Should we let someone else define the nature of who we are just because they have a degree in psychology?
By Susan Creamer Joy - Wednesday 19 Oct 2011
Nineteen years ago when my eldest child was ten, his basketball coach recognized certain impulsive behavioral characteristics in him which were consistent with those of his own son who had recently been diagnosed with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder.
Being a very compassionate man, the coach suggested to us that we take our son to see a therapist within a specialized group of psychiatrists and psychologists in a neighboring town. Since we would do anything to improve the life of our only son and eldest child, we eagerly complied.
However, the upshot of this was not something I was prepared for after discovering that, whether by default or out of some criteria need to identify the source, somehow I ended up heavily implicated as the sole contributor to his genetic misfortune – thus adding yet another square of maternal guilt to the substantially dense guilt-quilt I was inadvertently stitching.
But I could not deny it. I owned that large, quilted square of missed appointments, lost articles and unfinished projects – especially that painting I began with the small white stars and purple skies – well, not actually purple but more of a soft lilac color with little rings of gold that were offset by splashes of crimson red but not the bright shade that you see on fire trucks although some fire trucks are a deeper shade of red than others but at least the firemen are distinguishable by their odd hats which does make one wonder if they have to cover the cost of those hats themselves or do they get them when they graduate from Fireman School although I doubt they actually call it “Fireman School” but ….oh!… Look at that bird!
Did I mention the background was teal?
The first question the doctor posed to my husband and I was, “Which one of YOU has A.D.D.?”
He first looked at my husband who had on his lap the requisite index cards he is never without listing all of his upcoming appointments and pressing engagements, phone calls he needs to make, items to be picked up at the grocery store, bills to be paid, as well as his datebook, tutoring schedule and his teacher’s lesson planner. His shoes were shined and his attention was sharp.
I didn’t immediately notice that the focus had shifted to me having moments earlier become quite captivated by a painting above the sofa in the office as I was bending down to tie my shoes after realizing I had earlier forgotten to do so.
The painting had such a peaceful cast to it that I must have drifted off and was soon wondering how many of his patients had lain there to reveal their most disturbing dreams and sorrows and how many various textures of both skin and material have surely made contact with that fabric and did they have enough of a satisfactory vantage point while reclining to actually benefit from the tranquil nature of that beautiful painting or were they probably in so much emotional pain that their eyes were shuttered from all visual forms of consolation or possibly too tired to speak anyhow which would truly defeat the purpose of all the money they were shelling out to visit a shrink who must make a lot of money and I wonder if he loves his wife but –.Oh!….Look at that bird!
The following Tuesday evening, after having been unanimously fingered as both the culprit in this hereditary misfiring as well as possibly in need of a healthy dose of behavioral modification, too, I found myself sitting among a circle of eight women in the paneled basement of a therapist’s house.
I was not happy.
Since I was new to the group, the therapist suggested we go around the room having everyone introduce themselves to me by giving a brief statement as to why they were each there.
The woman on my immediate left launched the exercise. She was a frail slip of female about 32 years old, her narrow face shrouded by thin wisps of brittle, auburn hair and a countenance so passive I felt almost as though I could pass my hand right through her spectral bones. Speaking inaudibly into her lap she said that she was there for an eating disorder, which apparently manifested after being denied dance lessons by her step mother when she was seven. She lived alone, was thinking of getting a cat and had been coming to this group for eight years.
By visual contrast only came the next contributor, a matronly woman in her mid-sixties who described – through sobs that bordered on keening – the suffering she endured in her 39 year marriage to a man with a large appetite for other woman yet little regard for she who bore his children, cooked his meals, picked up his laundry at the cleaners and tended to all of his most basic “God damned” needs. Her tenure in the group exceeded a decade.
The introductions droned on for thirty minutes more although it did not take long before I became aware of two things:
1. Without exception not one of these women acknowledged or inserted any sense of ownership for the state of their present situations but rather behaved like hapless and helpless human refuse washed upon the shore of dire circumstance by an indifferent tide.
2. The sheer number of years they had independently and collectively devoted to this indulgent whimpering was unnerving but even more startling was the realization that no one seemed to have any desire to leave.
By the time it was my turn, I managed only to state my name, that I had three children and that I was married before the therapist forcefully interjected, “But she shouldn’t be!”
I was momentarily speechless. By what power and authority did this woman have to decide under what circumstances I should best be living my life and then to share her myopic conception of my choices with an entire group of carping strangers? No wonder the tenure of this codependent klatch of sniveling womb-clutchers was so radically overextended! She had assumed authority over their lives and they willingly capitulated. I was the reluctant guest at a pity party hosted by an exploitive therapist, catered by psychobabble, serving homemade platters of victimization and cool estrogen punch spiked with fresh tears every Tuesday evening at 7 p.m..
This prompted me to address those gathered and ask, “Is anyone ever encouraged to graduate from this group?”
For a moment there was silence until the focus was purposely shifted to the domestic keener who had yet to stop blubbering and whose hubby was probably out getting laid at that very moment, only at this point he had my utter sympathy.
When did we go from taking pride in and control of our own lives and our uniqueness to such spineless lemmings all too eager to be assigned a label and informed that how we are wired is “a problem” and in need of psychological correction? When did discontentbecome an abnormality, anger become a pathology and cautionbecome a phobia? How come disorganization is now a disorder and why do so many human emotions, responses and innate fallibilities suddenly require therapeutic expression and pharmaceutical suppression? Most of all, why do we feel we need someone else to tell us who we are and whether that is acceptable?
After much consideration, I opt for the belief that the best change agent we can hire is ourselves, and while I don’t argue the fact that, of course, there are legitimate disorders, dysfunctions, pathologies and phobias that require professional assistance to manage and/or conquer, there are equally as many, if not more, challenging mental and emotional states and passages that can be navigated with some candid introspection, common sense, a little support and a bit of moxie.
I will always grapple with Attention Deficit Disorder. My mind still wanders incessantly, which I sometimes find to be a nuisance but I don’t think of as a hinderance. Most of the time my meandering brain takes me to shores of thought on divergent currents I never would have discovered were it not in my natural wiring to follow them. Cerebral multitasking has many benefits: I think of stories to write while on the elliptical, paintings to paint while vacuuming and all manner of things to build, design and concoct while driving the car, preparing a meal or just standing in the shower.
So what if I forget to shampoo my hair and burn the occasional chicken?
My goal is to gather all the random blossoms of miraculous and creative grace, distill their essence by the process called me then share the harvest with whomever is inclined to sit under my unwieldy tree no matter the reason or the season.
Although it could get a little chilly in the fall and I wouldn’t suggest a visit in winter because the snowfall index has been quite high the past couple of years but on the other hand fall would be fine if you wore a sweater which reminds me of the one I wore to the Fourth of July fireworks at Winged Foot Golf Club when I was six because it was white with these tiny mother of pearl buttons and it just amazes me how they get those pearls from those oysters although oysters look so much like clams which is fine because I loved going clam digging in summer as a kid by Shinnecock Bay in Quogue and did you know that quogue means clam in the language of the Shinnecock Indians and…..oh!…..Look at that bird!
Being a very compassionate man, the coach suggested to us that we take our son to see a therapist within a specialized group of psychiatrists and psychologists in a neighboring town. Since we would do anything to improve the life of our only son and eldest child, we eagerly complied.
However, the upshot of this was not something I was prepared for after discovering that, whether by default or out of some criteria need to identify the source, somehow I ended up heavily implicated as the sole contributor to his genetic misfortune – thus adding yet another square of maternal guilt to the substantially dense guilt-quilt I was inadvertently stitching.
But I could not deny it. I owned that large, quilted square of missed appointments, lost articles and unfinished projects – especially that painting I began with the small white stars and purple skies – well, not actually purple but more of a soft lilac color with little rings of gold that were offset by splashes of crimson red but not the bright shade that you see on fire trucks although some fire trucks are a deeper shade of red than others but at least the firemen are distinguishable by their odd hats which does make one wonder if they have to cover the cost of those hats themselves or do they get them when they graduate from Fireman School although I doubt they actually call it “Fireman School” but ….oh!… Look at that bird!
Did I mention the background was teal?
The first question the doctor posed to my husband and I was, “Which one of YOU has A.D.D.?”
He first looked at my husband who had on his lap the requisite index cards he is never without listing all of his upcoming appointments and pressing engagements, phone calls he needs to make, items to be picked up at the grocery store, bills to be paid, as well as his datebook, tutoring schedule and his teacher’s lesson planner. His shoes were shined and his attention was sharp.
I didn’t immediately notice that the focus had shifted to me having moments earlier become quite captivated by a painting above the sofa in the office as I was bending down to tie my shoes after realizing I had earlier forgotten to do so.
The painting had such a peaceful cast to it that I must have drifted off and was soon wondering how many of his patients had lain there to reveal their most disturbing dreams and sorrows and how many various textures of both skin and material have surely made contact with that fabric and did they have enough of a satisfactory vantage point while reclining to actually benefit from the tranquil nature of that beautiful painting or were they probably in so much emotional pain that their eyes were shuttered from all visual forms of consolation or possibly too tired to speak anyhow which would truly defeat the purpose of all the money they were shelling out to visit a shrink who must make a lot of money and I wonder if he loves his wife but –.Oh!….Look at that bird!
The following Tuesday evening, after having been unanimously fingered as both the culprit in this hereditary misfiring as well as possibly in need of a healthy dose of behavioral modification, too, I found myself sitting among a circle of eight women in the paneled basement of a therapist’s house.
I was not happy.
Since I was new to the group, the therapist suggested we go around the room having everyone introduce themselves to me by giving a brief statement as to why they were each there.
The woman on my immediate left launched the exercise. She was a frail slip of female about 32 years old, her narrow face shrouded by thin wisps of brittle, auburn hair and a countenance so passive I felt almost as though I could pass my hand right through her spectral bones. Speaking inaudibly into her lap she said that she was there for an eating disorder, which apparently manifested after being denied dance lessons by her step mother when she was seven. She lived alone, was thinking of getting a cat and had been coming to this group for eight years.
By visual contrast only came the next contributor, a matronly woman in her mid-sixties who described – through sobs that bordered on keening – the suffering she endured in her 39 year marriage to a man with a large appetite for other woman yet little regard for she who bore his children, cooked his meals, picked up his laundry at the cleaners and tended to all of his most basic “God damned” needs. Her tenure in the group exceeded a decade.
The introductions droned on for thirty minutes more although it did not take long before I became aware of two things:
1. Without exception not one of these women acknowledged or inserted any sense of ownership for the state of their present situations but rather behaved like hapless and helpless human refuse washed upon the shore of dire circumstance by an indifferent tide.
2. The sheer number of years they had independently and collectively devoted to this indulgent whimpering was unnerving but even more startling was the realization that no one seemed to have any desire to leave.
By the time it was my turn, I managed only to state my name, that I had three children and that I was married before the therapist forcefully interjected, “But she shouldn’t be!”
I was momentarily speechless. By what power and authority did this woman have to decide under what circumstances I should best be living my life and then to share her myopic conception of my choices with an entire group of carping strangers? No wonder the tenure of this codependent klatch of sniveling womb-clutchers was so radically overextended! She had assumed authority over their lives and they willingly capitulated. I was the reluctant guest at a pity party hosted by an exploitive therapist, catered by psychobabble, serving homemade platters of victimization and cool estrogen punch spiked with fresh tears every Tuesday evening at 7 p.m..
This prompted me to address those gathered and ask, “Is anyone ever encouraged to graduate from this group?”
For a moment there was silence until the focus was purposely shifted to the domestic keener who had yet to stop blubbering and whose hubby was probably out getting laid at that very moment, only at this point he had my utter sympathy.
When did we go from taking pride in and control of our own lives and our uniqueness to such spineless lemmings all too eager to be assigned a label and informed that how we are wired is “a problem” and in need of psychological correction? When did discontentbecome an abnormality, anger become a pathology and cautionbecome a phobia? How come disorganization is now a disorder and why do so many human emotions, responses and innate fallibilities suddenly require therapeutic expression and pharmaceutical suppression? Most of all, why do we feel we need someone else to tell us who we are and whether that is acceptable?
After much consideration, I opt for the belief that the best change agent we can hire is ourselves, and while I don’t argue the fact that, of course, there are legitimate disorders, dysfunctions, pathologies and phobias that require professional assistance to manage and/or conquer, there are equally as many, if not more, challenging mental and emotional states and passages that can be navigated with some candid introspection, common sense, a little support and a bit of moxie.
I will always grapple with Attention Deficit Disorder. My mind still wanders incessantly, which I sometimes find to be a nuisance but I don’t think of as a hinderance. Most of the time my meandering brain takes me to shores of thought on divergent currents I never would have discovered were it not in my natural wiring to follow them. Cerebral multitasking has many benefits: I think of stories to write while on the elliptical, paintings to paint while vacuuming and all manner of things to build, design and concoct while driving the car, preparing a meal or just standing in the shower.
So what if I forget to shampoo my hair and burn the occasional chicken?
My goal is to gather all the random blossoms of miraculous and creative grace, distill their essence by the process called me then share the harvest with whomever is inclined to sit under my unwieldy tree no matter the reason or the season.
Although it could get a little chilly in the fall and I wouldn’t suggest a visit in winter because the snowfall index has been quite high the past couple of years but on the other hand fall would be fine if you wore a sweater which reminds me of the one I wore to the Fourth of July fireworks at Winged Foot Golf Club when I was six because it was white with these tiny mother of pearl buttons and it just amazes me how they get those pearls from those oysters although oysters look so much like clams which is fine because I loved going clam digging in summer as a kid by Shinnecock Bay in Quogue and did you know that quogue means clam in the language of the Shinnecock Indians and…..oh!…..Look at that bird!