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15 February 2019

Today, six months from the start of my training, I sat face-to-face with my first patient. For the record, I’ll refer to them as patient X (Janet advises us to avoid real patient names, and even gender, for reasons of confidentiality). Unsupervised. No more trial runs, simulated setups or role-playing. After weeks of almost quitting, convincing myself I shouldn’t be on the course, I felt like a fully fledged therapist.

I started with my rehearsed preamble, how I could work with them, what I hoped they could take away from our session, but I needn’t have worried about formalities. The patient knew everything I could possibly say, having already been familiar with my work, my condition. They were fascinated with my capacity to absorb and objectively understand the pain of others is potentially greater, simply because my brain is wired in a different way.

Within minutes of hearing their full story, listening and reflecting back my thoughts, we both knew we were a suitable match. By the end of the session, I could already see the hope of change—in me and them. When they said goodbye, they told me how different they felt, as if a weight was already lifting.

Later on, at home, I told Nate how promising my first session had been and he barely looked up from his book. I assumed that my reflections on pain and emotion, how it can be of benefit in a therapeutic setting, would be of interest to him. Instead, his eyes flashed with irritation and all he could say was, “I’ve never seen any clinical data on that,” before sloping off to his study. It’s as if he’s shutting me out, closing me down. Understanding pain is his domain, his empire. Am I only of value as data for my condition?