by Nicholas Hack, Psy.D.

THE DANCE

We’re in a dance, you and I, and I’m slow to learn the steps.

My first mistake was thinking we’d both want harmony. I’d come to the dance assuming we’d seek a rhythm, that we’d strive to sync up. I knew we’d stumble and step on each other, but I thought we’d share the goal of working well together. My thinking was limited.

I move towards you, reaching to make contact, but you behave like an electron, blinking out of existence in one place and then reappearing somewhere else. The dance is fragmented. There’s no Step A, Step B, Step C. Instead, it’s Step 5, Step A, Step %. 

“Here’s the work,” I think, and I describe what I see, wondering about what happened right-here, right-now. You smile and nod—that’s right, that’s right, so insightful—but I realize, slowly, that I’m interacting with a hologram—a more real “you” has disappeared again. 

Initially, I’m frustrated. I mistakenly think of your movements as intentional, and I feel subject to them. Gradually, I realize, you’re the one who’s subject to this way of living. This isn’t resistance. You’re showing me the only way you know to tolerate closeness.

I learn that my job is to follow, to be available wherever you go. But I have to be careful. I can’t chase you—that would echo the desperation for togetherness you both feel and fear—but I’m also absolutely not supposed to lead. 

At times you do want contact—aggressive, rageful contact—but I’m in the bad habit of dodging you. Sometimes I duck through empathy—“Oh, you’re swinging your fist at me, you must be angry”—but that leaves you worse off than before. Not only did I leave you alone with the hateful feeling, I didn’t let you reach me through the only means you know. I’m reminded of a child who wanted to tackle me over and over again. The desire for touch, for affection, couldn't be experienced by itself. It had to be safeguarded in the armor of aggression. Again, I slowly realize: These are the moments when you’re genuinely taking a risk, and I need to meet your offering with my own. 

The next time you throw yourself at me, I take the blow. Your eyes go wide. I think you’re surprised we’ve made real contact. “That,” I say, “was a big hit.” I don’t retaliate. I don’t avoid. If you need me to be available, then I will be available to all of you. 

Something shifts. The dance is the same, but when you offer your anger and I receive it, I think I see curiosity in your eyes. You jab at me, but it feels different, like a test to see if I’m still here. 

We’re in a dance, you and I, and I’m slow to learn the steps. But I am still here.