Sliver

Author: The Shrink Copyright © 2008Location:  Kuwait

It’s a fact that more women get referred for psychotherapy than men. The reasons vary, but the net result is that women have more faith in “talking therapy.”  This is a thin slice of the story of a man, his therapist and their shared state of nothingness.

This was a client never seen in the waiting room. Like spring breeze, he turned up at my door each week, precisely on time and unlike other clients. He entered the room with the graciousness of a cougar; he required no time to arrange himself or his thoughts.

At that point in my career, I had only seen a handful of male clients, and every one of my female clients traced her problems to a male in her world; father, partner, son, yet I never accomplished complete insight into the world of MAN.

Silences predominated our first 13 sessions. His silence spoke words when his actions were scarce. And then one week, he began talking and I began absorbing. I came to realize that this was the type of person who was always at odds with others’ expectations. 

He had the looks of a man yet the smile of a child. In his gaze lay years and years of recycled thought and renewed battles. He spoke of his life, being no ordinary rebel for he sought nothing but to solely exist. He had no particular cause to fight, for each day of his life was a battle won and lost between himself. 

He told me about his women, he liked them well made up with exquisite décor for he excelled in undressing them and baring their souls. His curiosity sucked him in; he observed, learned and relinquished. He repelled himself with equal finesse; smirking at their vanity, delighted with their insecurities. He told me that he never got attached to anyone or anything; he was able to leave a situation, or a relationship, in a flicker and never look back.  To him, everyone was an object or a medium of some sort. He allowed all forms of energy to flow through him as he held on to none.  His shared existence with the universe was never eternal and it had no guarantees. This was a man who knew what he wanted this minute but not the next. He told me about his wounds, almost a decade old but still fresh to the touch. Although not bleeding, this was an injury he was not going to let go of. He spoke of his disappointments the same way he described his delights; to him pain was a sweet experience.

As I took mental notes week in and week out, my psychiatrist brain stopped looking for clues and desperately tried to fit him in a classification. He delivered as I interpreted. He intently listened as I vocalized. The state of knowing was gradually dawning on both of us.  All his ventures connected to the stories I have heard. What other women described as abuse, he shrugged as denial. Pictures of negligence were portrayed as desired achievements. He was nobody’s victim. 

In 40 sessions I learnt that the truth was a state of mind, that forgiveness should come from within and that expectations always lead to disappointments. I became the solid rock that held his gaze and the soft wall that bounced his thoughts. I understood my blackness and his whiteness.

In my mind flashed crying images of my previous clients, of how they attempted to do the right thing the wrong way, of how they misread life signs and signals, and of how little prepared we all are for love.

Fully realizing that this would be an ending I would regret, I started preparing for ours way in advance. He seemed unscathed by it. He narrated the benefits of patient/therapist role-play; both exquisitely played by him for his own pleasure.

This was our last session and as I sat waiting in the room, the clock was ticking as I smiled gently. He was not coming was what was going through my mind, for he was no typical client and he did not believe in goodbyes.

The following week I received his farewell letter, neatly written and signed:  

“Thank you for being my guide and companion through this brief tour of my soul. I have enjoyed the silences with you. You reminded me of no one and that is how I will remember you. Till we meet in another venture and along a different track.

Your guide”

To claim I knew him was sinful, for his moods switched rapidly and so did his presence.

Asylum

Author: The Shrink Copyright © 2008
Location: UK

Her reputation had preceded her. She was known as one of the most dangerous women in the country. It was also known that she was selective with whom she talked to, she had been in the system long enough to know that professionals came and went, that they were more interested in what she had done rather than who she was.

I must say that I intentionally avoided her my first two weeks in that unit. Every time I had passed near her door, she would shoot me a look that I could only respond to with a frightened smile. I didn’t believe I was in any danger, but I believed I needed more time to prepare for the eventful meeting.

Then one morning, she stepped out of her room escorted by three nursing staff, passed me in the corridor, and asked me if I was enjoying my time in the unit. I knew this was the time to propose an introductory chat for 4pm the following afternoon.

From then on, we would meet on a regular basis. She spoke of history that would not be found in books. She told me about her upbringing and her demons; I was humbled. I began to realize that her infamous reputation did not live up to her human side but more of the murderous one. She was known for what she had done and perpetually had done, but no one knew what she was frightened of.

In a unit where clients had to assume a place in an imaginary hierarchy, there was great pressure on her to stay in the top echelon. She had no tattoos or body piercing to display her vanity, she was the eldest and she had no friends. But, her murderous intent was her tool. If she continued to make threats to kill herself or anyone else, then she would remain frightening.

Then, karaoke night took place, a musical activity arranged and conducted by clients themselves. Despite being on call that night, I made a conscious effort to spend a good time in the unit. I wanted to observe, listen and learn. The music was loud and they all took turns singing their favorite tunes; the mood was joyous. Then it was her turn, and heavy silence fell on the room as anticipation filled the air. She declared she didn’t need background music and started to sing “Paper Roses.” I didn’t realize that I had tears running down my face till one of the nurses pointed it out; I was taken aback by her baby face features, hardened by years and multiple cuts, her toothless mouth uttering the softest words of this unremarkable love song.

All I could think was: How and what do you know about love? And why is it that even if we don’t experience the real core shaking that comes with true love, we are adamant of its deserting pain?

Mothering Issues

Author: The Shrink Copyright © 2007
Location: United Kingdom

I stopped wanting a loving relationship with my mother. I am now settling for a simple civilized relationship, if at all possible. Ours has been a ragged awkward thorny relationship all along, at best just plain lifeless and loveless. For years I have questioned the reasons behind this eternal conflict. It seems my mother and I always fail to see the good intentions behind each other’s deeds and sayings. I am hypersensitive to my mother’s destructive criticism, and she is always finding ill will in what I say or do.

In my childish mind, I conjured fairy tales about my biological mother and the stepmom my father married to raise us all, the end is always the same, my real mother eventually appears for my salvation. I ultimately grew old enough to realize this scenario was far fetched and the only way out of such an emotional void was to talk myself into the lives of people around me. I have to say that my social public relations skills are entirely self-made.

For a whole decade, it has been one down hill after another, projecting my own defects onto the men and women I associated with. My own ability to love was never the question I thrived to answer. It was how much those people constantly and unconditionally made me feel loved. It got tedious after a while, one person was never enough and I was soon jumping the thin line between betrayal and psychosis.

I just finished reading 2 books with similar themes, “Broken Verses” and “Disobedience”. One is the struggle between a daughter and a missing mom and the other between a daughter and a dead father. Despite being set worlds apart, north London and Karachi, despite the varying ethnic identity, Jew and Muslim, the similarities were mind boggling. How we are as adult women, how we behave, how we love and hate is all connected to how we were as children. How we idolized and feared our parents, how smooth we passed through the stages of growth and how we formed our first ideas about love, hate and sex, all that in summation is what we are as adults.

I finished reading “Disobedience” and out of the sublime pages that engulfed me, page 147 clung to my memory. A paragraph which I read over and over again: “It is a terrible, wretched thing to love someone whom you know cannot love you back. There are things that are more dreadful. There are many human pains more grievous. And yet it remains both terrible and wretched. Like so many things, it is insoluble.”

The journey with “Broken Verses” was harder and more painful. As I engrossed myself with the search for answers on behalf of the main character, many more were popping up in my mind about my own situation. Every night was colored with fleeting thoughts and sounds conversing in the vicinity, somehow, somewhere, all the parts of my self were trying to make sense of it all, but it was never easy.

For now, all that remains for us is scrutiny on her part and utter disgust on mine.

Modi Operandi

Written by: The Shrink Copyright © 2006: Other Works on Kaleidoscope: Revalidation and Blink

The life of this man might seem bizarre to anyone but himself. He has over the years evolved so many times that his original template is no longer traceable. He turned his life around, deconstructed his mistakes and frequent errors of judgment are really new births to him. Many women have and will be touched by his fire. They seek him, hunt him, seduce him, crave him, want him and foolishly love him.

This is the preview:

The foreplay:
“What you say, feel or do is your responsibility. I didn’t ask you to love me and now that you say you do, don’t expect me to reciprocate. I told you from the beginning, I am what I am and I will not change, not for you or anyone else. Don’t waste my time asking me what type/style I like/dislike; I am neither common nor average. What you passively learned with other men does not apply to me”

It gets more convoluted:
“Don’t expect me to answer your calls just because your making them, don’t expect me to reply to your texts regardless of their attempted wit and humor. When you are with me, you are present then and there; the minute you’re out of the door is the same minute your memory is flushed out of my system.”

The climax:
”Yes, the sex was great but that does not mean you rocked my world or shook my core. No, I don’t like to cuddle afterwards and no, I will not whisper any bullshit romance into your ears, I don’t/won’t lie to make you happy and feel better about yourself. You see, what I inject in you is a product of animalistic desire not some silly emotion you cling to and call love. So, don’t waste your time analyzing my many affairs and my past, they provide you with no clue to the person I might momentarily be.”

The twist:
“You REALLY need to understand that my words are not PROMISES and my kisses are not CONTRACTS.”

Welcome to the world of the serial monogamist.

Revalidation

Written by: The Shrink © Copyright 2006She was referred for psychotherapy after being diagnosed with a psychotic breakdown following the still birth of her first born. She entered the room, a gracious 36 year old woman of afro-Caribbean origin, remarkably dressed and eloquently spoken. I knew her first session would be hard, it usually is. So instead of bombarding her with silent gaps, to allow her thoughts to free float, I took the time to ask her simple questions to alleviate her anxiety.

Over the course of 2 years, I got to know the child, the teenager, the adolescent and the woman she has become. Week in and week out I listened intently to stories of physical and sexual child abuse, of how parents can make and break their children; of how sibling rivalry is an element in all families and of how one’s mind needs to shatter sometimes to allow sorting out.

She came from a good family background but due to social restrictions, she and her younger sister were in foster care by an elderly white woman for 15 years. This was at the time when one’s skin color dictated how the rest of their lives would map out. Being 2 of 8 foster children living at the same home, meant someone ought to be the black sheep, the old lady could not possibly take care of everyone equally despite being paid for it. Through her tears and anguish, I listened to stories of being tied in the cupboard, of self esteem being shattered daily and of plummeting self confidence.

Over time, I learnt that her makeup and exquisite décor was nothing but a cover up for all the those injuries, she believed that what she saw in the mirror was who she really was, the past had died and only came back to haunt her when her own flesh and blood could not be alive.

On the chair in front of me she sat along with all her past and its phantoms, desperate for answers that needed to come from within, for rational explanations of irrational acts, for whys and what’s that I could not possibly answer, and the more she shattered , the more defeated I felt.

Its here staring at me, another victim of parenthood, another messed up human being that I should supposedly magically bandage, another challenge of how well together my own brain was; it was hard. Having been in both chairs; the therapist and patient, I found it hard being totally neutral and objective, it was difficult not crying and cursing and most of all, she was someone I could not save; that was something she had to do.

Endings are difficult, but in therapy they are traumatic for both sides. How do you let go of someone so close? How do you stop worrying about them? How do you end a 2 year relationship that has been more steady and punctual than any partnership I have witnessed? And how is it that after digesting someone’s life for so long; you end it with a handshake and a gentle smile? These were questions both of us were asking.

Solace comes in mysterious ways, and ours was just that. As our ending approached, contentment became the mutual theme, agreeableness that this was a venture worth while; she needed the validation and so did I.

Blink

Written by The Shrink

I have recently adopted the strategy that everything in life is an illusion. Despite the presence of few facts, I have surrendered to the belief that these are such depending on the strength of our convictions; they are only real because we want them to be.

Partially inspired by “The mirror has 2 faces”, I began to wonder how life would be if we had the freedom to post our own ads, if we had the freedom of a 5 line space where one would get to write in total honesty what they were looking for in the opposite/same sex. It would not matter if the search was for a friend or spouse, what would matter is that we post what we are TRULY thinking of and looking for.

If we had the luxury of forfeiting cultural judgments, if we ignored all the restrictive norms society applies on mate selection, would the search not be easier? Would disappointment not be avoided?

If a woman was looking for financial stability primarily but still cared for how her personal bank would look like, why couldn’t she state it upfront? If a man was looking for a blonde model look alike, why couldn’t he be free to state that an average IQ wouldn’t be a prerequisite?

My ad would look like this:
A professional financially dependant woman looking to marry a well read, with good sense of humor heterosexual man of any nationality/ethnic background. I enjoy free debate, cleaning and silence and looking to mother at least one child. Not interested in premarital sex.

What would your ad look like?