by Lorrie Goldin, LCSW

I recently listened to back-to-back episodes of This American Life. “Ten Sessions" is about a young woman dealing with the trauma of being sexually assaulted at age 13 after decades of never talking about it, even during years of traditional therapy. Finally, with the help of a psychologist specializing in Cognitive Processing Therapy, she makes significant and lasting progress in just 10 sessions.

The other story, “What You Don’t Know”, is the basis of Lulu Wang’s recently released film, The Farewell. It’s about her Chinese family’s decision to keep secret a terminal cancer diagnosis from a beloved elder, and the pretend wedding celebration they concoct as a way to gather under the pretext of a joyous occasion to say goodbye.

“Ten Sessions,” apart from evoking qualms about the inefficiency of long-term therapy, at least had recognizable elements: helping clients identify and overcome their pathogenic beliefs and patterns of stuckness, rewriting narratives, a relationship based on warmth, authenticity, encouragement, and humor. And above all, a belief that squarely facing what’s painful is crucial for healing.

“What You Don’t Know” runs counter to this belief. A former suitemate of mine had a wall-hanging of Freud’s famous adage, “The truth will set you free,” with the added line, “But first it will make you miserable.” Wang’s story persuasively advocates side-stepping that misery by side-stepping the truth.

I remember a conversation with a colleague whose father had terminal cancer. She was angry and baffled that no one in the family besides her wanted to process his impending death. It wasn’t exactly a secret the way it was in Wang’s family; it’s just that others, including the dying man, couldn’t see the point of talking about it. This struck my colleague as pathological denial. The American-born Wang initially felt the same way about her family’s decision to pretend death away, then grew to appreciate it. I recommended her story to my colleague. It helped soften her internal (and her family’s) strife.

A scuba-diving friend once explained his sport to me: “You have to be in both deep and shallow waters. They’re both important, both offering different things. The danger comes not from being in one or the other, but from not knowing how to safely transition between them.”

I’ve held this as a metaphor for therapy ever since. It speaks to the importance of helping our clients navigate different zones--delving into painful realities, but also knowing how to move away from them.