One Year In

I never met Bartell in person, and yet in our year long relationship he has come to reveal things about himself to me, some aspects of his personality that he has never shared with another living soul. And for good reason; some of the things he has told me could have dire consequences, easily landing him in a great deal of trouble. Such is the nature of psychotherapy. When it works well, patients trust you with their deepest, most troubling thoughts. And when it doesn’t work well, sometimes they trust you with even more. 

    Bartell had been referred to me shortly after the pandemic lockdown started, back when the novelty of the thing hadn’t yet worn off, before the reality of the disaster had descended upon us. In those early days of 2020, we felt we were embarking on an age-defining adventure, forging an identity for ourselves and our times. We were setting ourselves apart from previous and future generations. That’s how it felt; COVID-19 was an opportunity for all of us to come together in ways we’d never before imagined, working toward a common goal. We were confronting the issues that we’d been ignoring for far too long, issues that had been threatening us and the world we lived in. Later of course, we came to see how naïve these notions really were. We were doing little more than unravelling a coiled rope, without any idea what sort of monster was leashed to the other end of it.

    During the pandemic I continued to use my office for appointments, for consistency’s sake. All my sessions with patients were done remotely, using video conferencing. Of course, it’s not ideal. There’s a level of intimacy essential to psychotherapy, a bond that develops between practitioner and patient that simply cannot be adequately replicated through a computer screen. But, thus were the limitations that were forced upon us at the time.

    Bartell was 38 years old, American born, male, white, well educated and articulate. He was working in logistics for a large international retailer and pulling down six figures a year. He demonstrated all the external appearances of mobility and success. Indeed, just before the lockdown, he had earned an important promotion at work, winning the job over a number of other candidates, many of whom were more experienced. Some of them had been with the company much longer than he had. His new position lent itself perfectly to working from home, so the transition at the start of the lockdown was not a transition for him at all. He was already performing most of his duties remotely, and quite effectively so.

    “You seem to be very successful professionally,” I said. “Success at that level can sometimes come at quite a cost.”

    “Yes,” he agreed. “I’ve worked hard to get where I am. But I’m also aware of my privilege. I know that I have the right skin color, that I’m the right sex, the right religion, and I come from the right socio-economic class. I’m well aware that the playing field isn’t fair for all. And that’s why it’s important that I use my position to address some of the systemic inequalities that many of my colleagues experience. In my time with the company, I’ve spearheaded a number of initiatives to promote equity within the corporate structure. I want the workplace to be better for everyone.” 

    I smiled and waited for him to continue. But he didn’t. We looked at each other’s images on our computer screens, and after a moment, I said, “but there’s a problem.”

    He nodded, and a deeply troubled expression came into his eyes. “Yes,” he said slowly. “There’s a problem.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “It started about three months ago. I always log into my computer early in the mornings,” he explained, “usually well before the rest of the corporate staff.

    “I like to start my day by reviewing my previous day’s work, as a sort of quality control. Recently I began to notice some errors. At first, they were simple mistakes, easily corrected and generally innocuous: spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, things that could be easily fixed. But then the mistakes got worse, more potentially damaging.

    “One morning I found that I had miscalculated an amount owing on a transportation contract. If I hadn’t caught it, it could have cost the company millions. It was a mistake even a novice would not have made, and yet I had made it. It was almost as if,” here he paused again, as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “It was almost as if I had made the mistake on purpose, that I was deliberately trying to sabotage myself, to see if I would catch the mistake before it was uploaded to the main server. But I had no recollection of entering the data in the first place.”

    There was obviously more to this story. I sensed this was not simply a case of sloppy accounting on his part. We all make mistakes of course, sometimes even costly ones, especially when we’re under stress or over-tired, or when the work we’re doing becomes mundane or tedious. But in some cases, there can be deeper psychological causes, occasionally even pathological ones.

    “And then things got worse,” he said, looking down at his hands in his lap. “Much worse. I did something that truly frightened me. I can’t even call it a mistake. It was so obviously intentional. It was a sick joke, a blatant attempt at career suicide.”

    He began typing keys on his laptop. “I’d like to read you something,” he said. “I send weekly emails to my boss, in which I update him on key points in my portfolio. I put this information in bullet point form, usually addressing around ten to twelve issues per email. Some of it is highly sensitive and the emails are cc’d to the department heads as well as to the Chief Operating Officer, but they’re primarily directed to my boss. One morning I was about to send an email that I had prepared the day before, and I was reading it over one last time before pressing Send. This is what I wrote.”

    I watched as his eyes scanned a document that he was looking at on his computer screen, and when he found the passage he had been looking for, he read it to me:

Point 7 Re: Your Mother. By now I’m sure you’re aware of the pictures of your mother that have been officially circulating throughout the company. I am particularly fond of the ones in which she is wearing nothing but rubber boots and a smile. Although the ones that feature her with various farm animals are also quite flattering. I congratulate your mother on her muscular, albeit quite hairy thighs. She’s in remarkable shape for a woman of her age, although I would recommend that she wear a brazier in future photo-shoots for a number of reasons, which we can go into in more detail at our next general staff meeting.

    “And then there’s this one,” he said, scanning further ahead in the document.

    Point 11 Re: Latest Policy Directive: I will advise Communications to instruct all floor managers that beginning June 1, your new title will be, His Lord High and Mighty King Dufus Windbag the Third, and that all staff are expected to genuflect whenever your name is mentioned. Anyone failing to comply with this directive will be subject to reprimand, up to and including a damned good spanking.

    Bartell looked up at me again, tears in his eyes. “My God,” he said. “I was about to send this to my boss and the senior directors. I have absolutely no memory of writing this. Why would I do so? Why would I risk everything I’ve worked so hard to accomplish? It’s as if I have a split personality, an evil, psychotic twin living inside me. You have to help me doctor. Before I completely destroy my life.”

    I found Bartell’s case fascinating. He was clearly distressed and I acknowledged the anguish that this situation was causing him. But I also commended him for having the courage to confront it and to seek help. I agreed that if this behavior went unaddressed, it could very well escalate into even more self-destructive acts.  His behavior, I felt was indicative of long repressed rage toward authority figures, likely years in the making, possibly stemming from early childhood.

    But I was optimistic too. I assured him that with a good deal of intensive work, I believed we could, together, unravel this mystery. After all I told him, he did not present as typical Split Personality Disorder, and I didn’t believe that he was psychotic. He was coherent and lucid and appeared to have had no previous history of this behavior prior to his recent promotion.   

    “I find it particularly interesting,” I told him, “that despite your subconscious attempts at professional suicide, as you call it, you nonetheless ensure an eleventh-hour reprieve. You review your work every morning. It’s as if you want to take a monumental risk, and yet also save yourself at the last minute. You put your life in danger, and then become your own savior.”

    “Doctor,” he said. “I’ll do anything. I can’t go on like this.” His voice was breaking with emotion. Then he slammed his hand on his desk decisively. “I will not go on like this. I will not destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to create.” Then he leaned in closer to his camera, his face taking up my whole computer screen. “Tell me what I have to do.”

    “Well,” I said. “Just to be sure, we’ll need to first eliminate physiological causes, although I do not believe we’ll find any.” I referred him for an MRI and complete blood work. “In the meantime,” I said, “I think we should get started right away. I suggest five one-hour psychotherapeutic sessions per week.”

    “Absolutely, doctor,” he said. “I’ll rearrange my schedule as needed. I’m at your disposal.”

    So, that’s how our psychotherapy began. I met Bartell five days a week, for fifty-minute sessions, and also made myself available to him in case of emergency. He could call me at any time around the clock. Of course, all of our sessions were held virtually, neither of us having to leave the very room where we met on that first day.

    That was last March, and here we are, one year in. We’re still in the pandemic, and Bartell and I are still in therapy. He continues to work for the same employer. He has not only avoided dismissal, but is in fact in line for another promotion, when the vice president of the company retires in the coming months. There were some close calls in the last year, however. He nearly sent photo-shopped images of himself in a very compromising position with a Dalmatian and two Great Danes. But at the last minute he was miraculously able to stop the pictures, which he had no memory of creating, from being broadcast across the company’s entire email system. This near-miss only served to motivate him even further to invest in his treatment. Indeed, he has been a cooperative and eager participant in our sessions. He has never missed an appointment and has followed through with all the recommendations I’ve suggested. I’m quite hopeful and I tell him so frequently.

    But there is one thing I haven’t told him. And I never will. We’re progressing well, and I wouldn’t want to jeopardize his treatment. I do not want to risk losing Bartell as a patient. The revenue from his therapy after all, has enabled my wife and I to put a down payment on a winter home in the Florida Keys, which we plan to move into this coming Christmas. The secret I’m keeping from him? Well, that’s the best part. You see, my lovely wife Christine is head of the IT department where Bartell works. She has complete access to everyone’s personal records, emails and all correspondence. That’s something I wouldn’t want to let slip.