Welcoming a new client into my office for our second appointment, he smiled at me brightly and then shot out, “What’s with your handshake?”
“I’m sorry- what??”
“Last time you shook my hand it was very strange. I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Really- what does that mean?” I respond, slightly alarmed.
“It was so weak.” he says, incredulous.
“Wow. That’s surprising. I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I did,” I stammer as I find my way to my chair. Weak is not a word I’ve heard or thought to use describing me, so I was a bit rattled. But this time wasn’t about me, so I shifted my focus back to him and asked what he wanted from our time together.
We abandoned the handshake- spent the next 50 minutes exploring other concerns and completed our session. On the way out, he reached for my hand again and immediately belted out, “You’re doing it again!” I was very confused, so he proceeded to deconstruct what I was doing with my hand. Apparently, I was shaking his hand the way one might pick up a small piece of ice, with fingers perched, offering only the slightest skin-to skin contact. In the past I’ve been aware of nearly crushing people’s hands when shaking. I was aware of not wanting to do that anymore but was unaware of the new adaptation. He instructed me on what a handshake is supposed to be and I’m shocked by the intimacy of it- his entire hand pressed into mine. Yikes- this is what other people do with strangers all day long? I’m truly shaking my head about this.
You might be thinking this was just another “nothing-moment”, but I don’t look a it that way. In my life, there are no nothing moments. Every second is ripe with energy and information that, if interested, we can learn and grow so much from. This client had taken that brief gesture and spent his personal time away from our session in his own life, thinking about it. What makes us humans do that? What did he make it mean- about me, about him? Fortunately, in the therapy setting, it’s appropriate and possible to explore these previously unexamined inner storylines- and in future sessions, we may return to it. But in the rest of life, we don’t spend much time finding out what words and gestures actually mean inside ourselves or others. We filter events through the familiar lens with which we habitually view the world, and we believe our own minds, regardless of how painful and untrue those stories may be.
As a person who is always looking for broader meaning in life, I asked myself just now, “What makes me shake hands like I’m bracing to transfer ice?” What makes me prioritize my separateness, my inter-personal boundary with such rigidness it shocks people?
When I think about it, I know. My whole life, I’ve needed to rely exclusively on myself. It was my only way to stay safe. Having money, my parents provided for me adequately, perhaps even excessively, in a material way. But in terms of emotional needs, I was on my own. My mother, a psychiatrist whose unspoken motto was, “Fuck your feelings.”- she was not there for that. And even though she was usually scary- verbally, emotionally and physically abusive, I still remember the last moment I let myself need her, or anyone. I was a young kid with the flu- in bed, feeling horrible. My mom burst into my room looking for empty glasses to take to the kitchen, and in a moment of weakness, I asked her if I could have a hug because I felt so sick and sad. Her response was, “Oh Jennifer, you’re regressing.” In disgusted exasperation she added, “You know where the medicine box is.”, and walked out.
I remember the emptiness I felt and the burning humiliation of asking for something as pathetic as a hug from this person I normally hated but also really needed. It was probably then that my handshake was cellularly constructed. I will either crush your hand so that you know I don’t need you and you can’t hurt me- or I will be so distant, you can’t even begin to touch me.
These days, there’s no room in my life for sickness. I have not had a cold in years because I avoid that possibility obsessively. I wash my hands constantly, touch no public surfaces, and avoid breathing anywhere someone could possibly be sick. Hearing those practices, one might think I’m suffering from some type of OCD behavioral compulsion, but what it actually represents is just my survival strategy of needing no one. If I were sick, I would be vulnerable. And so I’m wary of hands.
Our lives are constructed from the countless experiences we’ve had which color our present in ways we cannot even fathom. But when we’re open and willing to look at our patterns with curiosity and compassion, we are no longer slaves to those habitually unacknowledged fears. We can take the stories of our difficult pasts and create new, empowering narratives that reflect a bigger picture, a deeper truth. And every circumstance, every person we meet affords an opportunity to reframe the meaning we assign to life’s “nothing moments”.