Splinters Redux (3) Being in therapy was always a special and favorite time in my life. I delight in using phrases like, “my analyst says”. Years ago, when I went every Tuesday and Thursday night, it was better than dating. I proved to the doctor and myself how miserable I was (never admitting how good that felt). The nervous breakdown was my tour de force. Being committed was proof positive of how truly dramatic the situation was. For years, I could not utter the word Lonely but would say “the L word”. As a child, I bit my lips and the insides of my cheeks to the creation of open wounds and painful swollen sores that took days, even weeks to heal. The sensation of pain mingled with pleasure and the taste of blood in my mouth was sweet. The more I chewed the raw flesh, the better if felt obsessing me to go further. My gums were a target for my fingernails, and I picked them bloody. Although I never bit my nails, I chewed my cuticles to the quick. For several years, I had no knuckles on my index fingers having picked and bitten them off drawing blood and causing infections, which I hid beneath Band-Aids. It is no small miracle that today my hands look normal and no scar remains to tell the tale. I made similar attacks on my feet, peeling off entire sections of the heels down to the pink tender quick. I stuffed tissues into my shoes to withstand the pain of walking. Once I picked a hole in the top center of my scalp. I worked that sore for years and recall to my embarrassment the sweet iron like taste of the blood, which I licked from my finger. In the late teen time of my insanity, I took a stroll down suicide lane. What stands out most vividly now is the loss of freedom and credibility. A bit of advice: if you intend to off yourself, be certain you get it right. Waking up in Bellevue is a living nightmare. Waking up anywhere is not too cool since you have now proved yourself incapable of managing your own life (although you did not want it to begin with). To this day, I have severe problems with doors shutting behind me, trapping me. At the time, I did not mind the trapped feeling. It was more like a comfort zone. Three meals daily served by plastic faced smiling nonentities (plastic utensils only if you please). Drawing bleak depressing pictures for the doctors to prove how SAD, SICK and DEPRESSED I really was, as though they could not observe that on their own. Playing the group therapy game three times weekly and getting a star for sharing. Safely structured and nestled in the bosom of a pseudo family (doctor/father, nurse/mother, fellow inmates/siblings). For the first time, I had a sense of belonging. After crawling out of Bellevue, miring myself in a twelve-year completely destructive marriage, I began to see daylight. Divesting my family from the clutches of my ex-husband, I moved on to a loving relationship with my current husband. Structure and order entered my life. For the first time, I felt able to trust a man. I actually began to gain some self-esteem and rapidly climbed the corporate ladder. I held several very responsible well paid positions in New York, Connecticut, and Boston. Chapter 8 RETRIBUTION The Rabbi was eloquent if rambling. His biblical reference seemed endless, almost pointless at first. He expounded a long-winded tale of two warring factions and of one man who came upon a cave taking refuge therein. Thereupon, a spider “An insignificant creature of God” entered the mouth of the cave and began to weave its web. The web was so intricate in nature and so prolific that it served to mask the mouth of the cave thereby saving the refugee within. The point of reference was the spider. The Rabbi counseled, “All of God’s creations, no matter how seemingly small or insignificant, have purposes that might not be readily evident. Eventually, however, the purposes of all creations are made known”, and thus, he concluded, “Zelig’s existence had a reason”. The Rabbi then addressed himself specifically to “The children here present” and admonished them to consider the life of Zelig. “A man whose way of life created the misery and chaos I am witnessing here today, in death has left a legacy of sorrow and confusion. From this sadness, children, learn a lesson. A life existed here, unworthy of emulation. The secrecy and lies he proffered are an example (the reason for his creation) of what not to be”. I could not resist glancing over to view the expressions on the faces of the adoring sister, nieces, and nephew. Their faces contorted with inner agony that I took complete delight in witnessing. After a lifetime, I got my vindication; Zelig was dethroned! As my children and I recited the Kaddish, I peered over at “MW” and her entourage. Their faces showed despair. Perhaps for having been duped by the man whom they had loved and respected all their lives. My Victory was complete, truth aired, and I was sane! There was even a moment of retribution for poor Ruth: through the veils of her delusions, she had seen through to the truth about Zelig and all his kin. Momentarily I felt fondly toward her and envisioned her looking down, gloating. As the mourners shoveled dirt over the coffin, I took “MW” aside. We agreed to speak at a more appropriate time at length to attempt to sort out this monstrous situation. We did so the following week. She revealed the content of her final conversation with Zelig just before his passing. She said, “He must have had a premonition. When he told me about his sister and the rest of the family, I was duly surprised. But when he said he had a daughter, I was shocked, then angry”, she continued. “I asked why he had never told me, I said we could have been friends all these years, but he said he would explain everything.” MW then told me the story he presented to her. Back in college, he and his friends (including her own parents) had become members of the Communist Party. Later, having broken with the party formally, Zelig married and had a child (still no mention of my brother). His claim to her was that he “feared possible retributions on his family” for his past affiliation and so kept the silence all these years. He admitted to her that he knew long ago he had made a mistake but it was too late to fix it. Neither she nor I accept that. To our further astonishment, Zelig had presented to the “others” as an attorney. MW had no clue that he was a Hebrew teacher until she found among his effects some plaques issued to him in 1959 from the Long Island Synagogue for his 25 years of dedicated service. I related the tale of his never taking the Bar. I told her of the letter to my daughter explaining why he had not become a lawyer. It was her conclusion that he did not take the Bar because Communist Party members, former or active, were not permitted to in those days, or, he feared that by applying, his Party membership would be revealed. MW told me that among their Fellow Travelers were the very lawyers who defended the infamous Rosenbergs. I was not shocked. Ruth used to tell tales of Zelig bringing home issues of The Daily Worker and voiced her suspicions that he might have been “red”. Socialism is largely my own political leaning and philosophy so I guess I come by that honestly. MW as I mentioned is an attorney who defends the rights of Native Americans well evidencing her political leanings. As we continued to piece together the puzzle, times, places, and events, it became more evident that Zelig was a bigamist. He did not divorce Ruth until 1963, yet had been Fern’s uncle since her birth in 1955. Zelig met Ruth at NYU and graduated in 1932. They married four years later in 1936. Zelig had known “the others” since entering college, which would have been in 1925 (including Law School). All those years he lived simultaneously in two different worlds. All my life he tried to make me the villain in the piece. “Louise, why are you so belligerent?” How that accusation rang in my ears. I was bad, even crazy to dare question his whereabouts. How I berated myself for not following down into the subway to see where he went. I found it too degrading to trail my own father and trap him into allowing me entrance in his life. In fact, I did not want entrée for I despised him – but it mattered in principle Chapter 9 ANGER & ASHES MW and I shall probably never speak or meet again. That makes me a little sad. In a way, she is my sister for Zelig made her suffer too, but only briefly. During her growing up, she basked in the warmth of his emotions and shared a loving relationship. With the painful truth only revealed to her upon his demise, ultimately she will revert to fonder memories of him of the life they shared. I longed for a relationship (not with Zelig) but with a man I could cuddle with and call Daddy. The warm, caring man they knew had denied me! The arms that enfolded her and her sisters, showering them with affection, closed to me. Try as I may to erase the resentment for the torture of those years of longing, I can not. The jealously I harbored against my cousins, peering in at the safe, cozy lives, pervaded my life and still exists at some level. What luxury to have even one normal parent! If I were to tell any of my cousins that I struggle daily for my sanity, they would be clueless as to my meaning. Zelig is in the ground and Ruth’s ashes I cast adrift into the Atlantic years ago. I hang by my fingernails above the abyss of insanity, which I dread more than life itself. I shall never be a child again and have the chance to know the feeling of complete safety, nurturing, and unconditional love. So why should I continue fighting? My husband brings me closest to the feeling but is powerless to reverse the damage. Even as he bolsters, supports, and protects me in many ways, he can not hide his expression, which, I often perceive as judgmental. Sometimes his face shows disappointment, frustration, and even disgust with me although he claims it is pure concern. I believe he is full of shit. I am most likely the worst thing that ever happened to him. I am a burden he feels less and less able to carry, causing him to become depressed and angry. He goes into survival mode when feeling out of control while I become angrier and more resentful. Now I go forward, clawing my way back into the world from the throws of yet another nervous breakdown. This time, I have permanently retired from the work world and, thus, from a semblance of reality. I work an artsy part time job in a pottery kiln; write poetry and short stories that I try to have published. I have been back in therapy for 15+ years with Dr. S. who serves as best friend, mentor, and to my chagrin, life-saver. This twisted, pissed off kid who wishes never to have been born. Angry and filled with self-pity, still fretting over that which can never change. I am ultimately doomed because I refuse to let go of that which never was. Will I ever let myself off the hook? My anger has turned inward against my own ability to dispense with it. I have no need of razor blades, nor massive quantities of my meds. I kill myself by inches on a daily basis and would like very much to end. Chapter 10 Fractures A Treatise on Manic Depressive (Bi-Polar) Disorder Including Letters to My Analyst And Related Poetry “There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good, When she was bad she was horrid.” Mother Goose’s little moppet obviously suffered wide mood swings, causing her sometimes sweet, yet often vicious disposition. During the past 30 years, the psychiatric community became increasingly aware of the role of chemical imbalances in mental disturbances. This awareness led to the ability to control symptoms of many commonly recognized disorders. Schizophrenia today is not a life sentence in an institution. Many sufferers lead (near) normal lives with the aid of medication and therapy. More recently recognized as an actual medical dysfunction, depression is treatable through a wide array of drugs. Research pointed to a particular chemical, produced by the brain, called Seratonin. Patients presenting with acutely low Seratonin levels typically suffer from depression. Additionally, doctors now know that several varieties of depressions exist. Among them are manic-depressive (bipolar) disorder, and clinical (unipolar) depression. A patient presenting with periods of hyperactivity, irritability, euphoria, impaired judgment, racing thoughts, speech, and obsessive/compulsive behavior (mania). In severe occurrences (hypomania), hospitalization may be necessary. A patient presenting with these manic symptoms coupled with suicidality, agoraphobia, feelings of guilt and worthlessness, social withdrawal, and inability to experience happiness (depression), is diagnosed with bipolar disorder. In this condition, mixed episodes (dysphoric mania) may also occur in which symptoms of mania and depression manifest simultaneously. Doctors base their diagnoses primarily on the behaviors of their patients, as there are no conclusive laboratory tests available. Drug treatments, along with psychotherapy, successfully manage the symptoms of these dysfunctions. There is no actual cure. Chapter 11 MY REBBE OF HARRISON STREET Two major factions dominate the city of Princeton: the University and the Medical Center. Populated by quaint looking, though pricey shops and cafes, the center of town bustles with students most of the year. Year round primarily well to do WASP residents may be found lunching and shopping. Surrounding the center of town, professional buildings line the side streets, housing many doctors specializing in diverse areas of medicine. Furthest from the circumference, stately, mansion-like dwellings of the rich and nuveau riche are barely visible behind their iron gates and tall shrubbery. On the West Side of the city, one finds things a bit worldlier. The Harrison Street Shopping Center houses an anchor super market along with forty or so small stores and a few restaurants. Just across the road is the office of my doctor and “best friend”. For nearly 6 years, he kept me alive against my will. Behind his professional and ethical façade, lurks a deeply humane and empathetic soul, visible through his eyes. At times, I catch a fleeting look of (is it pity?) total comprehension when I speak of ending my life. He really does know why although, in good conscience, he cannot admit that to me. His life, begun in Germany, a child of Holocaust survivors, no doubt was far from easy. Growing up with his parents’ endless postwar fears, even after coming to America, must have been torture. Perhaps he draws on those years and the scars they left in his analyses. “Physician, heal thyself”. The day I entered his office for the first time, in the throws of major hysteria, I knew trusted this man. Perhaps because he reminded me of Judd Hirsch in the film Ordinary People: “Are you my friend?” Once while sitting in the waiting room, a panic attack came over me. I managed to get down the hall and sat on the floor outside the door of his suite. Finally, the door opened and he saw me sitting on the floor (“What are you doing down there?”). I will never forget the surprising strength of his hand and arm (he is not a big man) that pulled me to my feet with one easy move. In the following years, I cajoled him into giving me hello and good-bye hugs. He likes to tease and say, “The hugs are the real reason you come here”. Well, I admit there is some truth in that. I settle for the hugs because I know he will never cross his damned boundaries (and guidelines). Chapter 12 PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL Dear Doctor: A’int people the damnedest creatures? All my critics are suddenly remarking at how great I look (and) how much improved I seem. Apparently, they do not equate these strides with my retirement. I still have plenty of rotten, dark days. I try keeping my social calendar filled to force myself out of the house. I answer the telephone now too, (most of the time). The desire to hide out in bed still presents, but I have fought it off over the last two weeks. At the moment and most of today, hyper-manic mode prevails. Nightmares persist as well, still mostly work related. Nine days until I see you again; that makes me queasy. Call me, I know you “only have a minute”. Just talk long enough to remind me that “it’s all right, bubby is here”. Dear Doctor: It seems I am still more concerned about my husband than myself. What a surprise, eh! We know I attach little value to my existence. I told you today that I felt happy, and I did. That does not mean I care whether I drop dead two minutes from this writing. Oh dear, I suppose I must not do that or this will not get into the mail. Oy vey! This is a perfect example of the miniscule benchmarks and milestones that are supposed to drive my forward. These infinitesimal goals keep me in motion (yes, I hear you responding that my life is valuable and this is how most people keep going, systematically). Ancient Wanderings Venice, ’Neath crumbling arched stone bridges You cradle me in your arms Cobbled streets glisten under Shimmering lamplit nights While rocking horse carousels whirl. Nubians, The dark blood of ancient Egypt guard Camel caravans encircling The tents where my lover and I Caress under the stars. Echoes, Songs of Solomon Beckon as I sit In the kitchen at twilight Gazing through the window Dreaming.
Copyright © 1999 Louise Friedman |