Marvin
By
Kris Bryen
I have only been a therapist for three years. But in those three long years, I have seen patients across the gamut. I have witnessed numerous breakdowns in my sessions. More than once, I have felt unsafe in my own office. On one such occasion a patient, triggered by my innocuous question about how his day had been, put his fist through my office wall. I am reminded of this outburst every day when I see small square of discoloration just behind the corner of the sofa that Marvin preferred to curl up on.
Yet in my three years as a therapist (plus my 1500 hours of supervised clinicals), I had never had a patient like Marvin. I knew I had to do something. I reached for my cell phone, but stopped before my hand reached my pocket. Calling the police would set into motion events that I could not undo.
I decided to email my boss instead. Knowing the importance of getting this email right, I resolved to relay the session with conciseness and complete accuracy. I took out my notes to aid my recollection.
I never once looked down. The session replayed in my head in surreal clarity. It was as if I were watching a recording on DVR. I suspect I will remember every detail for as long as I live.
“Rudy Johnson and I last spoke in 7th grade.”
He said this unprompted, before I had the chance to ask my usual icebreaker questions. He nodded when I asked him if he understood how the confidentiality rules worked, then launched right into his opening soliloquy.
“She asked to borrow my pencil. She called me Martin and never gave it back.
“Since then, I see her often. But she never sees me.”
“Her bedroom faces her backyard. You can touch her window from the thick, evergreen bushes that line her wall. It’s thin, that window. It looks as if a good size hailstone would shatter it. It’s small, but that doesn’t bother me. Some nights, the moon shines just right. It slants through the window and strikes her face, revealing her fragile form, lying exposed in the night.”
“I watch her sleep, watch her curl up like a fetus, twisting herself into her blankets until they swaddle her. And as she has her dreams I have mine.”
Marvin’s size and boyish, almost effeminate features make him look much younger than 23. His mousy brown mop of hair adds to his non-threatening appearance. His shy nature reinforces this.
I had to focus to hear him, even after I shifted my body, inching closer. Perhaps that is why I flinched. Nothing dramatic. A slight widening of my eyes, lasting no more than half a second. Most of my patients would not have noticed.
Marvin did.
You didn’t have to be a trained therapist to interpret the gleam in his eyes. He relished my discomfort. He saw the instinctual fear kick in—and he fed off of it. He may have even derived pleasure from it.
That gleam, more than anything, convinced me to draft an email to my boss, James.
Even with only a single session, the signs screamed out at me. Marvin spoke as if eager to prove that he checked off every single risk factor for developing a proclivity to violence listed in the textbooks. My heart broke at the casual, disinterested way he described his childhood. At the same time, a chill descended upon me.
“School was never great for me. I sat by myself. I didn’t mind, or wouldn’t have anyway, if they would have just left me alone.
“I went to a dance once. Turnabout. Ashley Conners asked me in between 6th and 7th period, if you can believe that. I sure couldn’t. I saw her friends in the distance, pointing at us and laughing. I didn’t care. I pictured myself slow dancing with her, the way her arms would feel around my shoulders. I said yes and asked her if she wanted me to pick her up. She smiled and asked me to meet her there.
“I got a ride from one of my brothers—I even convinced him to lend me his leather jacket. I didn’t have a tie, but only the preppy kids had those.
“I got there early. While I waited, I made up my mind. I would kiss her during the last song and ask her to be my girlfriend. I’d take her to Parlor, a pizza joint my oldest brother Tommy sometimes took girls to.
“I saw her walking arm in arm with Danny Stevenson, a junior on the football team. She didn’t even look at me. He did. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He had these small, beady brown eyes. So small and shallow that if you tried to stick just one finger in them it might not fit. When he saw me, his eyes widened. I thought they would drop right out of his head.
“‘You actually thought she wanted to dance with a loser like you? Hey guys!’ he shouted, turning back to his friends. ‘Creepy Marve actually thought Ashley wanted to dance with him.’
“All of them, including Ashley, stopped in their tracks to laugh for a solid five minutes.
Marvin continued his story as if performing a routine chore, like compiling a list of needed groceries.
“I last saw Danny 3 months and 3 weeks ago, in the parking lot of Kohl’s. In high school he answered only to Danny, but his name tag said Daniel. It said Salesclerk underneath his name. I made sure he saw me. He didn’t laugh.”
He lost his mask when he talked about his father, though.
“My father was an asshole.”
His delicate voice made the mild curse vulgar. He clenched his fist before continuing.
“I liked him best when he was passed out drunk. I have to say, you’d think that an alcoholic would understand the desire to try a sip. But probably my worst ever beating came after he found 11-year-old me holding one of his Bud Lights.”
“Did your dad use physical violence against you often?” I asked, already torn between my growing unease and my desire to help this broken child.
I am not sure if he even heard me.
“You might be tempted to have some sympathy for the bastard. Not wanting his son to repeat his own mistakes, and all that.”
He paused, as if waiting for confirmation.
“Don’t. By the time I was 13, when he saw me drinking, he only gave a shit if I didn’t offer him a pull.”
I used the silence as a second chance to engage with him.
“What about when he wasn’t drinking? Did you guys ever talk?”
“When he wasn’t drinking? My dad drank like he breathed. Considered it a solemn duty. Only thing he was ever any good at. As to your second question, my dad wasn’t exactly a talker. And when he did, it was a one-way street. You nodded your head to show you understood and didn’t interrupt. Ever.”
“When he did talk to you, what did he say to you?”
“Usually just ranting and raving. Or precise instructions on how to carry out a chore or errand. And of course, his favorite saying.”
I waited, my discomfort growing.
“Most people don’t listen to me, Marvin. But you will. I swear you will.”
In my email to James, I don’t quote Marvin verbatim, choosing instead to provide a succinct summary that I hope will come across as factual and detached.
Still, I pause before I hit Send. I have documented troubling, if not outright disturbing behaviors. I feel a twinge of pride at having dissected and assembled the relevant facts and observations in a fashion that elucidates his underlying pathologies in an almost academic manner. Yet, despite my discomfort and compelling synthesis, I admit that a clear threat of imminent harm does not exist.
Of course, I am emailing my boss and the head of the practice – not phoning the police. But what if James decides I’m overreacting? Damaging my credibility this early in my tenure would risk an indelible blemish in my still young career.
I recall an offhand comment James had made to Ben, a long-time therapist at the practice, about Mary, a recent transfer to the practice.
“I don’t know about Mary. I worry she can’t properly separate her emotions from her patients.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that too,” Ben responded, a slight frown forming on his fleshy face. “It’s essential that we keep our emotions in check and maintain proper distance.”
I have had little interaction with Mary beyond idle break room chatter. But I know she did her training at the University of Wisconsin, and I have heard the front office staff reference the gratitude of her patients many times. I doubt that James has good reason to question Mary’s approach to client engagement. But James has always valued his particular approach to getting things done.
I imagine his reaction to my email as currently written:
Jennifer,
You certainly paint a picture of a troubled young man. But let’s not jump the gun. As you know, even for persons who display all the signs of a proclivity to violence, only a small proportion actually become violent. I certainly don’t see any “imminent threats” that would compel immediate action. So, let’s not do anything drastic. Yes, this young man definitely needs our help. But so do all our patients.
If you would like to chat further about this issue, my door is always open.
Regards,
James
His response would be polite, of course. James, with his old-fashioned ways, never failed to exhibit the proper level of courtesy. But just under the surface of his above-board, professional response would lie a lurking insinuation. By itself, it would likely do little harm. Yet that tiny seed of insinuation could blossom into the beginning of a pattern. Unfortunately, the human mind excels at identifying patterns. Even ones that don’t exist.
Still, I can’t shake the ominous sense of foreboding that has overtaken me. A shadow passes over me. Startled, I peer out my window, looking for its source. An old man trudges by. I tell myself to relax and let out the breath I have been holding. As I turn back to my screen, I think I spot a different shadow, on the side of my lawn. I get up and press my face to the side of my window, craning my neck to extend my field of vision.
I see nothing save the bushes and small trees I had planted to fill my empty yard. I curse my paranoia and force myself to sit back down and focus on my screen.
I read through the note one last time, hunting for typos and run-ons. I correct a few small errors and prepare to hit send.
I pause. As the moments of our encounter play itself again in my head, I fast forward to the end of our session.
“I need help.”
His eyes had lost their gleam. He stared at the floor and wrapped his arms around his body. Watching small, mousy-haired Marvin curl up into a ball on the edge of my leather sofa evoked no small amount of pity. But I did not forget the other Marvin.
Still, I saw my chance and I took it.
“I am here to help you, Marvin.”
He said nothing. He seemed focused on making himself as small as possible, as if he could disappear into my couch.
“Marvin, how can I help you?”
Silence. He refused to even make eye contact.
“I can only help you if you let me.”
He mumbled into the ground. I couldn’t make it all out but I did hear “unwanted impulses.”
Any therapist will tell you that time limits must be adhered to. Overlooking them threatens not only the sanity of the therapist, but teaches the patient that firm boundaries do not exist. Doing so is a recipe for disaster with even the easiest patient.
Our silence continued into the 50th minute and I ended the session. I knew I had to give Martin time to process his feelings and desires. That a plea like his could only be explored with the luxury of time.
But as I watched him walk out the door I felt this sinking sense of foreboding that I had only once chance with him – and I was letting it go.
That feeling of foreboding sits with me as I debate the proper course of action. I sincerely believe that Martin wants help. But I also believe that along with his desire to rid himself of his dangerous pathologies, he harbors darker desires. Desires which, especially in this crucial early stage, might win out over his better angels.
But is it right to punish Marvin after he took such a brave, praiseworthy step? Will my email cause adverse consequences for Marvin? What exactly do I hope it will accomplish?
I need to clear my head. I grab my keys and walk outside. Darkness and a warm breeze greet me. A perfect night to unroll the windows and feel nothing but the wind.
I get to my car and go to unlock the door. I feel someone close by and freeze.
I spin around. I find myself face to face with him. His arms hang limply by his sides. His hand turns, and a flash of silver gleams in the night.
“Hi Jennifer.”
“Marvin. What are you doing?”
I know what he will say. The look in his eyes has gone far past what I saw in our session this morning. I see a wicked excitement in them, like an inferno lapping up the remaining skeleton of a burn-out building.
“I’m not sure.”
A cloudiness has dimmed the fire in his eyes. Hope surges through me.
“I can help you.”
It comes out as a mere whisper, the pathetic pleadings of a person who fears for their life. I know how desperate I sound. I cannot help Marvin.
No one can.
“I don’t think you can.”
He knows the truth. I tell myself to remain calm, to reason with him. But I am past that. My whole body trembles. I try to think of what I can say. I consider the different negotiating strategies I have learned, techniques I have used to engage difficult patients.
I have nothing to say.
I close my eyes and try to focus on happy things. I mostly regret. I regret that it has to end now. I feel robbed. I have seen so little of the world. I will no longer have the time to visit the rest “later in life.” Instead, I will die shortly after earning a PhD I will barely get to use. I have not even had time to figure out whether I am serious about Jacob, the architect I’ve been casually seeing for the past six months. The one I have considered asking to lunch with my parents. My parents. I wish I had returned my mother’s phone call. Hot tears stream down my face.
“What the fuck are you waiting for!”
I open my eyes, ready to defend myself. I will go for his face. I will kick. If I can, I will run.
I see Marvin in the distance, his back to me, the faint streetlight outlining his small, fading figure.
I throw myself in my car, spamming the lock button. Its repeated clicks reassure me. I pick up my phone and dial 911. It glows in my hand, the white digits magnified in the dark.
I stare at the undialed number, unable to decide.
Kris lives in Chicago, where he enjoys exploring new restaurants and traveling with his young family. He began writing as a hobby to break up the monotony of a mindeless finance job, but what started as a diversion quickly grew into a passion. Kris now works in a far more rewarding role in healthcare, and continues to write as he attempts to "blow your hair back." Kris is excited to publish his first story and hopes that it provokes quiet discomfort and thought.
By
Kris Bryen
I have only been a therapist for three years. But in those three long years, I have seen patients across the gamut. I have witnessed numerous breakdowns in my sessions. More than once, I have felt unsafe in my own office. On one such occasion a patient, triggered by my innocuous question about how his day had been, put his fist through my office wall. I am reminded of this outburst every day when I see small square of discoloration just behind the corner of the sofa that Marvin preferred to curl up on.
Yet in my three years as a therapist (plus my 1500 hours of supervised clinicals), I had never had a patient like Marvin. I knew I had to do something. I reached for my cell phone, but stopped before my hand reached my pocket. Calling the police would set into motion events that I could not undo.
I decided to email my boss instead. Knowing the importance of getting this email right, I resolved to relay the session with conciseness and complete accuracy. I took out my notes to aid my recollection.
I never once looked down. The session replayed in my head in surreal clarity. It was as if I were watching a recording on DVR. I suspect I will remember every detail for as long as I live.
“Rudy Johnson and I last spoke in 7th grade.”
He said this unprompted, before I had the chance to ask my usual icebreaker questions. He nodded when I asked him if he understood how the confidentiality rules worked, then launched right into his opening soliloquy.
“She asked to borrow my pencil. She called me Martin and never gave it back.
“Since then, I see her often. But she never sees me.”
“Her bedroom faces her backyard. You can touch her window from the thick, evergreen bushes that line her wall. It’s thin, that window. It looks as if a good size hailstone would shatter it. It’s small, but that doesn’t bother me. Some nights, the moon shines just right. It slants through the window and strikes her face, revealing her fragile form, lying exposed in the night.”
“I watch her sleep, watch her curl up like a fetus, twisting herself into her blankets until they swaddle her. And as she has her dreams I have mine.”
Marvin’s size and boyish, almost effeminate features make him look much younger than 23. His mousy brown mop of hair adds to his non-threatening appearance. His shy nature reinforces this.
I had to focus to hear him, even after I shifted my body, inching closer. Perhaps that is why I flinched. Nothing dramatic. A slight widening of my eyes, lasting no more than half a second. Most of my patients would not have noticed.
Marvin did.
You didn’t have to be a trained therapist to interpret the gleam in his eyes. He relished my discomfort. He saw the instinctual fear kick in—and he fed off of it. He may have even derived pleasure from it.
That gleam, more than anything, convinced me to draft an email to my boss, James.
Even with only a single session, the signs screamed out at me. Marvin spoke as if eager to prove that he checked off every single risk factor for developing a proclivity to violence listed in the textbooks. My heart broke at the casual, disinterested way he described his childhood. At the same time, a chill descended upon me.
“School was never great for me. I sat by myself. I didn’t mind, or wouldn’t have anyway, if they would have just left me alone.
“I went to a dance once. Turnabout. Ashley Conners asked me in between 6th and 7th period, if you can believe that. I sure couldn’t. I saw her friends in the distance, pointing at us and laughing. I didn’t care. I pictured myself slow dancing with her, the way her arms would feel around my shoulders. I said yes and asked her if she wanted me to pick her up. She smiled and asked me to meet her there.
“I got a ride from one of my brothers—I even convinced him to lend me his leather jacket. I didn’t have a tie, but only the preppy kids had those.
“I got there early. While I waited, I made up my mind. I would kiss her during the last song and ask her to be my girlfriend. I’d take her to Parlor, a pizza joint my oldest brother Tommy sometimes took girls to.
“I saw her walking arm in arm with Danny Stevenson, a junior on the football team. She didn’t even look at me. He did. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He had these small, beady brown eyes. So small and shallow that if you tried to stick just one finger in them it might not fit. When he saw me, his eyes widened. I thought they would drop right out of his head.
“‘You actually thought she wanted to dance with a loser like you? Hey guys!’ he shouted, turning back to his friends. ‘Creepy Marve actually thought Ashley wanted to dance with him.’
“All of them, including Ashley, stopped in their tracks to laugh for a solid five minutes.
Marvin continued his story as if performing a routine chore, like compiling a list of needed groceries.
“I last saw Danny 3 months and 3 weeks ago, in the parking lot of Kohl’s. In high school he answered only to Danny, but his name tag said Daniel. It said Salesclerk underneath his name. I made sure he saw me. He didn’t laugh.”
He lost his mask when he talked about his father, though.
“My father was an asshole.”
His delicate voice made the mild curse vulgar. He clenched his fist before continuing.
“I liked him best when he was passed out drunk. I have to say, you’d think that an alcoholic would understand the desire to try a sip. But probably my worst ever beating came after he found 11-year-old me holding one of his Bud Lights.”
“Did your dad use physical violence against you often?” I asked, already torn between my growing unease and my desire to help this broken child.
I am not sure if he even heard me.
“You might be tempted to have some sympathy for the bastard. Not wanting his son to repeat his own mistakes, and all that.”
He paused, as if waiting for confirmation.
“Don’t. By the time I was 13, when he saw me drinking, he only gave a shit if I didn’t offer him a pull.”
I used the silence as a second chance to engage with him.
“What about when he wasn’t drinking? Did you guys ever talk?”
“When he wasn’t drinking? My dad drank like he breathed. Considered it a solemn duty. Only thing he was ever any good at. As to your second question, my dad wasn’t exactly a talker. And when he did, it was a one-way street. You nodded your head to show you understood and didn’t interrupt. Ever.”
“When he did talk to you, what did he say to you?”
“Usually just ranting and raving. Or precise instructions on how to carry out a chore or errand. And of course, his favorite saying.”
I waited, my discomfort growing.
“Most people don’t listen to me, Marvin. But you will. I swear you will.”
In my email to James, I don’t quote Marvin verbatim, choosing instead to provide a succinct summary that I hope will come across as factual and detached.
Still, I pause before I hit Send. I have documented troubling, if not outright disturbing behaviors. I feel a twinge of pride at having dissected and assembled the relevant facts and observations in a fashion that elucidates his underlying pathologies in an almost academic manner. Yet, despite my discomfort and compelling synthesis, I admit that a clear threat of imminent harm does not exist.
Of course, I am emailing my boss and the head of the practice – not phoning the police. But what if James decides I’m overreacting? Damaging my credibility this early in my tenure would risk an indelible blemish in my still young career.
I recall an offhand comment James had made to Ben, a long-time therapist at the practice, about Mary, a recent transfer to the practice.
“I don’t know about Mary. I worry she can’t properly separate her emotions from her patients.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that too,” Ben responded, a slight frown forming on his fleshy face. “It’s essential that we keep our emotions in check and maintain proper distance.”
I have had little interaction with Mary beyond idle break room chatter. But I know she did her training at the University of Wisconsin, and I have heard the front office staff reference the gratitude of her patients many times. I doubt that James has good reason to question Mary’s approach to client engagement. But James has always valued his particular approach to getting things done.
I imagine his reaction to my email as currently written:
Jennifer,
You certainly paint a picture of a troubled young man. But let’s not jump the gun. As you know, even for persons who display all the signs of a proclivity to violence, only a small proportion actually become violent. I certainly don’t see any “imminent threats” that would compel immediate action. So, let’s not do anything drastic. Yes, this young man definitely needs our help. But so do all our patients.
If you would like to chat further about this issue, my door is always open.
Regards,
James
His response would be polite, of course. James, with his old-fashioned ways, never failed to exhibit the proper level of courtesy. But just under the surface of his above-board, professional response would lie a lurking insinuation. By itself, it would likely do little harm. Yet that tiny seed of insinuation could blossom into the beginning of a pattern. Unfortunately, the human mind excels at identifying patterns. Even ones that don’t exist.
Still, I can’t shake the ominous sense of foreboding that has overtaken me. A shadow passes over me. Startled, I peer out my window, looking for its source. An old man trudges by. I tell myself to relax and let out the breath I have been holding. As I turn back to my screen, I think I spot a different shadow, on the side of my lawn. I get up and press my face to the side of my window, craning my neck to extend my field of vision.
I see nothing save the bushes and small trees I had planted to fill my empty yard. I curse my paranoia and force myself to sit back down and focus on my screen.
I read through the note one last time, hunting for typos and run-ons. I correct a few small errors and prepare to hit send.
I pause. As the moments of our encounter play itself again in my head, I fast forward to the end of our session.
“I need help.”
His eyes had lost their gleam. He stared at the floor and wrapped his arms around his body. Watching small, mousy-haired Marvin curl up into a ball on the edge of my leather sofa evoked no small amount of pity. But I did not forget the other Marvin.
Still, I saw my chance and I took it.
“I am here to help you, Marvin.”
He said nothing. He seemed focused on making himself as small as possible, as if he could disappear into my couch.
“Marvin, how can I help you?”
Silence. He refused to even make eye contact.
“I can only help you if you let me.”
He mumbled into the ground. I couldn’t make it all out but I did hear “unwanted impulses.”
Any therapist will tell you that time limits must be adhered to. Overlooking them threatens not only the sanity of the therapist, but teaches the patient that firm boundaries do not exist. Doing so is a recipe for disaster with even the easiest patient.
Our silence continued into the 50th minute and I ended the session. I knew I had to give Martin time to process his feelings and desires. That a plea like his could only be explored with the luxury of time.
But as I watched him walk out the door I felt this sinking sense of foreboding that I had only once chance with him – and I was letting it go.
That feeling of foreboding sits with me as I debate the proper course of action. I sincerely believe that Martin wants help. But I also believe that along with his desire to rid himself of his dangerous pathologies, he harbors darker desires. Desires which, especially in this crucial early stage, might win out over his better angels.
But is it right to punish Marvin after he took such a brave, praiseworthy step? Will my email cause adverse consequences for Marvin? What exactly do I hope it will accomplish?
I need to clear my head. I grab my keys and walk outside. Darkness and a warm breeze greet me. A perfect night to unroll the windows and feel nothing but the wind.
I get to my car and go to unlock the door. I feel someone close by and freeze.
I spin around. I find myself face to face with him. His arms hang limply by his sides. His hand turns, and a flash of silver gleams in the night.
“Hi Jennifer.”
“Marvin. What are you doing?”
I know what he will say. The look in his eyes has gone far past what I saw in our session this morning. I see a wicked excitement in them, like an inferno lapping up the remaining skeleton of a burn-out building.
“I’m not sure.”
A cloudiness has dimmed the fire in his eyes. Hope surges through me.
“I can help you.”
It comes out as a mere whisper, the pathetic pleadings of a person who fears for their life. I know how desperate I sound. I cannot help Marvin.
No one can.
“I don’t think you can.”
He knows the truth. I tell myself to remain calm, to reason with him. But I am past that. My whole body trembles. I try to think of what I can say. I consider the different negotiating strategies I have learned, techniques I have used to engage difficult patients.
I have nothing to say.
I close my eyes and try to focus on happy things. I mostly regret. I regret that it has to end now. I feel robbed. I have seen so little of the world. I will no longer have the time to visit the rest “later in life.” Instead, I will die shortly after earning a PhD I will barely get to use. I have not even had time to figure out whether I am serious about Jacob, the architect I’ve been casually seeing for the past six months. The one I have considered asking to lunch with my parents. My parents. I wish I had returned my mother’s phone call. Hot tears stream down my face.
“What the fuck are you waiting for!”
I open my eyes, ready to defend myself. I will go for his face. I will kick. If I can, I will run.
I see Marvin in the distance, his back to me, the faint streetlight outlining his small, fading figure.
I throw myself in my car, spamming the lock button. Its repeated clicks reassure me. I pick up my phone and dial 911. It glows in my hand, the white digits magnified in the dark.
I stare at the undialed number, unable to decide.
Kris lives in Chicago, where he enjoys exploring new restaurants and traveling with his young family. He began writing as a hobby to break up the monotony of a mindeless finance job, but what started as a diversion quickly grew into a passion. Kris now works in a far more rewarding role in healthcare, and continues to write as he attempts to "blow your hair back." Kris is excited to publish his first story and hopes that it provokes quiet discomfort and thought.
