As an adult, I often felt that I couldn’t go on. Another step in the direction of truth and I would disintegrate.
The feelings rose and fell. “I love you. I hate you. You do good. You do bad.”
I knew, though, the process required patience (patients?) above all else. Eventually, the sincerest feeling would win out. My calculation was for it to be love. Why not? After all, I was in charge of my own experience at this point.
* * * * * * *
(1972)
Family Therapy. At 14, my least favorite experience in all the world. Thinking that communication was necessary to my return to living with my father, the staff required family therapy every Friday afternoon.
Family Therapy. At 14, my least favorite experience in all the world. Thinking that communication was necessary to my return to living with my father, the staff required family therapy every Friday afternoon.
(OH RIGHT, JUST BEFORE I LEAVE TO SPEND THE WEEKEND WITH MY FATHER, I’M SUPPOSED TO BE OPEN AND HONEST. Better it should have been upon your return, eh? THE UNDERSTATEMENT OF THE YEAR.)
It was a clever exercise in mental tap dancing for me. I had to say just enough to satisfy the psychologist and not enough to give my father reason to be angry with me during the weekend.
(NO WONDER IT WAS TORTURE. The real Lucifer must have thought this one up.)
I recognized I was caught between a rock and a hard place and envisioned no way out. How to spend an hour pretending to be in therapy but giving out no secrets? (Act crazy, my dear, it’s safer.) It taxed the best of my creativity.
* * * * * * *
(1987)
(MY LITTLE KID PART CRIES INSIDE. Why? SHE’S HURTING OVER THE FOOLISHNESS OF THE WAY IT WAS. What else? SHE’S HUTING OVER NOT BEING HEARD UNTIL NOW. She’s got my attention. SMALL CONSOLATION.)
* * * * * *
(1972)
Sometimes, I couldn’t tell up from down. Facing my father with the expectation of talking to him. HIM. The man behind all the faces. The Beater. The Drinker. The Protector. The Intimidator. Now, The Puzzled Father trying to figure out what’s best for his daughter bonding with the male psychologist.
Two men. I felt desperately trapped. I knew they could crush me. Alter my life forever. Send me to places I never wanted to go. I felt hopeless.
Somehow, the conversation seemed to carry on without me. I didn’t know what if anything I said. I was sure by their faces that I commented occasionally. Then, Sasifraz was there. Cooing reassuringly, “You are more powerful than they are, J. They can’t touch you. Nothing they can do can touch you. All they have is your body.”
I was rising up in my chair. Memorizing what Sasifraz was saying. “You’re right. I’m safe. There’s nothing they can do to me. I will never tell them anything.”
More confident now, I thought I could handle the session. Dance around them and it would be over. “I’m more powerful than they are. I’ll never tell them anything.” I could feel the power leaving my fingertips and reaching out. I felt I could destroy them if I wanted to. They looked at me. I felt that I was invincible. They couldn’t touch me.
The session was over. I mentally pushed the clock to get out. I never wanted to meet with them again. But, never mind next week. For now, it was over.
* * * * * * *
The drive home with my father was long. “What did you think of the session?” he asked.
I made some non-committal answer. “What did you think?”
“Well, at first, you seemed really down like you felt really bad about yourself. Then later, you acted superior, like you thought you were better than we were.”
I was dumbfounded. My father had never said so many perceptive words in his entire life. Certainly, not all in one sentence. I couldn’t believe I had been that transparent.
“Oh, no, that’s not what I was thinking. I was just thinking….” I stopped listening to what I was saying. I just wanted it to be convincing. I didn’t want him to know that he had even that much of it right. I never wanted to explain anything to him or speak of anything painful—ever. I thought it might mean the end of my life somehow. Although, I didn’t know why.