Session Notes: December 9, 2011
Patient "Brian" is 24 years old and lives in Manville. He was referred to me by Dr. Morris at Family Therapy Associates. Our first session and introductory interview took place in my office at seven in the evening.
Brian arrived on time and sat on the far end of the couch. I can always tell a lot about a patient by how they sit on the couch, by the place they select. Occasionally a patient will sit at the near end, and they will lean in close to me. They will listen from time to time but mostly they will wait for their turn to speak. Quite often, they aren't interested in receiving therapy; not really. They just want someone to talk to, someone who will listen.
I typically recommend to these patients that they adopt a pet.
Brian sat on the far end, suggesting that he would be guarded and withdrawn. I wasn't surprised. John Morris likes to send me his tougher cases. Brian was tall and pale, and he carried a thick binder, which he placed on the coffee table.
I got right to the point: "What brings you here today?"
"I never should have been born," Brian replied. How's that for an opening line?
I nodded. "What makes you say that?"
"I never should have been born," he repeated, "and I wish I hadn't been. I wish I had died in the womb, like my father wanted. I wish I had been aborted. I wish we had both died, my mother and me together."
I nodded again, making a mental note to give John Morris a call. Maybe to thank him for sending some new business in my direction. Maybe.
"Are you suicidal?" I asked. It's a question that I ask often, and very directly. You'd be surprised by how many lives I've saved simply by asking this straightforward question. There was a woman a few years ago who planned to give herself the carbon monoxide treatment in the garage that very evening. Told me I was the first person who ever really made her feel like someone was listening. Told me I spared her from a certain death.
"I used to feel like I was," he answered. "It was the only thing that got me to sleep at night, the knowledge that I could take the exit whenever I wanted, just drive over to the Manville Bridge and do a gainer straight into the river. But I don't know, I guess I don't have the guts. I went to Catholic school, and I remember Sister Regina telling me that people who kill themselves go straight to you-know-where."
"Why do you wish you had never been born?" I asked.
"I'm not supposed to be here," he said. He took a deep, measured breath, and paused for a long time before continuing.
"There was a boy," he began.
Brian gave the boy's name, and the first and last names were the same as his. "The boy died in an accident. His mother was destroyed, just utterly destroyed. Her world was completely shattered. She went mad from the pain. I mean, the pain and heartbreak literally drove her out of her mind."
"I've done bereavement counseling," I said. "Losing a child is devastating."
"The boy's mother was a scientist ... she is a scientist," Brian said. "A geneticist, and she had stored some samples of her son's DNA and her husband's reproductive cells. And in her grief, in the insanity of her grief, she impregnated herself with a replica of her dead son. Can you believe that? It wasn't enough for this woman to have another child. She needed an exact duplicate of Brian."
I nodded along, jotting notes.
"When my father found out, he went ballistic. He tried to stop her, but there was nothing he could do. He finally left her. He moved across the country. I never knew him."
"You ... uh," I said, my Waterman pen poised above my legal pad. "You are saying that this was your mother? That you were, uh, the new child she created?"
I wasn't exactly sure how I wanted to approach this one. I could have just come right out and challenged him, told him he's living in a science fiction story. Psychology is my livelihood, but genetics is my passion. I'm fascinated by the science of genes and heredity, and I've read dozens of books on the topic: Crick and Watson, Mendel, Miescher, Watson, Pauling, Huxley, I've devoured them all. If Brian wanted someone to swallow this story, he picked the wrong shrink ... possibly the only one in the state who happens to be an expert on the subject.
But I'm also an expert at spotting liars, and Brian was telling the truth. That is to say, he believed he was.
"Imagine what it was like," Brian said. "I'm a carbon copy of my dead brother. A reproduction. She even named me after him, named me Brian. But I wasn't really a copy, was I? I had my own personality. She expected me to be, you know, her son reincarnated, but I was different, and she hated me for it. Imagine you're five years old, and your mommy hates you because you don't like pancakes and they're supposed to be your favorite food. Your mommy hates you because you want to be a magician for Halloween, and she wants you to be Spider-Man. Your existence is pointless. You're a living reminder that no one can measure up to the child that was. Do you understand?"
I just listened and nodded some more. Victims of child abuse often retreat into fantasy worlds, and this one was in a class all its own.
"Don't take my word for it," Brian said, picking up the thick binder and handing it to me.
"What is this?"
"I stole my mother's journal," he explained. "The one she used to document every aspect of the project. It's all in there, every detail, every experiment. I wasn't the first, you see? There was another, a first attempt. He was ... deformed. She killed him. Discarded him like a writer throwing away a crumpled sheet of paper, and tried again, and here I am."
Brian shifted to the near end of the couch and leaned in close. His pale face was austere, stoic. His brown eyes glittered.
"First, you get to see it," he whispered. "Then the news media. Then the authorities. I want her to pay for what she did to me. For what she did to us."
Brian and I are scheduled to meet again next week. Same time, same place. I want to hear more. I need to hear more.
I've been reading the journal. I've been reading about the accident, and about Brian, and Brian 1.5, and Brian 2.0, who I met this evening. I've been reading about bioethics, and somatic cells, and telomeres, and mitochondria.
I've been reading the fevered ravings of a mad and brilliant woman, determined to capture what can never be captured, to recreate something that can only exist once. It's a portrait of a mother's love. And of obsession. And of rage.
My entire body is trembling as I dictate this. With each scribbled formula and complex diagram, with every turn of the page, I come closer to the realization that Brian's story is true.
And the implications are profoundly disturbing.