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.

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.

 

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.

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Inner Judge

My inner judge is relentlessly telling me what I should and shouldn't do.  For example, I bought a red floral frilly blouse for the season.  I've always had a penchant for floral prints, and they seem to be in style this Spring.  On Thursday, I decided to wear it for the first time.  I am not exaggerating when I say that I spent about twenty minutes procrastinating as to whether I should  or should  not wear it.  Yes, ambivalence was kicking in full steam ahead.  Ambivalence emerged from a harsh place inside me.  "I adore this blouse and would love to wear it today, but, is this too young for me"?  Or even more harshly, "This IS too young for me".   I finally decided I would wear it because I like it and I wanted to, and when fully dressed thought I looked rather fine and frilly, indeed.  Still, my inner judge kept reminding me that perhaps I looked terribly foolish.  I imagined strangers saying to themselves, "What a ridiculous looking old woman".  But then, something remarkable happened.  At the end of my dance lesson that afternoon, a young man who couldn't have been more than 25 came into the studio to wait for his lesson.  Mind you,  I'm self-conscious just dancing alone with my instructor.  With an audience, I found myself stumbling and forgetting moves I thought my muscles had memorized.  So, when I left, I felt compelled to say to the young man, "I'm a BEGINNER!".  To my surprise, he said, "Well I'm a beginner, too.  Maybe we can dance together sometime.  You're pretty and you can dance". Pretty!!  Music to a sixty-plus woman's ears!  Although I suspect he was just being polite, I didn't care.  I'm so glad I permitted myself to wear my red floral frilly blouse.  Guess what?  I'm going to wear it again today.

Grief

Since I've entered analysis, I've revisited some old grief, and discovered some sublimated grief.  So much to grieve over, and so little time.  Death is such an obvious loss and, subsequently, an obvious source of grief (for most).  Yet despite, or perhaps because of my analytical ruminations regarding the death of my father when I was fourteen, it continues to hold a powerful grip on my psyche and I can't let go of the pain and sense of disbelief that he's gone.  As of late, it seems to have become even more intense. This permanent separation and its consequences never seem to lose their power to literally stop me in my tracks.

Anger

                                        Anger Managed, by Jason Nuttall





Most people who have entered into any type of psychodynamic therapy have probably been told that suppressing anger is a surefire way to induce depression. Why is it then, that it is so difficult to unload our anger at the appropriate time in an appropriate manner toward the actual source of our anger? I am still stewing over some month-old anger. I discussed this particular thunder cloud of anger in a previous post.  Now that I think of it, my ambivalence has fueled my anger in that case.  I've been trying not to misplace my anger.  As you probably know, if you have read this far, this is extremely hard to do.  I'm not depressed at the moment, but thinking about my rage and discussing it in analysis is certainly taking up a lot of my time.

Separation

My analyst will be "out of the office" for two weeks beginning Monday. I am dreading her absence. Last week, at the end of Thursday's session, my analyst did something entirely out of character for her. I was about to leave and had my coat on.  She stepped out of her office before I opened the door to leave and told me that I am unable to allow people in, including her.  As a result, I won't be able to keep her inside me when she leaves.  Thank you for that, I thought.  I also thought, we don't have enough time to process that before you leave next week.  Thank you, again.

Unfortunately, she was correct.  Separations have always resulted in tremendous anxiety, loneliness, and despair. I loathed sleep-overs.  Prior to leaving for summer camp, I would cry for months, and for at least a week after I had arrived.   I've been living in an empty bubble for as long as I can remember. At least since my father died. Decades and decades of emptiness. I am an aging analysand in an empty bubble.