Meet Elizabeth. Elizabeth is a 38-year-old woman. She’s slender, close to six feet tall and sports sinewy arms. She proudly notes that thrice weekly workouts at the gym keep her in top condition. She likes to work out with weights. She complements her workout with running, which she does at a local track. She says that she eats to live. She likes salads. She sleeps five to six hours a night. She works full-time in the medical field. She has two children, ages 17 and 15. both girls are high school students. Elizabeth beams proudly when telling about the “loves of my life.” Both are honor students. They arrive home from school hours prior to Elizabeth’s arrival. She explicitly trusts them at home. The girls like to cook and often prepare and eat dinner together. They live a generous salad for Elizabeth.

Elizabeth is a single parent. She’s divorced from the girl’s father. They get to visit their father regularly. He lives in a nearby town. He picks them up for visits. He pays child support on time. Materially, the girls are set. He doesn’t discuss with the girls the reason he and Elizabeth divorced after only five years of marriage. He has remarried and has settled into a comfortable lifestyle. His wife adores the girls.

Elizabeth has come to counseling. Following a quick overview of the aforementioned information, I wonder what brought her to counseling. She sits in a chair with almost perfect posture. She’s dressed casually today. She apologizes for wearing jeans and I observe a pronounced crease in the jeans. I chuckle to myself noticing my more loosely fit jeans. Elizabeth looks dressed up, even in jeans. She gets quiet and starts to fidget with her nails, which are painted. She looks up at me with a Hawaiian punch smile. “You probably are wondering why I came to see you.” She abruptly looks down, still playing with her nails and begins to cry. She dabs her eyes with her own tissues. She notices my box of tissues, points to them and gives out a sigh. “Oh God, I don’t know what to do!” Her body starts to convulse as if Elizabeth walked into a deep freeze.

When she finally looks up at me, make-up running down her cheeks, I ask her what’s going on right now. Between sobs, Elizabeth chokes out “My daughter Millie … she’s drinking alcohol and I caught her. She was drunk! I don’t know what to do. I can’t talk to her father.” For all the energy Elizabeth mustered to maintain some inner calm, an explosion of tears and blubbering dialogue began to gradually meet clarity. Interspersed with her dialogue, she explained. “It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault. I’m a lousy mother.”

Well, the time went by so quickly. I barely spoke … a wonder in my therapy experience of 30 years. The intensity of Elizabeth’s initial session left her apologizing for her facial tearful makeover. She requests another appointment soon. We set one for two days. I questioned about her emotional health at the moment, but she assured me she was OK. She left. I had time to assess what just happened. Though this was a dramatic session, conceptually this was not so different from similar past session. Some clients let it all out; purge their soul so-to-speak. Others, at times, come across in a manner that might question why they came. A rule of thumb is … there’s more to the story. Take your time to allow for it to be revealed. Then allow for time to reveal more. What we see isn’t always what’s all there. More on Elizabeth at the next article.

Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.