Psychology's Child

Mercifully, I no longer harbor such rescue fantasies. Really. I don't need to cling to the mythological safety of my family of origin. I am no longer "Elecktrafied," as I dubbed my father-fixation when I was nine. Yes, I knew all about the Elecktra complex when I was nine. At that age I wanted to be a child psychologist when I grew up and share a practice with my father, "Just like Freud and Anna Freud," I'd say.

I have transitioned. In fact, a week ago I dreamed that my husband, not my father, was driving our old wood-paneled family-of-origin station wagon from my childhood. Despite such progress, I do look forward to delving into these and many other destructive psychological constructs with you.

I'll officially kick off our first meeting by saying I maybe shouldn't use the word "shrink" so blithely. A little passive-aggressive, right? I didn't mean it like that. (Though, isn't that the charm of passive aggression? You get to say it, but you're not responsible.) Although my dad does have the capacity to make a person feel small, sometimes, he can be a little shrink-wrapped—but not so much anymore. In fact, I'm at peace with how adult I am when I'm around him nowadays. But I suppose, technically, the shrink part was referring to my father's profession, not my feeling infantilized by him, wasn't it? Pardon my projection. That's what my husband says when I'm vein-popping-screaming at him about why he's making a federal case out of something. "Get the popcorn," he says with bone-deep calm, "the projectionist is here. It's showtime." (This is what happens when the deeply centered son of a marriage and family psychologist marries the sky-is-falling daughter of a Freudian-trained analyst.)

Like my husband is the model of mental health. Mr. Zen. Mr. Let's Not Overreact. Mr. Rearranging the Deck Chairs on the Titanic. I often fantasize our fights being videotaped by some disembodied, impartial being I could conjure up at the right moment, at which point I could say, 'You think you didn't sound enraged? That was just you offering a thoughtful alternative interpretation? Really? Roll tape.' And the judge would announce my vindication.

Anyway, my husband contends that his mother's profession is not a defining piece of psychological information, nor is it a pertinent psychological tool with which to dissect him. No, it's biology or brain synapses, deep parental love, loving childhood memories, family trips, economic status, education, tweaks of nature—those are what make him tick.

Hello? Earth to Planet Denial. Takes one to marry one. I know for a fact. (I always know things for a fact, which is a significantly higher degree of truth than simply knowing or believing something. I think I always say "I know for a fact" because when you're a shrink's kid, you're always being told, "I know you're feeling very angry right now," or, "I know you're thinking this is unfair," and, "I know your tummy hurts because you're so sad." So you grow up desperately asserting the feelings, beliefs and thoughts you actually have, to ward off all those lovingly suffocating and infantilizing and minimizing interpretations—which may or may not have been on the money—but still made you feel like you couldn't breathe and that you never had any authentic feelings in the privacy of your own mind.)

Where was I? Unlike my husband, I know for a fact that my father's profession has had a huge impact on my life and that I can point to all kinds of positive and pathological personality traits that derive directly from his work. I may paddle my Cleopatra way down DeNial on some things, but I've certainly developed a hypervigilant level of consciousness about this one.