Therapy Confidential

The Sleeping Cinderella of Boyle Heights

“Can you give me a life that’s worth getting out of bed for?”

That was the first thing Darla Escovido ever said to me.

And for a long time after she said it—too long a time—I just sat there in silence, blinking my eyes stupidly like a fighter being counted out by the referee. Finally, I rallied enough to say, “Well, that’s a hard question.”

She shot back, “Because of me, or just because it’s a hard question?”

I was a little quicker on the uptake this time. “It could hardly be because of you, Ms. Escovido, since I know next to nothing about you—at least yet.”

She hugged her purse to her chest and slumped like someone had let the air out of her body. Then she said, “Well, you’re the last stop on this train line, so if even you don’t have anything to offer me . . .”

“I didn’t say I had nothing to offer you. Just that I don’t even have any way to assess the situation yet.”

She slumped down even further in her chair. “Is that what I’ve become, a situation?” She gave a sardonic laugh. “Well, I suppose you’re right at that.”

I held out my hands. “I didn’t mean it that way, Ms. . . .”

“Darla.” She paused. “You know, like the Little Rascals.”

I smiled. “You’re pretty young to know about the Little Rascals, aren’t you?”

“Believe me, when your name’s Darla, you know about the Little Rascals.” Her full lips turned up the teensiest bit. It was a pretty smile, what little there was of it.

I nodded. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

She fixed me for a long moment with her dark eyes, then the lids fluttered down and she murmured, “I’m so tired. I’m tired, and I’m tired of being tired.” She looked at me again for a second and said, “Wake me when it’s over, will you? I don’t want to see the rest of this movie.”

Then she shut her eyes again and actually went to sleep. I couldn’t believe it. I was left sitting there with a store full of therapy and no customer.

We were only fifteen minutes into the session. We had plenty of time left, but I don’t normally sit and watch somebody sleep during the first session. I looked at her carefully and listened to her deep, regular breathing. Yes, she was definitely asleep, and even on the verge of snoring. Well, I could wake her up and “make something happen” or sit there and see what I could make out of what was already happening. Since I had been lecturing supervisees for decades that if you pay close attention, “there’s always something happening,” I decided to take my own advice and see what a little observation could do.

She had already said more than once that she was “so tired.” Okay, point taken, point demonstrated. She’d also asked about “a life worth getting out of bed for,” another indication that sleep and bed were going to be major players in this drama. Her body had also collapsed like a flat tire after she’d gotten her first few sentences out. All of which added up to depression, unless she had a sleep disorder, a substance abuse problem, or some kind of medical condition. She had also said I was the “last stop,” which indicated that she’d been trying to find a solution to whatever was ailing her for a long time. Had she already been to doctors? Was she on some kind of psychiatric medication? Was she dying of some mysterious illness? She seemed awfully young to have some deep, dark progressive disease—maybe thirty, thirty-five at most, with an attractive face, healthy looking skin and a slim, athletic body. Of course, looks can be deceiving, but then looks were about all I had to go by at the moment.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Her eyes were wide open again, though her body hadn’t changed position.

“Sorry, but you kind of left me in the lurch there, Darla. I didn’t want to wake you up, so I was trying to use the time to figure out what kind of help you needed from me.”

“By staring at me?”

“I wasn’t staring. You were asleep; what was I supposed to do, read a book?”

“That would be better than reading me, when I’m helpless.”

I sighed. “Okay then, I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

She sat up a little straighter. “Okay then I’m sorry, too. It just comes on me sometimes.”

“You mean you just conk out like that, involuntarily? What about driving?”

“I don’t drive, never did.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

She laughed out loud. “Tons. They say there’s nothing wrong with me, medically speaking.”

“What about medication?”

“What about it?”

“Have you been evaluated for antidepressants?”

“The last doctor I talked to said I don’t meet criteria for depression.”

I tilted my head. “And what kind of a doctor was that?”

She shrugged. “Ear, nose and throat—but he’s very smart.”

“I’m sure he is, but . . .”

“Besides, I’m not interested in drugs. I’m positive that biochemistry is not my problem.”

“Well then, what is?”

“That’s what I’m hiring you to find out.”

I sighed. “And I’m willing to explore that with you, but in the meantime you’re exhausted, you’re falling asleep in the middle of therapy sessions, and you’re telling me you’d rather lie in bed than get up and live your life. That’s a pretty bad meantime, wouldn’t you agree?”

“So you won’t work with me, then?” She looked like a whipped puppy.

“I didn’t say that. I’m just trying to be responsible and sensitive to what you’re going through right now.”

She shook her head, then waved her hand at me like a magician’s wand. “Poof, I hereby absolve you of all responsibility for everything I’m going through. All I need from you is therapy.”

“So if you go to sleep during a session, or say you don’t want to live, I’m just supposed to ignore it and go on with the therapy?”

She threw her arms out comically. “I’m entirely in your hands.” Then I could see tears of desperation in her eyes. “Please.”

I was moved, but moved is not convinced. “But if I feel we need to bring in a psychiatrist, a medical specialist or some other kind of consultant, you have to agree to at least meet with that person.”

She nodded her head reluctantly. “Okay then.”

“For that matter, what if you go to sleep again?”

“Then cover me with a blanket and sing me a lullaby. At least I’ll be resting in your care.”

Whew. Maybe it wasn’t the weirdest beginning to someone’s therapy I’d ever been a party to, but it was pretty high on the leaderboard. I wanted to say yes, but something told me to leave myself, and maybe her, an out. I said, “Okay, here’s what I’m willing to do: we’ll agree to meet for five sessions, then we’ll take stock and reevaluate how it’s going. If it’s still a go at that point, we’ll continue to meet. Okay?”

She grimaced. “That’s kind of a wimpy commitment, but if it’s the best you can do, then okay, I suppose I’m in.”

I turned to the little nightstand that sits next to my chair to pick up my writing pad and trusty green pen and start to ask my usual intake questions. Then I turned back, ready to begin.

Darla was asleep again.

Okay, either she was tremendously hung over from a spree the night before, or a barking dog had kept her up all night, or we were in trouble. I went over and covered her up gently with the blue quilt. Unfortunately, I hadn’t sung “Hobo’s Lullaby” to anybody since the twins were little and I couldn’t remember the words anymore, so I just sat there and waited for Darla to come up for air.

As the minutes ticked by, I found myself thinking the same thing patients often ask when things turn unusual: “Is this still therapy?” Because at this rate, the answer to “Can you give me a life worth getting out of bed for?” was going to be, “No, but if we make lying in bed your whole life, we won’t have to deal with the question.” And that, for sure, ain’t no kind of therapy.

My eyes drifted to a group of crows perched on the roof of the school next door, grooming each other like they didn’t have a worry in the world.

“Okay, I’m back.”

Darla was sitting up again, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Ooh, thanks for putting the blanket on me.”

“You’re welcome.”

Hmm, what came next: breakfast?

I tried to make noises like a therapist. “So, while you’re still with us, I’d like to get a little background information on you.”

She smiled agreeably. “Sure, like what?”

“Like, where do...