as
I fucking hate her
for what she's written,
she has found her...
you know, her calling.
And there's...
there's you.
Me?
Why do you include me?
What do you consider
my passion to be?
Well, isn't it this...
your work, your patients?
I mean, not that
there aren't other things
that you might feel
strongly about,
but from where I sit,
you seem to be
pretty engaged
even in your cool detachment.
Am I engaged or detached?
I'd... I'd say both.
But... but it is clear
that your work is
very important to you.
Am I wrong about that?
My work is important to me.
I'm just wondering
why you say that,
how you arrive
at this impression.
I went online, you know,
the other night.
It's become kind of
a bad habit really.
And I found myself
back at my desk,
typing in this thing
on Parkinson's/
olfactory symptoms.
And I...
I just stopped.
I made myself stop.
And I...
I just happened to type in
your name instead.
Did you know there's
another Adele Brouse,
also a therapist,
in Portland, Oregon?
I wasn't aware of that.
Yeah, an m.S.W.,
not a psychiatrist,
not nearly as prolific as you.
I mean, all this...
a list of stuff comes up,
all the articles
that you've published
over, you know...
the amount of conferences
that you've attended
in Chicago,
Prague, Paris.
What did seeing that
mean to you?
Well, the last article
that I wrote was in 1998.
Why have you stopped?
Adele Saskia Brouse.
Is that Dutch?
Wasn't Rembrandt's wife
called Saskia?
My mother's father
was from Holland.
I don't believe it.
What?
You just... you answered
my question.
You still haven't
answered mine.
Why have you stopped?
Well, let's say that I...
that I no longer share
your professional drive.
My work does feel
meaningful at times.
When I'm in the room
with my patients,
I'm still interested mostly,
but am I passionate?
You mean in the way
you think I am.
Were you ever?
When I was your age,
I published.
I still thought
I could save people.
Do you ever think that now?
Monday, for 40 minutes,
I had a flash of that feeling.
What happened monday?
You remember Sunil.
I told you about him.
He took...
he took a huge step.
I'd been trying
to get him
to express his anger.
And he'd been inching
toward it.
So we were sitting
in my office over tea
and we were talk...
you were talking over tea?
It makes him feel
like we're having
more of a conversation
than therapy.
You know, he's a guy
who spends all his time
feeling like an outsider
in what he perceives to be
this strange,
aggressive country.
So he locks himself away
in his room.
So sharing tea with me
makes him...
you know, draws him
out of his shell.
Are you talking
about him or you?
I'm talking about him.
Last week you told me
that you didn't want
to be my supervisor.
Now you kind of sit there
silently supervising.
It's kind of obvious
what you think.
What do I think?
He opened up to me.
He... he told me about
this deeply passionate affair
that he had at university...
something he's never
spoken of before
to anybody
and that's haunted him
for years.
You should have seen
how transformed he was
when he spoke about
this love affair.
It's like he...
he came alive.
I mean, this man isn't...
he's not old.
He felt passion
at one point in his life.
And I thought,
"why couldn't he
have that again?
Why couldn't he... ?"
Why couldn't he...?
I don't know.
It was...
it was fleeting,
what I saw in him,
but a glimpse of somebody
different, you know?
Maybe I'm making
too much of it.
This recent session with Sunil
had a powerful effect on you.
You seem especially focused
on his early love affair.
Well, it's a pretty powerful
story, don't you think?
Have you ever felt
that passion
romantic passion?
My lunchtime session
with Wendy doesn't qualify?
Not according to you.
With Kate,
I suppose,
when I fell in love with her
all those years ago.
Even with Wendy last year,
at the very beginning.
But now I...
I'm beginning to realize
I've got this pattern:
I seek out people
who have... who have...
who have themselves
a passion for life
and I feed off them instead.
I allow them to...
to feel for both of us.
You allowed both Wendy and Kate
to do your feeling for you?
Yeah, at least...
at least in part.
Whatever emotion you do feel,
do you openly express
yourself at the time?
Not entirely.
You hold yourself back?
Is... is that
what you think?
Earlier, when you were
talking about Sunil,
you became engaged, excited,
as you came alive yourself.
You spoke with energy.
You sat forward in your seat.
And then you stopped yourself.
It was striking.
Does that description
seem accurate to you?
Do you find you have
passionate or excited impulses,
but stop yourself
from expressing them?
I made a similar observation
a couple of weeks ago
about you
holding yourself back,
and you had
a strong reaction.
Do you remember?
What... what are you
talking about?
You told me
about the beginning
of your dream...
running toward open gates
along a wrought-iron fence,
and then being
dragged down, paralyzed.
I asked if you were
stopping yourself
and you got very angry at me.
You insisted
it was your father
who was stopping you.
It was my school.
I'm sorry?
It was my school.
The fence...
the iron fence
ran around the outside
of the boarding school
I went to.
When was this?
I... I was 12.
- You were Max's age.
- Yeah.
Lancaster royal
grammar school
in the north of england.
I wasn't there for very long,
just a term and a half, but...
well, my parents
had already started
to fight with each other.
And yeah, it was
our last year in dublin.
And they sent me away
to school.
Was that hard for you?
No, not at all.
Most people talk about
how miserable they are
at boarding school,
but I was really happy there.
But I was there
for less than six months
when my father
got his position
at union memorial
in Baltimore.
Two weeks later we landed in...
in America.
Well, I'm...
I'm sure that's part
of the dream
that I'm, you know, reliving...
being torn away from school
by my father,
from that feeling that I had...
that great feeling
of contentment
that I'd found there.
Can you tell me
what was so nice about
the boarding school?
The place was...
was just filled with activity.
There were scores of clubs
and things that you could do,
teams you could sign up for...
to play rugby,
cross-country running,
the school newspaper.
It's just all these things
my father tore me away from.
Cross-country running...
did you run at school?
Well, I was going to
join the team.
Did you play rugby,
join the paper?
Well, I was planning to.
I'm not sure
what you're getting at.
The point I'm making is
that I was happy there.
Actively engaged,
content.
It's interesting
to hear you speak
of the school in this way,
because in your dream
you're running outside
the gates.
When you told me the dream,
you described a feeling
of anticipation, of excitement,
not of contentment.
To me that difference
seems significant.
You say you planned
to join the newspaper?
Well, I hadn't been
there that long.
A semester and a half?
Surely that's enough time
to join the paper
if you'd wanted to.
No, I'm just saying
that if I had stayed,
I would have thrived.
It was my father moving here
that just took away
that possibility.
And what did you
find here instead?
The move to Baltimore marked
the end of my childhood.
My father walked out;
My mother got sicker;
And I was...
I was forced to...
to take care of her.
The beginning of a very
difficult period.
And your father
bears a great deal
of the responsibility.
Yeah, who else?
My mother... she was...
she was ill.
I understand.
You mentioned more than once
how strongly you identify
with Sunil's alienation
in this country,
that you continue
to feel it at times.
And I imagine you felt it
when you first arrived.
Yes, I...
I went from
Lancaster royal grammar
to p.S. 233,
from beautiful
gothic stone buildings
and open green fields
to brick and asphalt.
That's tough for rugby.
The kids played stickball.
And I remember watching them
with such determination
from the edge
of the schoolyard.
Determination?
What does that mean?
I was...
I was determined
to decode them,
you know, to figure them out...
how to play their game,
how to fit in.
Because everything
about them was alien...
the music
that they listened to,
the clothes that they wore,
even their curse words.
And the girls...
the girls...
forget it.
They wouldn't even look
in my direction.
You stayed on the edge
of that schoolyard as well,
outside the gates.
I was trying to join in.
I was trying to find my way.
And I just... I just
didn't get a chance to.
You were pulled away again.
Mm-hmm, yeah.
How long was
your family in America
before your father walked out?
18 months.
A year and a half.
Oh okay, I get the point
you're trying to make...
that I had time,
like at boarding school,
to join in.
But see, the thing is,
my father was...
he was working
really long hours.
And my mother was
already unwell.
You were expected
to stay home with her.
Yes, I was.
And I did.
Yeah.
It was a terrible blow.
Was it?
What do you mean?
Was it a terrible blow
or was it also a relief?
- I was trying
to be a good son.
- I understand it.
- Is that so awful?
- Of course it's not awful.
What I'm saying is that
it may have been easier
than the alternative.
Do you think I wanted
to spend my teenage years
with my chronically ill mother?
I mean...
The first day I met you,
you insisted
that you and Gina
had it all figured out,
that your need to save people
started with
your mother's illness.
And does that seem
far-fetched to you?
It doesn't.
But I think
caring for your mother
was also a way
of saving yourself.
It was miserable, yes,
but it was also safe
and familiar.
And it kept you
from having to find
any real connections elsewhere,
from risking yourself
in the outside world.
And it also had the convenience
of allowing you to blame
it all on your father.
And it's really
not so different
from what you do
to this day, is it?
You cloister yourself
in your apartment
or your burrow like office.
You convince yourself
you're sick.
You accept a growing paralysis
rather than taking
a risk of finding
where or towards whom
your real passion lies.
Is it any wonder
you haven't found
what drives you yet?
You're 57 years old.
At a certain point
you have to move past
the stories that you've
assigned to your life,
these steadfast explanations
you've settled on years ago.
You have to look
at yourself again
for real answers.
You have to take that risk.
Well...
You're so young
and yet you're so confident.
About what?
You just seem so certain
that you're right.
You see everything clearly.
Do you think I see you clearly?
Because I'd like
to see you more clearly,
but I find you're fairly expert
at obscuring the view.
That's not the first time
you've heard that, is it?
In so many words.
I... I told you earlier
that I was distracted
when I was with Wendy.
And you asked me
what I was thinking about.
And I said I didn't know.
You asked me
if I hold myself back,
and I didn't answer.
Well, I do hold myself back.
Do you know why?
I was thinking about you.
I hear your voice
a lot.
I admire your clarity, your...
you see me.
I noticed that you don't
wear a wedding ring.
And I've imagined
that you might understand
something of my life,
my loneliness.
I know, I know...
textbook transference.
I know it's ridiculous,
a fantasy.
And it's my comeuppance
for being on the receiving end
of these sorts of feelings.
But you did ask.
I'm glad you answered.
You look...
you look kind of shocked.
Why do you say that?
Nothing.
Do you recognize
what you're doing?
You're holding
yourself back again.
As soon as you express
your feelings,
you dismiss them immediately,
call it ridiculous,
offer an excuse.
What...
what exactly are you saying?
I'm saying
that between now
and next session
you may want to think
about why you do that.
Are you telling me...?
Are you trying to say...?
We have to stop.
Let's pick this up next week.
This will be an excellent
place to start.
Okay.
We'll talk more next week.
Have a good weekend.