A family member enraged me today. She is not a blood relative. Her intent was to give me professional advice regarding my mother. In fact, she stipulated that she was writing as a professional and not as a family member. I would have preferred to hear from a family member.
It was unsolicited advice and most unwelcome. Although I'm sure she would disagree, her letter seemed heartless and condescending. She attempted to convince me to stop calling my mother in the Memory Unit, but she failed to make a persuasive or a cohesive case for her position.
I called my mother tonight.
In defiance?
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Two Mothers
I have two Mothers.
My pre- and post-Alzheimer's Mother.
My pre-Alzheimer's Mother could not be a Mother.
She never seemed to love me. She never seemed to care.
My post-Alzheimer's Mother needs me. I think she loves me.
I feel closer to my post-Alzheimer's Mother.
I no longer feel like a Motherless child.
My pre- and post-Alzheimer's Mother.
My pre-Alzheimer's Mother could not be a Mother.
She never seemed to love me. She never seemed to care.
My post-Alzheimer's Mother needs me. I think she loves me.
I feel closer to my post-Alzheimer's Mother.
I no longer feel like a Motherless child.
Are my two Mothers the
same Mother?
Who's the Mother now?
Who's the Mother now?
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Why Is She Moving?
I just spoke to Vedette, the aide who has been living with my mother. She asked me, "Why are they moving your mother?"
I didn't have an answer.
I didn't have an answer.
My Mother's Legacy
Although it was a bit late, I decided to call my mother last night. "I have nothing new to tell you. Everything's okay here. No news is good news. It's the same old story", my mother said. "It's a good story, Ma. Nothing is new here either. I'll call you in the morning. I love you. Good night, Ma", I replied. "I love you, too, dear", she answered in turn. I hated to hang up the phone. I was so happy to hear her sounding so calm since she has been so miserable and frightened for the past week and more. I'm sure she had no idea my heart was breaking. She didn't know what I knew.
Before speaking with her, my brother had called to tell me that her move to the Memory Unit is scheduled for today.
During that earlier conversation, my brother and I seemed to be speaking at each other rather than with each other. He was focused on the logistics of the move. I wanted to talk about our feelings. Against my better judgement, I warily tacked into uncharted waters. I had been thinking about something odd, and wanted his opinion. My mother has had no trouble recalling my name, his name, or my step-sister's name (someone she rarely sees). Perhaps she kept forgetting my step-father's name, and sometimes his very existence, because she was enraged at what she perceived as his abandonment of her.
I hoped he would give some thought to my idea. However, my brother summarily rejected my hypothesis and, moreover, my "psychoanalytic take on things". Feeling wounded, my reply was instantaneous and rather bitter. I heard myself reacting the same way my mother used to react to me when I had said something with which she didn't agree. "End of conversation", I said. But I regrouped and tried to salvage our tenuous connection. The rest of our talk revolved around a less controversial subject, my niece, the heart of my brother's life. The call ended pleasantly enough. My mother's legacy is not destined for the Memory Unit.
Before speaking with her, my brother had called to tell me that her move to the Memory Unit is scheduled for today.
During that earlier conversation, my brother and I seemed to be speaking at each other rather than with each other. He was focused on the logistics of the move. I wanted to talk about our feelings. Against my better judgement, I warily tacked into uncharted waters. I had been thinking about something odd, and wanted his opinion. My mother has had no trouble recalling my name, his name, or my step-sister's name (someone she rarely sees). Perhaps she kept forgetting my step-father's name, and sometimes his very existence, because she was enraged at what she perceived as his abandonment of her.
I hoped he would give some thought to my idea. However, my brother summarily rejected my hypothesis and, moreover, my "psychoanalytic take on things". Feeling wounded, my reply was instantaneous and rather bitter. I heard myself reacting the same way my mother used to react to me when I had said something with which she didn't agree. "End of conversation", I said. But I regrouped and tried to salvage our tenuous connection. The rest of our talk revolved around a less controversial subject, my niece, the heart of my brother's life. The call ended pleasantly enough. My mother's legacy is not destined for the Memory Unit.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Letting Go
I came across a poem written by the daughter of a mother with advanced Alzheimer's. My mother has not yet let go. And therein lies some of her pain. And some of mine. This is so complicated. So hard. I'm at a loss for more words at the moment. Memory Unit Moving Day is fast approaching.
by
Judith Scott
I tried to imagine how you felt
Incredibly frightened, yes, but
Also
So bitterly angry and frustrated
By the things you couldn't do,
That just - WOULDN'T - be done
No matter how hard you tried.
The words that wouldn't come
When you so wanted to put a
Good face on things
The way your mind let you down
And forgot what you were doing
Where you were going
And why.
That anger spilled over into everything
And blazed out against everyone.
I did understand, and grieved that
There was so little I could do:
You fought me as if I was the devil himself,
Accused me, abused me, rejected me
When I tried to help.
I knew it was the disease you hated,
Not me. The doctors said it would be easier
When you stopped fighting it, so
I prayed for that day to come,
But I didn't realise how it would be -
Not easy at all - to see you finally accept
Defeat and give in. And I didn't know
how I would weep, to see you,
Letting go.
by
Judith Scott
I tried to imagine how you felt
Incredibly frightened, yes, but
Also
So bitterly angry and frustrated
By the things you couldn't do,
That just - WOULDN'T - be done
No matter how hard you tried.
The words that wouldn't come
When you so wanted to put a
Good face on things
The way your mind let you down
And forgot what you were doing
Where you were going
And why.
That anger spilled over into everything
And blazed out against everyone.
I did understand, and grieved that
There was so little I could do:
You fought me as if I was the devil himself,
Accused me, abused me, rejected me
When I tried to help.
I knew it was the disease you hated,
Not me. The doctors said it would be easier
When you stopped fighting it, so
I prayed for that day to come,
But I didn't realise how it would be -
Not easy at all - to see you finally accept
Defeat and give in. And I didn't know
how I would weep, to see you,
Letting go.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Death of a Family
I've been trying to remember to call my mother at least four times a day since my step-father has been hospitalized. I think she forgets that I have called within a minute or so, but I persist in calling. However, when I called yesterday afternoon, another familiar voice greeted my "Hello". It was My Little Brother. He had come not just to visit her, but for a tour of The Memory Unit, and in particular, the room that my mother will occupy in a few days. He seem positively delighted to hear my voice, and he spoke with a lilt and also some relief. Big Sister was on the line. The Big Sister he had depended on when we were children.
Me and My Little Brother - Happy Days
He's not generally this happy to hear from me. We don't speak that often. But the current health crisis precipitated by my step-father's stroke and my mother's precipitous decline into a deeper dementia have brought us together again. Yet, although we are both adults, having lived many decades apart since our youth, we are still, sometimes, Big Sister and Little Brother. I was literally the Big Sister until he suddenly shot up past me like Jack's Beanstalk to nearly six feet. I can't remember when that happened. Like so many things.
For years, I have tried to understand the affect my father's death had on me. It's only since I've entered psychoanalysis that I've begun to get a fuzzy understanding of how his death might have affected my brother. We hardly talk about "Daddy" at all. I'd like to, but I think it's too painful for him. Or maybe, he just doesn't want to talk to me about it. You see, I believe my Little Brother has been angry at me all these years. I let him down, and I wasn't aware of it. There's nothing I could have changed, but my father's death resulted in an unexpected casualty - the death of our family.
He's not generally this happy to hear from me. We don't speak that often. But the current health crisis precipitated by my step-father's stroke and my mother's precipitous decline into a deeper dementia have brought us together again. Yet, although we are both adults, having lived many decades apart since our youth, we are still, sometimes, Big Sister and Little Brother. I was literally the Big Sister until he suddenly shot up past me like Jack's Beanstalk to nearly six feet. I can't remember when that happened. Like so many things.
For years, I have tried to understand the affect my father's death had on me. It's only since I've entered psychoanalysis that I've begun to get a fuzzy understanding of how his death might have affected my brother. We hardly talk about "Daddy" at all. I'd like to, but I think it's too painful for him. Or maybe, he just doesn't want to talk to me about it. You see, I believe my Little Brother has been angry at me all these years. I let him down, and I wasn't aware of it. There's nothing I could have changed, but my father's death resulted in an unexpected casualty - the death of our family.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
My Authentic Mother (Part 2)
"You know I've never asked for anything before, but I've never felt this bad. I need you to come here", my mother said. She called me at seven o'clock this morning. I told her, "I know you've never asked for anything before, and I understand how bad you feel. I'm so sorry. I understand. I wish I could help you. I will do everything I can do to help you."
Yet I was thinking as I tried to comfort her: "I can't count the times that I've needed you, that I needed your comfort, that I hoped that you would say, 'I understand how bad you feel, and I love you'. You were never there for me. You pretended I didn't exist. You couldn't cope with an imperfect unhappy daughter. You abruptly ended phone conversations when I even hinted that things might not be fine. You left me alone to fend for myself, and I did."
I am angry at my mother. Yet, I cannot abandon her. I want to help her. I want to be with her. I want her to know I love her.
My Mother and Me (circa 1951)
But I wish she could apologize. When she was hospitalized in February, I went up to Yonkers to be with her. She was clearly comforted by my presence. During the course of a mundane conversation we were having, she suddenly said, "I wasn't a terrible mommy, was I"? I wanted to say, "You were a horrible mother, but I know you did the best you could do." Of course, I replied, "You were a wonderful mother, and I love you". And I meant it.
Yet I was thinking as I tried to comfort her: "I can't count the times that I've needed you, that I needed your comfort, that I hoped that you would say, 'I understand how bad you feel, and I love you'. You were never there for me. You pretended I didn't exist. You couldn't cope with an imperfect unhappy daughter. You abruptly ended phone conversations when I even hinted that things might not be fine. You left me alone to fend for myself, and I did."
I am angry at my mother. Yet, I cannot abandon her. I want to help her. I want to be with her. I want her to know I love her.
But I wish she could apologize. When she was hospitalized in February, I went up to Yonkers to be with her. She was clearly comforted by my presence. During the course of a mundane conversation we were having, she suddenly said, "I wasn't a terrible mommy, was I"? I wanted to say, "You were a horrible mother, but I know you did the best you could do." Of course, I replied, "You were a wonderful mother, and I love you". And I meant it.
Friday, April 13, 2012
The Memory Unit (Part 1)
I dreamed the phone was ringing. Unfortunately, it wasn't a dream. I fumbled for the handset in the darkness and finally pushed the talk button. "What are you going to do to help me? I'm locked in here? Where am I? What's wrong with you, can't you see I'm not well? Where are you? Where's your brother? What are you going to do to help me? I've got to get out of here!" My mother was yelling at me. Her aide took the phone and apologized for dialing my number but explained that my mother had insisted. My mother took the phone again and resumed her tirade. According to my sister, after I spoke with my mother, she somehow managed to escape from her apartment and started banging on all the other apartment doors on the floor. Thus began her journey to the Memory Unit.
Ilustration of Beta-Amyloid Proteins Forming A Plaque
I called my mother the next morning. My mother did not know she had a husband, and when I confirmed that she did, she could not remember his name. Alarmed by this, I immediately called Sylvia, the Director of Nursing, to inform her that my mother's mental state had shifted dramatically. By early afternoon, my brother had met with Sylvia and the psychiatrist. According to my brother, Sylvia walked into my mother's assisted-living apartment, took one look at her and said, "Memory Unit". A cruel euphemism considering its residents are suffering from a lack of memory.
The move is scheduled to happen within the week. I will not be there. In fact, Sylvia preferred that family members not be present. Thank you, I thought to myself. I felt a quick rush of relief at the time. In fact, since I was told of the decision, I haven't spoken to my mother. It's hard to admit this, but I'm angry at her, for at least two definitive reasons that come to mind that I'm unable to share right now. Thankfully, my brother has been handling all of the details, and apart from the stress of having to deal with new leases and logistics, he doesn't seem to affected at all. I know that is not true. I wish we could talk to each other about our ambivalent feelings.
About two months ago, the landline voicemail box was full, so I decided to listen to the messages one by one to decide which to save and which to delete. I accidentally deleted an old message. It was from my mother. She had called during one of the great blizzards of 2010 to ask if we were snowed in and if had power. It was her last phone call to me.
I called my mother the next morning. My mother did not know she had a husband, and when I confirmed that she did, she could not remember his name. Alarmed by this, I immediately called Sylvia, the Director of Nursing, to inform her that my mother's mental state had shifted dramatically. By early afternoon, my brother had met with Sylvia and the psychiatrist. According to my brother, Sylvia walked into my mother's assisted-living apartment, took one look at her and said, "Memory Unit". A cruel euphemism considering its residents are suffering from a lack of memory.
The move is scheduled to happen within the week. I will not be there. In fact, Sylvia preferred that family members not be present. Thank you, I thought to myself. I felt a quick rush of relief at the time. In fact, since I was told of the decision, I haven't spoken to my mother. It's hard to admit this, but I'm angry at her, for at least two definitive reasons that come to mind that I'm unable to share right now. Thankfully, my brother has been handling all of the details, and apart from the stress of having to deal with new leases and logistics, he doesn't seem to affected at all. I know that is not true. I wish we could talk to each other about our ambivalent feelings.
About two months ago, the landline voicemail box was full, so I decided to listen to the messages one by one to decide which to save and which to delete. I accidentally deleted an old message. It was from my mother. She had called during one of the great blizzards of 2010 to ask if we were snowed in and if had power. It was her last phone call to me.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Have You Not Lived?
I haven't really done anything important today", I told my husband yesterday. He's heard this, or some similar version of it, countless times.
As he is wont to do, he cited some lines from Michel de Montaigne's lengthy essay, "On Experience".
Michel de Montaigne, Paul Landowski, Rue des Ecoles, Paris
"I haven't done a thing today.' - 'Why! Have you not lived? That is not only the most basic of your employments, it is the most glorious."
I was temporarily soothed, but not for long. After all, my husband is engaged daily in what I consider to be extraordinarily significant professional endeavors, while my time is spent doing relatively unimportant things. I have a low-paying part-time job with our county's adult education program, I drive to the District four days a week for my sessions with Dr. B., I take dance lessons, I launder and iron, I cook meals occasionally, and I do my best to make sure the house will never be candidate for one of those awful messy house television shows. Compared to him, I am nothing. More to the point, compared to what I was raised to be, I am nothing. In my family, success meant becoming a doctor, lawyer, or chief. Since I am none of those things, I've spent most of my adult life punishing myself for not having succeeded.
However, if I use Montaigne's criteria, I am a remarkable success story. Dr. B seems to think I am. She thinks I am a very strong person and frequently reminds me that I have carved out a life for myself despite (or perhaps because of) my internal, sometimes paralyzing, conflicts. I don't happen to agree with Dr. B yet. I am grown up and am what I am going to be. I am still a failure.
As he is wont to do, he cited some lines from Michel de Montaigne's lengthy essay, "On Experience".
Michel de Montaigne, Paul Landowski, Rue des Ecoles, Paris
"I haven't done a thing today.' - 'Why! Have you not lived? That is not only the most basic of your employments, it is the most glorious."
I was temporarily soothed, but not for long. After all, my husband is engaged daily in what I consider to be extraordinarily significant professional endeavors, while my time is spent doing relatively unimportant things. I have a low-paying part-time job with our county's adult education program, I drive to the District four days a week for my sessions with Dr. B., I take dance lessons, I launder and iron, I cook meals occasionally, and I do my best to make sure the house will never be candidate for one of those awful messy house television shows. Compared to him, I am nothing. More to the point, compared to what I was raised to be, I am nothing. In my family, success meant becoming a doctor, lawyer, or chief. Since I am none of those things, I've spent most of my adult life punishing myself for not having succeeded.
However, if I use Montaigne's criteria, I am a remarkable success story. Dr. B seems to think I am. She thinks I am a very strong person and frequently reminds me that I have carved out a life for myself despite (or perhaps because of) my internal, sometimes paralyzing, conflicts. I don't happen to agree with Dr. B yet. I am grown up and am what I am going to be. I am still a failure.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Getting Through This
I can hardly believe that Dr. B has been away for almost two weeks. Equally amazing is the realization that I'm not just getting through it, but I've been feeling happy at times; it's hard to admit this.
Flying Colors Doves, Allison K. Jones
Getting through it despite being a bit unsettled as I cope daily with a health crisis that has beset my aging parents and the associated innumerable phone calls. Getting through it even though I am undergoing some mildly unpleasant treatments for a chronic health condition of my own. Getting through it although I haven't had the luxury of a welcoming voice inviting me to say whatever is on my mind. Getting through it without hearing my voice aloud, yet hearing it within. Getting through it with a flying color or two.
Furthermore, I don't feel particularly guilty about feeling happy at times. At least not in the old way. I'm sure the guilt is still there, but it's not getting in my way. I drove to Falls Church yesterday for a West Coast Swing lesson and worked on my footwork, my posture, and what Lara called "my smoothness". Today, I went to Springfield for a gloss and a haircut and smiled as I listened to the employees speak to each other in an Arabic and Spanish. If I'm feeling guilty, it's not preventing me from letting a color or two fly.
Getting through it despite being a bit unsettled as I cope daily with a health crisis that has beset my aging parents and the associated innumerable phone calls. Getting through it even though I am undergoing some mildly unpleasant treatments for a chronic health condition of my own. Getting through it although I haven't had the luxury of a welcoming voice inviting me to say whatever is on my mind. Getting through it without hearing my voice aloud, yet hearing it within. Getting through it with a flying color or two.
Furthermore, I don't feel particularly guilty about feeling happy at times. At least not in the old way. I'm sure the guilt is still there, but it's not getting in my way. I drove to Falls Church yesterday for a West Coast Swing lesson and worked on my footwork, my posture, and what Lara called "my smoothness". Today, I went to Springfield for a gloss and a haircut and smiled as I listened to the employees speak to each other in an Arabic and Spanish. If I'm feeling guilty, it's not preventing me from letting a color or two fly.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
My Authentic Mother (Part 1)
"I can't say things are okay because they aren't. I'm miserable, I'm frightened, I can't stand it anymore", my mother said. "I understand. I'm so sorry", I replied. I've been hesitant to write this blog entry not only because I feel that I am betraying my mother, but also because of my ambivalent feelings about my reaction to her pleas for help.
The Scream, Edvard Munch
My mother has Alzheimer's. When talking to her, you will observe that she generally doesn't seem to remember thoughts from minute to minute. At other times, she says something remarkably cogent, and can engage in conversation; it seems as though she doesn't have Alzheimer's. The mystery of my mother's internal life, known only to her, will remain unknown to me. From her description, it sounds sometimes as though there are so many thoughts in her head at once that she can't choose which one is appropriate or relevant. Sometimes she says there is nothing in her head. I imagine that she is thinking but is forgetting the ideas so quickly that it seems as if there is nothing inside.
Since my mother's diagnosis, I've read a great deal about what is known about this puzzling cruel degenerative neurological disease, and I'm not convinced anyone really understands what causes it, and more importantly, what the Alzheimer patient experiences. I wonder about this quite a bit. I wonder what's going on in my mother's mind.
One of the fascinating effects of dementia in my mother's case is that she seems much freer to say what she is really feeling. I grew up with a perennial monotony of her saying, "I'm fine. Everything's okay". And, as a late adolescent and young adult, whenever I called her for some solace, she would say, "Call me when you feel better." Since she denied her own anxiety and fears, I surmise that she certainly could not tolerate mine. Better to deny everyone's feelings. This is Part 1. I'll write more when I feel better.
The Scream, Edvard Munch
My mother has Alzheimer's. When talking to her, you will observe that she generally doesn't seem to remember thoughts from minute to minute. At other times, she says something remarkably cogent, and can engage in conversation; it seems as though she doesn't have Alzheimer's. The mystery of my mother's internal life, known only to her, will remain unknown to me. From her description, it sounds sometimes as though there are so many thoughts in her head at once that she can't choose which one is appropriate or relevant. Sometimes she says there is nothing in her head. I imagine that she is thinking but is forgetting the ideas so quickly that it seems as if there is nothing inside.
Since my mother's diagnosis, I've read a great deal about what is known about this puzzling cruel degenerative neurological disease, and I'm not convinced anyone really understands what causes it, and more importantly, what the Alzheimer patient experiences. I wonder about this quite a bit. I wonder what's going on in my mother's mind.
One of the fascinating effects of dementia in my mother's case is that she seems much freer to say what she is really feeling. I grew up with a perennial monotony of her saying, "I'm fine. Everything's okay". And, as a late adolescent and young adult, whenever I called her for some solace, she would say, "Call me when you feel better." Since she denied her own anxiety and fears, I surmise that she certainly could not tolerate mine. Better to deny everyone's feelings. This is Part 1. I'll write more when I feel better.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Holiday Weekend
I think I've been on vacation this weekend. Despite the ongoing parent crisis churning in Yonkers, I haven't been thinking about it as much as I should. Oh, there's that Inner Judge again. The truth is, I've have so much on my mind this weekend and quite a bit of it has had absolutely nothing at all to do with them. Dare I say it, but I've been spending some of my time being happy and laughing. It is, after all, a holiday weekend.
On Facebook, friends are sending greetings for a Happy Passover and a Happy Easter. Although we don't actively celebrate either, I was moved by their wishes, and have acknowledged them with a sincere "Happy Passover!" or "Happy Easter"! I didn't include the caveat that, by the way, we don't do anything for Passover or Easter in my household. Sometimes, it's best to be semi-authentic and tolerate differences. Why unnecessarily put a damper on someone else's holiday?
I've been calling my mother and step-father frequently. My step-sister took the train down from Boston and has been there with my brother since Friday. Last night, all three of us had a mostly civil, somewhat contentious telephone discussion. We are all so different, and were trying very hard not to offend each other, each in our own way. There were some heated moments which I diffused by saying something to the effect of, "This is a very difficult stressful time for all of us, and we'll all have to do the best we can". I was willing to have another discussion today, but both of them demurred. I like to talk. They don't. I told them that I was fine with that. But, I was lying. They are precisely the people I need right now to help me sort out my feelings. Unfortunately, there were so many other issues lurking behind our words - so much unresolved anger and disappointment mixed with despair and fear, and probably other emotions of which I'm unaware.
But today, the sun is shining, the air is seasonably warm, and I am driving to Loudon County for a belly dancing class. I've been dancing a lot this weekend. It makes me happy. Is that a crime?
On Facebook, friends are sending greetings for a Happy Passover and a Happy Easter. Although we don't actively celebrate either, I was moved by their wishes, and have acknowledged them with a sincere "Happy Passover!" or "Happy Easter"! I didn't include the caveat that, by the way, we don't do anything for Passover or Easter in my household. Sometimes, it's best to be semi-authentic and tolerate differences. Why unnecessarily put a damper on someone else's holiday?
I've been calling my mother and step-father frequently. My step-sister took the train down from Boston and has been there with my brother since Friday. Last night, all three of us had a mostly civil, somewhat contentious telephone discussion. We are all so different, and were trying very hard not to offend each other, each in our own way. There were some heated moments which I diffused by saying something to the effect of, "This is a very difficult stressful time for all of us, and we'll all have to do the best we can". I was willing to have another discussion today, but both of them demurred. I like to talk. They don't. I told them that I was fine with that. But, I was lying. They are precisely the people I need right now to help me sort out my feelings. Unfortunately, there were so many other issues lurking behind our words - so much unresolved anger and disappointment mixed with despair and fear, and probably other emotions of which I'm unaware.
But today, the sun is shining, the air is seasonably warm, and I am driving to Loudon County for a belly dancing class. I've been dancing a lot this weekend. It makes me happy. Is that a crime?
Saturday, April 7, 2012
A Dark Secret
I checked my blog statistics today and discovered a fascinating number.
Although the vast majority of pageviews originated in the United
States, there were 19 Russian ones. For completeness, I should mention
that there were two others, one from Germany and the other from
Australia.
Unfortunately, there is no way for me to know whether these pageviews were serendipitous or the result of a search. I would like to imagine that my Russian audience searched for "Psychoanalysis" and found my blog.
Nighttime in Moscow
Although psychoanalysis was banned there in the late 1920s, with the arrival of Glasnost, Freud and psychoanalysis have experienced a small, but growing, revival in Russia. I am very happy to learn that, and delighted to be a part of the global psychoanalytic community.
One of the reasons I decided to write this blog is that I don't personally know anyone who has any experience with psychoanalysis. In fact, I have neighbors who don't know what it is. I believe this might be a reflection of the particular culture in my decidedly non-cosmopolitan community. Even the few people I have trusted with this information, who do have some conception of its meaning, quickly change the subject, as if I've said a dirty word. It is one of the reasons why psychoanalysis not only feels like lonely work, it feels like a dark secret.
Radio Free Europe, Claire Bigg
Post-Soviet Society Embraces Psychoanalysis--Again
http://www.rferl.org/articleprintview/1068196.html
Freud in Russia - Return of the Repressed, Allessandra Stanley, New York Times
http://www.nytimes.com/1996/12/11/world/freud-in-russia-return-of-the-repressed.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm
Unfortunately, there is no way for me to know whether these pageviews were serendipitous or the result of a search. I would like to imagine that my Russian audience searched for "Psychoanalysis" and found my blog.
Although psychoanalysis was banned there in the late 1920s, with the arrival of Glasnost, Freud and psychoanalysis have experienced a small, but growing, revival in Russia. I am very happy to learn that, and delighted to be a part of the global psychoanalytic community.
One of the reasons I decided to write this blog is that I don't personally know anyone who has any experience with psychoanalysis. In fact, I have neighbors who don't know what it is. I believe this might be a reflection of the particular culture in my decidedly non-cosmopolitan community. Even the few people I have trusted with this information, who do have some conception of its meaning, quickly change the subject, as if I've said a dirty word. It is one of the reasons why psychoanalysis not only feels like lonely work, it feels like a dark secret.
Radio Free Europe, Claire Bigg
Post-Soviet Society Embraces Psychoanalysis--Again
http://www.rferl.org/articleprintview/1068196.html
Freud in Russia - Return of the Repressed, Allessandra Stanley, New York Times
http://www.nytimes.com/1996/12/11/world/freud-in-russia-return-of-the-repressed.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm
Friday, April 6, 2012
Feeling Guilty Today
My step-sister called yesterday to tell me that my 99 year-old step-father was taken to the hospital after suffering a "sub-acute CVA" . He had a stroke. This comes after a couple of months of many small strokes, each one resulting in increased left-side weakness and a corresponding decrease in his ability to move. This latest episode has left him weaker, and has slurred his speech. To complicate matters, my nearly 92-year-old mother is afflicted with Alzheimer's, and is understandably distraught. Suddenly, she needs me. "Where are you? Please come see me. I'm all alone."
Although I love my mother, and a casual observer might say she and I were close, I would not use that word to describe our connection. In fact, more than 30 years ago, I left New York for North Carolina with sixty dollars in my pocket to try to escape her life-squelching power.
Yet, I am feeling guilty today. I feel that I should go to her, to be with her, to try to comfort her, and to let her know she is not alone. But I don't want to go.
I suppose some daughters would immediately hop on a plane, or jump in the car to rush to her side. But I am procrastinating. Should I forgive her? Should I put aside the decades of neglect and rejection? Should I be the dutiful daughter, despite my ambivalence?
She has 24-hour care, and my brother is close by and will be visiting her. It's not as though she is unattended. But I am her daughter.
Will my guilt outweigh my deep-seated long-term unresolved anger? Usually, it does. I'm not so sure it will this time. However, when I spoke to my mother on the phone this morning, my heart melted. I suppose I inherited some of my father's temperament. He was always the protector, the empath, the source of unconditional love. My conflicted feelings don't surprise me. However, it remains to be seen which feeling will triumph this time.
Although I love my mother, and a casual observer might say she and I were close, I would not use that word to describe our connection. In fact, more than 30 years ago, I left New York for North Carolina with sixty dollars in my pocket to try to escape her life-squelching power.
Yet, I am feeling guilty today. I feel that I should go to her, to be with her, to try to comfort her, and to let her know she is not alone. But I don't want to go.
I suppose some daughters would immediately hop on a plane, or jump in the car to rush to her side. But I am procrastinating. Should I forgive her? Should I put aside the decades of neglect and rejection? Should I be the dutiful daughter, despite my ambivalence?
She has 24-hour care, and my brother is close by and will be visiting her. It's not as though she is unattended. But I am her daughter.
Will my guilt outweigh my deep-seated long-term unresolved anger? Usually, it does. I'm not so sure it will this time. However, when I spoke to my mother on the phone this morning, my heart melted. I suppose I inherited some of my father's temperament. He was always the protector, the empath, the source of unconditional love. My conflicted feelings don't surprise me. However, it remains to be seen which feeling will triumph this time.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Being Authentic
I'm not sure when I heard Dr. B bring up the notion of authenticity. It should be so easy to do, shouldn't it? Just be yourself. Say what you think. Be who you are. It's not even easy while lying on a couch in a somewhat safe sequestered space where someone is encouraging you to revel in your authenticity.
Authenticity 1, Sue Priest
Even more bewildering and frustrating is my wavering confidence that I am being authentic, even when that is probably the case. I suspect the reason is that being authentic reveals so many different conflicting feelings. Being authentic almost guarantees that you will sound inauthentic, or perhaps the better term is inconsistent (or by your detractors, hypocritical).
I've been practicing being authentic. It is hard work.
Last summer, I got in touch with one of my oldest dearest friends. We were childhood playmates and high school buddies. During the seventies, we engaged in long thoughful phone conversations daily. We parted ways when I left New York for south of the Mason Dixon Line. Since then, we have reconnected briefly, a phone call here and there. I was overjoyed when she flew down south for my wedding eighteen years ago.
So when our high school class started planning a 43rd Reunion (I suspect because we had all turned 60), my friend and I tentatively started to write emails back and forth. This led to weekly, then semiweekly phone calls. On the one hand, I experienced the cozy comfortable feeling of having someone in my life who seemed to have known me forever, who could anticipate my next sentence, and could empathize with with my unhappiness and my joy. On the other hand, we discovered we had grown into adults with diverging beliefs about religion, politics, and healthcare (holistic vs. traditional).
Over the course of a few months, it became apparent that my friend could not tolerate my authenticity. I tried to stay clear of the subjects upon which we had different beliefs, but that severely limited the scope of our conversations. Our connection broke one evening when I authentically told her about my religious beliefs, which are quite fuzzy. I suppose I consider myself an agnostic, or perhaps just aperson who accepts there are questions which will always remain unanswered. My friend is a follower of Sai Baba, a Hindu guru who died fairly recently. Since, from her point of view, he still exists, she is still one of his devotees, although she has found a new personal guru.
Although I always accepted whatever she wanted and needed to tell me about her religious beliefs and practices, and how they influenced her daily experience, she was unable to accept mine. In other words, there was no space for me to be authentic. I tried to maintain our connection because our friendship has such a long history, because I do care about her, and primarily because she was a wonderful friend in some important ways. Eventually though, I could not sustain the ruse. We no longer speak. We don't even exchange emails. I miss her, but I can no longer tolerate a relationship where I am not permitted to be who I am. Sometimes, being authentic has it costs. In this case, I suffered a loss of a friend (at least for now), but at least I have me.
Even more bewildering and frustrating is my wavering confidence that I am being authentic, even when that is probably the case. I suspect the reason is that being authentic reveals so many different conflicting feelings. Being authentic almost guarantees that you will sound inauthentic, or perhaps the better term is inconsistent (or by your detractors, hypocritical).
I've been practicing being authentic. It is hard work.
Last summer, I got in touch with one of my oldest dearest friends. We were childhood playmates and high school buddies. During the seventies, we engaged in long thoughful phone conversations daily. We parted ways when I left New York for south of the Mason Dixon Line. Since then, we have reconnected briefly, a phone call here and there. I was overjoyed when she flew down south for my wedding eighteen years ago.
So when our high school class started planning a 43rd Reunion (I suspect because we had all turned 60), my friend and I tentatively started to write emails back and forth. This led to weekly, then semiweekly phone calls. On the one hand, I experienced the cozy comfortable feeling of having someone in my life who seemed to have known me forever, who could anticipate my next sentence, and could empathize with with my unhappiness and my joy. On the other hand, we discovered we had grown into adults with diverging beliefs about religion, politics, and healthcare (holistic vs. traditional).
Over the course of a few months, it became apparent that my friend could not tolerate my authenticity. I tried to stay clear of the subjects upon which we had different beliefs, but that severely limited the scope of our conversations. Our connection broke one evening when I authentically told her about my religious beliefs, which are quite fuzzy. I suppose I consider myself an agnostic, or perhaps just aperson who accepts there are questions which will always remain unanswered. My friend is a follower of Sai Baba, a Hindu guru who died fairly recently. Since, from her point of view, he still exists, she is still one of his devotees, although she has found a new personal guru.
Although I always accepted whatever she wanted and needed to tell me about her religious beliefs and practices, and how they influenced her daily experience, she was unable to accept mine. In other words, there was no space for me to be authentic. I tried to maintain our connection because our friendship has such a long history, because I do care about her, and primarily because she was a wonderful friend in some important ways. Eventually though, I could not sustain the ruse. We no longer speak. We don't even exchange emails. I miss her, but I can no longer tolerate a relationship where I am not permitted to be who I am. Sometimes, being authentic has it costs. In this case, I suffered a loss of a friend (at least for now), but at least I have me.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Prayers Answered
A woman I know has decided to proceed with her scheduled knee surgery tomorrow. What was surprising to me is that she had waited to make her final decision until this morning.
The Lacemakers of Ghent at Prayer, Max Silbert
She told me that she had been praying for a sign. Her prayers were answered when she awoke this morning and discovered that the pain in her knee had become excruciating. That was her sign. As a result, she is calmly awaiting her twenty-minute laparoscopic procedure to repair a small meniscus tear.
I envied her faith. I've talked to Dr. B. about my general lack of what people refer to these days as "faith". Since she is my analyst, it is her job to "be with me" as she calls it. She never outwardly shows any sign of whether she agrees or disagrees with my beliefs; rather, she attempts to experience the world through my belief system, or one might say, my non-belief system. Frankly, I have no idea what her beliefs are. That frustrates and annoys me. I'd love to know. It might help me have some faith. But that would be cheating.
Childless
Mother and Child, Mary Cassatt
I don’t have a child.
I wanted to have a child.
I miss my child.
I don’t have a grandchild.
I wanted to have a grandchild.
I miss my grandchild.
Monday, April 2, 2012
For Ladies Only - Saying No
I know many women have trouble saying no, and I suspect that many men do as well. However, speaking for myself, up until the not so recent past, I found it almost impossible to say no. Sometimes, it is not in my best interest to tolerate differences, a theme I discussed earlier. Sometimes, I need to say no. Following is a case in point.
Before I begin to recount my day of semi-triumph, I need to share some background information. I loathe bras. If it weren't for my need to conform with societal norms and mores, I would not wear one. However, since I am not a renegade to that degree, and because I do want to look presentable, I always try to wear something that at least mimics a bra. Sometimes it may be a stretchy cotton number. Something to keep things from moving around. But for the past five years, I have been in pursuit of the perfect bra. It begins with a sad story.
About five years ago, I went to our local mega-mall to purchase some bras. I entered the Maidenform store and was practically accosted by the manager, a very large woman with an imposing manner, who looked disapproving at my chest. I recall that she said, "What's goin' on in there? You can't be walking around like that"! I was just starting analysis, and I had not yet even begun to discover "my voice". So, I spent about a half hour trying on bras, one more horribly uncomfortable than the next. I remember the last bra I tried on was called "One Fabulous Fit". Well, I'm sure it fit someone fabulously, but that someone wasn't me. The manager increased my discomfort by hiking up the straps and admiring her handiwork. "Now, you look great!", she said. She seemed so sure of herself. All I saw in the mirror was a middle-aged woman with flesh bubbling over the top of the band and pathetic thin straps digging into my shoulders. Since I assumed, as the manager of a lingerie shop, she must know what she was talking about, I bought three of the bras, so I could be assured of having a fabulous fit every day.
I never actually wore those bras, or the seemingly endless parade of bras that I have purchased since then.
At my dance lesson the other day, I felt decidedly frumpy, I heard The Inner Judge say, "You look horrible. You should be able to wear a bra just like every other woman. You should buy a decent bra." Yes, should came back like The Terminator.
So today, I dutifully drove to an enticingly beautiful lingerie shop called Intimacy for what is know these days as a "bra fitting". I arrived at my appointed time, and was greeted by Allison, my "fit specialist". She chirped away, breathlessly asking me different questions about my tastes and needs in a bra. (Did I mention that she was extremely young, breathtakingly exquisite, with flawless translucent porcelain skin?)
I set the mood by saying with the sweetest smile I could muster, "I hate bras, but I thought you might be able to find one that fits me." She asked me what I thought of the bra I wore into the store. "I hate it," I said, "but I have to wear something". Undeterred, Allison inquired as to what I specifically didn't like about it. I answered, "The band is too tight, the underwires hurt, and the straps itch and are digging into my skin".
Being a trooper, Allison said, "You wait just a minute, and I'll be back with some choices for you to try on." I was to discover that Allison is clearly a believer in the frequently quoted mantra that 80% of women are wearing the wrong size. Who says so, exactly? The bra police? Can 80% of women really be wrong? Or might it be that 80% of women have decided they don't want to wear the modern day version of a Victorian corset?
Over the ensuing hour and a half, Allison desperately tried to find the one bra that would be "my perfect bra". Unfortunately for Allison, she had not encountered anyone as imperfect as me. According to Allison, she "loved" me in a 36C. Let's put aside the tiny inconvenience that I could barely breathe, and that after wearing it for five minutes "to see if you can tolerate it", I wanted to rip it off my body and tie it around her long porcelain neck. We went up to a 38C, and I was still uncomfortable. "It's loose", Allison said. I told Allison that I could not imagine getting up in the morning and squeezing my body into this bra. NO. NO. NO. Wanting to make the customer happy, always a good idea I might add, Allison produced a 40C. What can I say about this ridiculously expensive 40C bra called Tom? It was acceptably uncomfortable. In other words, I imagined that I might be able to wear it during the day before coming home and ripping the bloody thing off. Allison insisted the band was "much too loose". "Too loose for what, exactly?", I replied. She finally relented and I purchased the bra on the condition that I am able to return it within 30 days.
Poor Allison. I'll probably be back. I still might say no.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
April Redux
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opning stickily.
I know what I know.The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
Is is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
Spring, by Edna St. Vincent Millay
We thought that the Gerberas were dead. In the past, they could not survive the winter cold. Yesterday afternoon, to our delight, we discovered that all three of our potted pink Gerberas were rising proudly from the dead leaves of last fall's frost. This poem came to mind, but from a new perspective. Certainly, life is not nothing.
I remember reading this poem in February, 1971, under very different circumstances. A childhood friend of mine had been found dead in her college dorm after having ingested a lethal dose of Tuinals, a popular barbiturate of the day. At the time, I was thrown into a deep thrashing depression. However, I do remember saying to myself, "She doesn't have any more chances". Always best to try to concentrate on the return of April and her burgeoning blooms.
I remember reading this poem in February, 1971, under very different circumstances. A childhood friend of mine had been found dead in her college dorm after having ingested a lethal dose of Tuinals, a popular barbiturate of the day. At the time, I was thrown into a deep thrashing depression. However, I do remember saying to myself, "She doesn't have any more chances". Always best to try to concentrate on the return of April and her burgeoning blooms.
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