Keep in mind: My dad is not your average Joe-Schmoe shrink. He is,
by training and inclination, a Freudian-analyst-type shrink. Sometimes a
shrink is not just a shrink. I have come to understand that my father's
chosen profession is a power bigger than I am—I have to give in to it
before I can move on. My husband, on the other hand, remains grounded on
a sandbank in the Sea of Delusion. He says he's the same person he'd be
if his mother had been a dental hygienist. He allows that maybe he's a
bit more perceptive, more sensitive, compassionate, more psychologically
sophisticated than some sons of dental hygienists might be. But
otherwise, that's it. He was deeply loved and well cared for. A childhood
full of fun. That's what matters. I'd like to give you some examples and
let you judge, but my therapist says I should keep it on myself, describe
what I'm feeling. Like in court, when you say something about what
somebody told you about what somebody else said, the opposing counsel
jumps up and shouts: "Objection. Hearsay. Inadmissable."
So fine, I'll tell you about me. Here's a perfect example of how my
father being a shrink has completely messed me up. You'll recall I just
said, "My therapist says..." Do you know what it took for me to admit to
you people that I'm in (stage whisper) ther-a-py? I feel
psychosomatically sick to my stomach right now. When I was three, I
called it "sykoceramically." I'd tell my mom my tummy hurt, then point to
my head. An insightful question you might gently want to raise now is:
"Why the hell does a three-year-old know what a psychosomatic illness
is?" (I remember being sent to the principal's office in the third grade
for calling a classmate "psychotic." When the principal asked what had I
meant exactly, I dutifully explained, "A neurotic builds castles in the
sky. A psychotic moves in.")
My dad had a home office, and I know this makes it easier on
shrinks, but it can whack out their more susceptible kids. I'd sneak
behind the curtains and watch the patients drive up. "The Crazies," I'd
call them. I'd cup my ear to the door when he'd get those 2 a.m. crisis
calls. Then he'd talk into a tape recorder. I could hardly hear, but some
of the things he said his patients were doing to themselves still make me
shiver. My dad assured me they were good people who were sick and needed
help. I'd stare hard through the window and look for visible deformities.
No eyes. No legs. Spots. But they all looked completely normal. And there
were so many of them, streaming in and out all day long. There began my
lifelong attachment to the idea that most people are total nut jobs. And
you better watch out, because you can't tell by looking at them.
You all seem bright enough to fast-forward through my life and see
how that notion might make a gift a less-than-charming date.
Enter my husband. As outrageously centered as he is, as crazy as he
makes me with his inability to let it rip, at bottom, he is an
extraordinary partner. And I believe being a shrink's kid is a big part
of it. At the toughest moments in our marriage, after I've dumped all my
huge feelings out there, when I've made damn sure nobody gets to tell me
what they are or tamp them down, I'll have a moment of clarity and offer
some narration about having several levels of feelings, several selves
with differing opinions, about various forms of acting out, or about
leaving my body and losing the key so I can't get back in. I'll show some
glimmer of awareness. And he'll get it. He'll read the subtitles. He is
well trained and fluent in this language. I'll see that I'm being heard,
that I'm safe, and that pulls me back in. These moments are gifts from my
father and his mother.
I thought I came here to admit I needed help. The truth is, I'm
getting it. Like a lot of kids of shrinks, I grew up with a deep psychic
split: the intense desire to be a patient so I could get my dad's
attention, and an even more intense repulsion, fear, anxiety around the
idea of being one of those crazies. I remain too neurotically ashamed and
embarrassed to say anything else about my therapeutic experience, other
than this: Every week I choose, now and again, to go. I may not go next
week. I may quit forever. But I went today.
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mental health professionals,
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