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How to be Your Hometown Therapist
7:30 a.m. You're rushing to get your kids off to school, vaguely aware that you've not had nearly enough caffiene. Phone. It's your pal Trudy from computer class, just wants a minute of your time... Could you pick up a loaf of bread at the store for her today? Yes. Could you take it to town with you, and give it to her husband, your gynecologist? Sure. Did you know her husband is verbally abusive to her? Him? you think. The guy with the ballet-dancer on his logo for the women's health center - the fellow that would have you pirouetting out of his office after a pap smear? That guy's verbally abusive? You balance the phone on your shoulder as you butter the toast, because you know she's going to tell you all about it anyway. What the heck- her kids are already off - drove in to school with their verbally-abusive father. There's no escape, no graceful way out. You're off, she's off, and you vow to install caller i.d., a.s.a.p. But today, your kids are tardy. 12:15 p.m. Home from the doctor, you just sat down to lunch, and there's the phone. Briefly you consider letting it ring. Then you think, it could be a call from school... one of the kids sick, something serious. You pick it up, its your friend Moll from church, she's going bowling. Would you pick up her kids from school? Yes. Because her husband won't, did you know that? Yes. Did you know her husband is not emotionally available to her? Yes. Because that's what they told her at group. "I know," you say, as you sneak a bite of salad. She tells you she's depressed, on Prozac, in recovery, can't find her inner child, and has low self-esteem. "I know," you say, but you neglected to tuck the lettuce far enough into your cheek, and it comes out kind of like "mmmlo." She finds you out: she knows youve been eating through her angst. "I guess I'm interrupting your lunch!" she snaps. "Well, I do only have a half hour today." You try your best to be tactful. "Well!" she said. "Why didn't you address that. You could have adressed that! You don't have to get xxxxty with me. Why can't you just be honest? I'm only looking for support. I thought that's what friends are for!" You sigh, trying carefully not to sigh into the phone. You know you're supposed to find these problems - which you have listened to for more than five years now, and which, not surprisingly, have remained completely unchanged - enthralling. "Look, just forget it, ok?" She says. "Forget the whole thing! I guess I don't deserve any time to myself. I guess you're not as open to my needs as I thought you were." She slams down the receiver. You leave your end off the hook, shrug, and finish your lunch. 4:15 p.m. Your daughter Em climbs into the car, sobbing. Moll had beaten you to the school to pick up her own kids. Moll has made it official: Your kid may no longer play with her kid. "My daughter's relationship with you and your family is just too painful for her," Moll told Em. Your fault, you tell yourself. If you'd only been eating oatmeal or some less crunchy lunch! You know you could call and apologize, make something up about your blood sugar or something. But the fact is, you just don't want to. You've heard enough. It's clear that all the expensive drugs and therapy have taught your friends but two things: how to completely disregard the needs of others and how be as selfish and self-centered as possible. These, you realize, are not friends. These, you realize, are uninvoiced patients. Your daughter has settled in with a video; Disney's Darby O'Gill. Suddenly your consciousness shifts to Darby relating the wisdom of his grandfather: "... he said in all his life he only knew one man who was happy altogether: the village idiot." You know you're no village idiot, but you're happy. You're happy because you know you won't be happy every day, and you've learned to give thanks for every day anyway. Bed at 9:30 p.m. Next day, you pick up your kids from school and, because of your salad yesterday, your daughter's life is worse. "Mina made everyone pinky-swear against me," Em says, "because I've been causing her so much pain." At home, she runs to her room, terrified, confused, as your son Paul starts Jonesin' for snacks. Guilt pulls and throbs at your heart... if only you'd been a little more indulgent, you think to yourself... 4:45 p.m. Doorbell. It's Trudy. Wants a cappuchino, wants to kill some time. Could she hang out here for a bit? Yes. She watches you cook. Do you want to know how she chops onions? No. Do you want to know what her husband called her in front of her son last night? No. 5:20 p.m. Finally your husband walks through the door. For a moment you think, how come this guy is emotionally available? Why doesn't he call you names in front of the kids or, for that matter, at any other time? He tells you he'll take over and makes Trudy another cappuchino. You cross your fingers and hope its decaffienated as you hop in the car and head for Beth Anne's. Now, you like Beth Anne. She's on Prozac, but it's just to keep up with the crowd. Her daughter Chelsea is in the same class as Mina and Em, so you have to find out if she pinky swore, too. "No, they pinky-swore against Em and Chelsea, so I guess they each have one friend left." Back home again, Trudy's still there, now both her wild kids have joined her. She's decided to have dinner with you. It's too late to drive back to town.. And oh, she may have to spend the night. "I figure you'd tell me if it wasn't ok.," she says. You wonder why she'd figure that. You wonder what happened to manners, to gentility, to personal boundaries. Not boundaries like support groups talk about, but the simple boundaries taught by your parents way back when, boundaries that created phrases like "wearing out your welcome" and "good fences make good neighbors." Why, you wonder, is it suddenly your job to make things unpleasant, and when did the rules change? Why must you be the one to spell it out for everyone, why does everyone need a therapist, and why has everyone decided it should be you? 7:15 p.m. Trudy leaves. Her children have trashed your house, leaving broken toys and a juice-soaked carpet in their wake. The phone. Your friend Tara from car-pool, this time. Tara grew up just like you: big family and hundreds of siblings. Tara is the darkest of all your friends, and labels herself "a recovering Catholic." Tara is not her real name, her real name is Mary. But she felt that was too much psychic responsibility, so she named herself after the mansion in Gone With the Wind. Tara is, unfortunately, on a self-pity binge. "How come you have a job and I don't? How come you're not afraid of the world and I am? How come your husband cooks and cleans and treats you with respect and mine doesn't? "How did you get to be the only functional person I know?!" She hangs up when you try to answer. You feel guilty but not too much. You shrug and go back to the dishes while your husband and the kids play Clue at the kitchen table. Psychiatry has ruined us, you think. We're all whining to each other like a bunch of maniacal babies. My mother had eight kids, you think, and she never griped to her friends that her husband was verbally abusive or emotionally unavailable or didn't do the dishes. She just got on with it. You wish everyone well, you wish them the ability to get on with it, as you unplug the phone and are dealt into the Clue game. You're pretty sure it's Mrs. White in the kitchen with the knife. Critiques: -What a wonderful narrative! I was able to identify with the feeling of frustration in wanting to feel happy and yet constantly being bombarded with the negatives of other people's lives. I think this piece is extremely well-written and carries off your message quite effectively. The one thing I would suggest is not to use colloquialisms like "Jonesin'." While I was able to assume its meaning, I had never heard of that term before. Other than that, great job! |