A Whole Different Form of Therapy
Squirrel, my current therapist is wise, patient, authentic, and non-judgmental at least most of the time. She doesn’t impulsively rush to conclusions. She affords me time to process my own experience which I appreciate. Unfortunately, and without exaggeration, she also seems to be totally devoid of empathy. She never gives me the reassurance that she can imagine what it must be like to be me. Nevertheless, she will likely be my last therapist. I’m 76 years old, and despite Squirrel’s feline lack of empathy, I am making progress. I am able to see her whenever she chooses to leap off the bookshelf and make herself available.
I’m curious about her detached approach. I thought I’d seen them all. Prior to retiring, I was a clinical psychologist in private practice. My graduate program required all students to have 45 hours of individual therapy. I loved it and engaged in more, a whole lot more, than what was required. At various times I was in Gestalt Therapy, couples group therapy, dream analysis, encounter groups, and other therapies. I’ve engaged therapy dogs as co-therapists. I know the psychotherapy territory and am an avid supporter of people seeking to grow and evolve into their better selves. Still, after retirement and at the end of my traditional therapies, I sensed room for continuing psychological growth. Then along came Squirrel.
I don’t know if Maine Coons have ever been licensed as therapists, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Squirrel is a natural at encouraging me to evolve. She embodies all the qualities of a Rogerian therapist allowing for, and even encouraging, transference in the service of increasing self-awareness. I ask her if she likes being petted, and she simply fixes her gaze at me, allowing me to answer my own question. The reason that I ask her if she likes being petted is that Squirrel makes a habit of coming close to visit just out of arm’s length. If I reach out to pet her, she moves a bit further away. Very occasionally, she will allow me to pick her up and pet her for a minute or two. When I do get to hold her, she purrs and shows me her belly. She can be so very inviting, but only occasionally. I want to tell her everything. After a couple of years of this routine, I thought to rename her “Princess Ambivalence,” an appellation befitting her decidedly approach/avoidance posturing.
It occurred to me recently that my self-esteem was suffering because of my inability to “win over” Squirrel. Despite offering nothing but kindness, soothing words, the occasional pets, and cat treats, she tends to keep her distance. Her ambivalence has tested my patience, my control issues, and ultimately, my ability to forgive. I can visualize her now and imagine she’s thinking that she doesn’t like to be called Princess Ambivalence. As she stares silently at me, encouraging me to process my experience, I become aware that I had been dealing with my hurt feelings by passive-aggressively renaming her Princess Ambivalence.
Squirrel provided me with the time to process my judgmental reaction to her simply by acting like a cat, and eventually I realized that both Princess and Ambivalence were pejorative terms, reflecting my frustration and hurt feelings. Thankfully, Squirrel is too seasoned a therapist to engage in countertransference. She simply fixed her gaze at me again until I understood my own behavior.
I’ve known for some time that insight is not enough to facilitate change, and apologies are an insufficient indication of genuine transformation. If I were to have truly internalized my experience, I would have to demonstrate evidence of real change in my interspecies relationship with Squirrel. I decided, therefore, to rename her again with a less judgmental and mean-spirited name. Her new name is much more descriptive and emotionally neutral. She is now, “Proximity Cat.”
She stares at me, and we both understand that her new name reflects my progress but is also an insufficient marker of my change.
Happily, my therapy continues, however; I know I’m not done. As Proximity Cat continues her deep gaze, she helps me understand that I have a sense of entitlement that enables me to believe that I have the right to change her name. I’m not yet ready to call her Squirrel, although I hope to get to that place in time. I am, as Proximity Cat reminds me on a daily basis, still a work in progress.
