"I Wonder How Veridical It Is..."

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies.

"You mean true?"

Three sessions ago, I began reading my 180-page, unpublished, coming-of-age memoir to my therapist. I've never enjoyed therapy so much.

She claims she's not bored and that it's like listening to a story about a child other than me -- I'm up to age 11 now. During this third reading, I did ask aloud, "Is this boring?"

"I'm not bored. I'm just wondering how veridical it is....There's factual history and there's narrative history. I mean, it's just so detailed. How could anyone remember all that?"

"Well, you know that my family has filled in some of the blanks, but my mother and I both have exquisite memories...."

"And I'm getting such a kick out of your love of rocks," she said, commenting on a focus of the section I read during that session.

"Yeah, it was fun for my friend Amy and me to be the only children who were members of the Stamford Mineralogical Society."

"The time your parents took you to the quarry -- you said that you didn't have enough time with your father, [since he died when I was 17] but you did have some special times with him."

Reading this memoir aloud is the best therapy I've ever had because it:

• Helps me see the ways in which my family was present/attentive, growing up
  
• Makes me laugh and/or smile about events that I don't recall in my daily life
  
• Shows me how funny I am as a writer, but more so in how I've led my life since babyhood, e.g, when I was four and asked my mom to buy me a can of spinach to carry around, so I could pretend I was Popeye, and how disappointed I was that no one got it
  
• Covers birth to age 30, and shows me what was most important to me during those formative years.
  

I'm privileged to pay a small fee for each therapy session, since my employer offers a co-pay, and it's so meaningful to revisit my earlier years with an expert guide.

Hungry

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies.

...to Be Known

My therapist earlier: "You yearn to be known, and everyone does, but a lot of people have given up and don't even try [to be known]. You do. You're hopeful."

I think from now on, I'll include only the semi-flattering stuff from our sessions, or won't write about the sessions at all. I've been going for a month, twice a week, since Week 3, for a total of six sessions so far, and it's a treat.

As my friend urged me, I'm trying to bring *every*thing to my sessions and to use them as a relationship-lab. I've also stopped taking notes for later during the sessions. I was self-conscious and not fully present when I scribbled.

I *will* mention that I told my therapist that Meredith Baxter's coming out made me desirous and hopeful -- that she reminded me of Pat, and that just knowing about her self-awareness made me feel re-excited about my own self-knowledge.

We also talked about how I'd like express fewer thoughts and more feelings both aloud and in my writing.

How to Get More Out of Therapy

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies.

Bring Everything. Don't Be Defended.

"I can't wait to see how this shows up in your blog."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Oh, I just assumed you posted every interaction."

Only the ones that inspire me...so all right, I was inspired by the conversation I had with a friend, and so yes, here comes excerpts from it:

"The biggest risk of blogging about your therapy experience is that you will dissipate it. You'll blog about what you felt, but didn't say instead of bringing it to your therapist. You need to bring everything because then it's transformed from 'just talking' to being about a relationship. It's like object lesson in relationships. A lab."

"Ugh. I don't want to tell her that I felt her eyes were glazing over as I talked last time. I felt ashamed when I walked out for boring her. I don't want to have to tell her about being distracted by her attractiveness. About my competitive feelings."

"She needs to know: That freaked me out. I was afraid to go there. You're such a rich collection of things -- and further ahead of a number of people, who would not even recognize the feelings you've already recognized."

"Why do you like therapy?"

"I like crackling with the edge of my own understanding. It's like a good seminar, an amazing blend of intellectual and emotional...like self-educating. I like the multi-facetedness of it -- that it can be about my work...and my childhood. There's no such thing as a tangent."

"Am I failing if it takes 20 years?"

She laughs, "I don't even think that way. [In sessions,] you're looking at *everything,* but not in an annoying way. For me, it starts like beads on a chain, usually processing the previous conversation. And you talk about what's in the room. Good ones will comment on what they're noticing."

"It sounds slow."

"I know. You're less patient than I am."

"And I don't want to tell her that it annoyed me when she asked me to think about whether I could change."

"She's heard it all. Whatever's going on, you'll project it onto your therapist."

"I have such unappealing stuff to project."

"Well, that's the difference between it being a matter of coasting vs. being super-challenging. If you feel edgy, that's it....The more you can feel while you're sitting there, the better."

Analyzing Myself with a Little Help

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies.

Dropping into the Middle of Therapy

"You don't want to adapt, or you say you can't....So you are just hard-wired to be verbose?"

"Yes, congenitally. I don't want to learn to be succinct. [It's too hard.]"

"What if you could get a bigger repertoire?"

"No."

"These things you're telling me, they've probably been with you since the beginning of time, right?"

"Yes." [So how can you possibly think you're going to help me change them?]

At the Session's Start:

"I think this is interesting."

"It is."

"Last time, you nodded so understandingly -- or maybe that was a standard nod -- when I talked about breathing, and how I forget to when I'm afraid....And, also, last time, when you said you thought I'd win the competition, that is, that I'd tell stories and gain nothing from you, so I'd win, I was taken aback. Did I sound like I was trying to compete with you, or was that your stuff?"

"I *am* a very competitive person, but I'm not sure it was mine because usually, when it is, I have to think about what happened for days.

At the End of the Session

"See? I did it again. I do that to therapists. I just talk & talk & talk."

"Well, we need to know your story."

And then, since I had not really let her get a word in edge-wise for nearly 45 minutes, she responded to my observation about the breathing problem:

"The reason I shook my head so vigorously about the breathing is because it's so common."

"Can you fix it?"

"Usually, it fixes itself when you get to the bottom of the anxiety."

Craving Hope

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

It's a Genuine Jones

Is that what therapy really is, at bottom? Paying someone to pay focused, platonically-loving attention to my thoughts and feelings?

Who wouldn't crave that? I'm wishing it were next Wednesday already.

Meanwhile, I'm lucky to be having a faraway friend, arriving at our home on Friday eve. Friends pay attention to each other, too, so that should tide me over.

Things that don't worry me as much or sadden me as much do so in times like these: Pat's gums are deep-red. It's not fair. She flosses religiously and brushes and mouthwashes nightly and yet, she might have gum-disease. What else could it be?

Two or three times, I've had a nightmare, where I lost my teeth. It was devastating each time. Please, God, don't hurt Pat's gums and teeth further. Please let the doctor give her a non-surgical cure on Monday. Amen.

A Relative Geyser of Hope

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

Not That I Admitted It, or Necessarily Recognized It at the Time

She was good-looking; attractive face; nice haircut; older than I; not short, but small -- super-slim; I felt big next to her; her handshake was not firm, but was warm; a wedding ring made of side-by-side diamonds; a super-fancy watch, the brand of which I didn't recognize, other than that it was more than I could afford; a purposeful walk, but not quite a lesbian gait; tan corduroy vest; construction-paper pumpkin on her office-door; fancy office with brick walls and three little windows above my eyes' reach to see outside...and vice versa -- reminded me of windows in a TV jail-cell; a book on the desk that looked like a novel, but couldn't quite read the title without being obvious; she pulled a chair up and put up her feet, which were clad in dark-brown, glossy-leather, flat ankle-boots; she leaned her notepad on her knees and began taking notes, which made me feel important; I couldn't help noticing the hip and leg closest to me as she began writing, but shooed away my distraction.

"I'm going to take some notes, too," I said. "I've never done that in therapy, but I think I want to now." (Either it made her uncomfortable, or she didn't care.)

"I just think that when two people are in a room and one is the focus of attention, good things can happen," said this new therapist when, if I remember correctly, I asked her why I should believe in therapy.

"I just come in and I tell stories. That's all I've ever done with a therapist. They're entertained -- not to flatter myself -- but what did I get?"

"Telling stories is good. Constructing a narrative is an integrative experience."

"What does 'integrative' mean in this case?"

"You talk about things that are disparate and it might not be an 'Aha moment,' but you might feel better or click at a deeper level."

(Now, *that* would be a relief -- to see connections I hadn't thought of...but I didn't tell the therapist that.)

Earlier in the session:

"How does your fear manifest itself?"

"...whenever I can't yawn, I know I'm in trouble. I used to run on a treadmill for 30 minutes -- not fast, but still, I hardly breathed while doing it. That's why swimming's so good. I *have* to breathe. I forget to breathe." (She's nodding like she actually understands me! That's comforting.)

More: "I'm afraid I'll lose my house. I'm afraid my mother will die, and then my partner, and then I'll be alone. I'm afraid there won't be another great act in me. I hate imagining 10 years into the future, but I can't stop doing so."

"It sounds like it's extremely hard to be you. What do you do to self-soothe?"

"...Not a lot....I have Pat, who's very funny -- but God knows what it has cost her to be so supportive....I have two cats who help a lot....I have my mother and sisters....I actually like focusing on writing papers for school....My one drug is TV; I totally tranquilize myself with it...and Facebook. I have 700+ friends on Facebook [-- I look over and see her eyebrows rise; she seems to be marveling, rather than judgmental, but I can't be sure]. I don't really keep up with world news; I prefer to look at Facebook friends' news and it's a lot to keep up with....I read the odd book, but mostly, they're school-books...."

"Do you have friends?"

"I do, but I don't really spend time with them." Then I said that I "don't cultivate" them, but what I meant was that I don't maintain my friendships like I should, i.e., I don't tend to them.

After mentioning, parenthetically, that my dad died when I was in high school:

"Did your mother re-marry?"

"No."

"What happened to your father?"

"He died of bile-duct cancer, within six months, when he was 56."

Still later:

"Am I addicted to suffering?"

She was doubtful about the concept of a suffering addiction and added, "One of the ways you take care of yourself is to beat up on yourself....It's a habit."

"Can you help me?"

"I don't know, but you're hopeful in that you're looking for help."

"I'm not hopeful. I'm desperate."

"You don't need to be hopeful to get help."

"When I was looking randomly at the list of local therapists in my insurance network, I noticed that one of them called out her specialty in helping gay and lesbian people, but I'm actually at a point where the lesbian part of my identity is less important than my professional identity.

I used to need help primarily about feeling good as a lesbian, and now, I need help feeling good in my life's purpose....Um, I can't fathom that you're homophobic, but I guess I'd like to know if so, so I can leave now if that's the case."

"It used to be that homosexuality was considered a perversion --"

(Oy! Where's she going with this?)

And then she continued without ever answering my question directly, "When you were talking earlier about going to a lesbian therapist who had helped get homosexuality removed from the DSM list [of mental disorders], I was reminded of a book I'm reading, *Boyhoods,* by Ken Corbett -- the partner of Michael Cunningham, who wrote *The Hours,* and how Corbett feels that everything is really part of a continuum -- how a boy who wears a tutu provokes people, who wonder: Is he going to be gay? Will he be an artist? A sensitive guy? Transgender? And how it doesn't really matter; he writes with feminism and queer theory in mind --"

(She just passed a test unwittingly by saying, "transgender," rather than "transgendered." People who have a clue/who have read about GLBT/LGBT issues, know that transpeople are "transgender," not "transgendered." Phew!)

"...I'm kind of old-school....Just as I am a very identified Jew, I'm a very identified lesbian. Even as I know that categories aren't all there are, I'm more comfortable with them."

The therapist said fine by her shrug, rather than by her words.

And you didn't answer my question directly, and I'd expect you to have *some* homophobia --"

She nodded.

"But as long as you're not [actively] homophobic...."

She nodded again.

At the End of the Session:

"So how did I do?"

"You did well," I said quietly without looking up. We arranged a time for next week and then:

"How about me? How did I do?"

"Can I be frank?"

(Oh, God, what devastating thing will she say?) "Of course!" I looked over at the book on her desk then.

"I think you're going to have a problem sticking with it, since you've had bad experiences in the past."

"I don't think your prediction will be true."

"If you could see me in my private practice, I'd recommend twice a week."

(Oh, God, I must be super-sick!) "Why?"

"Because I think that 45 minutes once a week lets you reconstitute yourself [too much in between sessions]. Despite all that you've told me about how you feel, you're a very high-functioning person; you're sophisticated and I think you'll [become defended by going so long between sessions]."

(God, twice a week sounds *great*!) "Well, I probably can't afford it, and besides, I'm compulsively busy, so I don't know how I'd fit in two sessions, but...."

"Ok."

"Well, thank you; see you next time," I said, and felt an awkwardness and a sacredness at once.

The book was *The Elegance of the Hedgehog.* When I got home, I googled it and felt a surge of hope, that maybe a new set of ears -- trained ones, attached to a person with apparently good taste in fiction -- could do me good.

Fighting a Taboo

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

Having Second Thoughts

...but I have to combat them. I'm feeling ashamed:

Why do I need to tell the world what I'm thinking? Why *isn't* a private journal-entry relief enough? And yet I know I'm not alone in my human struggles. Or maybe this is my repeated test to confirm that I'm not alone.

A friend of Phoebe -- Toonces was not similarly fond of him -- disappeared apparently. My partner Pat saw a photo of him up at Shop-Rite; his name is Brien and he lives on Alexander Ave., down the street. He weighs 13 pounds. The photo features Brien, reclining on an indoor couch. We only knew him as "the gentlman caller." He used to visit the girls at the sliding glass door of our house. I can't imagine him indoors....If only he had stayed indoors.

Pat just turned to me and said, "Sydney died."

"How do you know?"

"It says, 'RIP, Sydney,' on Jan's site."

Sydney was a miniature pinscher. She had a brain tumor. She was hyper and warm and wiry and affection-loving. Thank God, k'ayn ayeen ha'rah/minus the evil eye, Pat and the kitties and I are physically healthy. I just need to get mentally healthy again. Pat continues to be Pat, funny and supportive and my best friend, and I'm so grateful.

My dad of blessed memory's 27-year Yahrzeit (death anniversary) was yesterday. And yesterday, my mom's therapist called with a recommendation for a therapist I could meet. It felt like both of my parents were taking care of me yesterday. Tomorrow evening is my first meeting.

I am skeptical, but hungry for hope.