Working with Brianna was trying.  Now she was pregnant with a baby that belonged to a stranger.  Literally.  She never found out who the father was.  She didn’t know his name or a way to get in touch with him.  A distant carnal memory.

She wanted to discuss her options.  Up to this point, she was a surface client.  Very guarded.  She never allowed me to be deeply therapeutic with her- it was part of the defense mechanisms she’d learned surviving.  The pregnancy changed that.  

We sat down, ordered biscuits (she always wanted to try a particular place) and talked about options.

“I want to give the baby up for adoption.”  She was teary eyed, avoiding eye contact.  Ashamed.  Shame because of the idea.  Shame because she was emotional.

“Okay…what are you thinking?”  Open-ended questions are always a good approach.

“I…I don’t want it to end up like me.”

I didn’t know how to respond to the statement.  On one hand, I wanted to comfort her and provide positive regard.  On the other, she was showing great insight.  She understood her child had a better chance with better circumstances. 

She continued. “I know I’m fucked up, Vic.  My bitch mom shit all over my life.  She tried to burn me…she fucking pimped me out for crack…my child needs better…

I sighed, nodded, “Okay… we need to figure out what the process is.”

We sat, in silence, eating our breakfast.  We observed the traffic of customers come in and out.  I finished.  I drank coffee while she ate.  She spoke to break the tension.

“This shit is good as hell, Vic.”

I laughed.  “Yes, it is.”