22. Guest v. Finbow Day Four
GUEST V. FINBOW: DAY FOUR
Your dedication. My dedication. Jean’s dedication.
As she opens her questioning, Ms. Ibrahim paints a deeply loyal portrait of her client.
“You are a committed practitioner,” she announces. “Many of your clients attest to the miraculous impact that your specialism, hypnotic regression therapy, has had on their lives.”
“Thank you,” Jean says, using a deeper voice than normal.
“Will you explain how your sessions work?”
She straightens and smiles. “It’s a broad church.
We use the term to encompass hypnotic methods of accessing the past. As we proceed backward, we revisit and reevaluate certain events.
I monitor my client’s bodily reactions as we liberate what the subconscious has repressed.
This might be what we call trauma with a big ‘T,’ such as abuse or neglect.
It could equally be trauma with a little ‘t’: moments of humiliation, shame; micro-events of cruelty that have a profound impact on us as adults. ”
I listen, appalled. When we began our work together in Rome, there was no talk of trauma, no big T or little t .
I wasn’t aware that Jean had a specialism.
Even by the third or fourth session, the names of formal methodologies were never mentioned; Jean made no oblique references to hypnosis or repressed memories.
We simply talked. And, as we talked, Jean listened to the parts of me that I couldn’t hear myself.
The parts, she explained, that I had chosen not to hear.
“In your statement, you acknowledge that regression therapy has, in the past, attracted some controversy,” Ms. Ibrahim goes on, the corners of her mouth turned down to show that this is not a concession of much significance. “Is that still the case?”
“It is,” Jean says. “Some members of our community have not witnessed its beautifully liberating impact.”
“Would you say that there is any methodology within psychotherapy which is free from controversy?”
Jean shakes her head. She lists other disciplines that she is an expert in. Reiki, emotional tapping, somatic coaching, EMDR. Internal Family Systems therapy. “It’s hard to think of one which is not criticized by someone on the peripheries.”
Her statement triggers a hum of discontent from around the gallery. Anna shakes her head and whispers cynically in Ms. Carr’s ear.
“Methodologies such as mine, which are at the vanguard, so to speak, will always receive criticism. Regression therapy is a beautiful, powerful, sometimes horrifying mess of ideas. The same as any academic discipline.”
Ms. Ibrahim raises her voice. “Is it your view that Mrs. Finbow has exploited its controversy in order to defame your reputation?”
Jean’s face hardens. She is unequivocal. “Yes.”
“And why is that?”
“Because the issues that have arisen in her daughter’s sessions were not acceptable to her.”
“And these were issues that Mary Finbow approached you about of her own accord. Correct?”
“Correct. Mary Finbow came to me for the same reason my other clients come to me. She was facing grave difficulties and seeking guidance.”
My pulse quickens. The hardness in my throat reappears.
“Yet it is Mrs. Finbow’s absolute view that you actively seek your clients out, that you ‘recruit’ victims to proliferate your network.
The program in Rome, where some of your previous clients happened to have studied, was a feeding ground for you.
” Ms. Ibrahim tips her head to the side to show she is playing devil’s advocate.
“The actions, so to speak, of a cult leader. What is your response to this?”
It pains me to think of how I misconstrued Jean as a slightly tragic figure at the model casting.
Then again, when I admired her quiet grace, as she stood in the doorway at Creta and asked me all those flattering questions about my work.
At the time, I thought she was interested in me, cared for my potential.
Had she pinpointed Mary as early as then?
“The defendant’s notion is absurd,” Jean says sharply.
“I don’t seek out clients on a financial basis.
I have always generated good income from my practice, but I use that to support those on harder incomes.
” There is a pause, as if Jean’s lawyer wants us all to witness her client’s act of great charity.
Then Jean makes a gulping sound. “I’m sorry,” she says, picking tears from her eyes with a fingernail.
“To get emotional. It’s just that, designing courses of treatment for my clients requires a great deal of thought and expertise.
What I discuss with the defendant’s daughter is confidential, her business, or our business, only.
I don’t follow a particular schema or framework, I just try to make things work for my girls on an individual basis.
All I have ever wanted was to give them freedom.
” Jean’s voice wobbles, and I feel a wave of revulsion at the clumsy way she has admitted girls , a concession her lawyer ignores.
“You mention your own personal physical and emotional struggles as a result of the stress of these proceedings,” Ms. Ibrahim says gently, a sympathetic expression on her face. “Could you expand on that?”
Jean shudders. “I cannot overstate how the stress has affected me. To suddenly have your motives treated with suspicion. I struggle sleeping. I suffer frequently from panic attacks, nightmares, hypervigilant episodes. I can’t even go out for a walk because I am being followed by private detectives.
The only thing that helps me is working.
” Jean gives a little gasp. “And Mrs. Finbow has taken that from me.”
“How would you describe the emotional impact, as these clients, regular clients, began to cancel their work with you?” Ms. Ibrahim asks, with pity.
“Severe,” says Jean. She blinks, takes a deep breath. “It was hard not to take their actions personally.”
“Could you expand on that?”
“It’s not just the time I clear in my diary,” Jean says. “It’s not simply about the loss of income or canceled appointments.” Again, she gulps, and her shoulders hunch over. I look away. Jean may be suffering, or this may simply be acting. Either way, I can’t bear to watch.
“You see,” Jean says, then hiccups. “When I begin working with a client,” she says, gesturing to her heart, “she takes up residence in here. She enters me. We live within each other.” Jean pauses and looks toward Anna. A slight smirk crosses her face. “Like a Russian doll.”
My chest beats wildly as I hear her use Anna’s phrase: such a neat gesture of intimidation. Cruel. Scarcely detectable. And I hate her.