The paradox of life
vendredi 6 janvier 2012
Writing. Mustangs in Montana
Prologue : The first time I might have had to get some help from a shrink was when an overwhelmingly oppressive feeling took over me and very soon I was bursting into red itchy patches all over. Although I couldn't see that the oppressive feeling was even remotely related to those red patches, a shrink saw it. Thanks to shrinks. Seeing a shrink is always a challenging decision. You have to admit that something is not spinning around in the right way in your head, resulting in a flaw in the weave... You're not 'normal' anymore. Maybe a 'loser', ‘off the rocker', the snapped fibre not made of sterner stuff, or even a mad person fit for the psychiatric ward... I’m still thankful for those rashes and the shrink.
In retrospective, I'm able to give a logical sequence to it all. But, when I saw the rashes on my skin, I marched off to see our family doctor to get it fixed with some ointments and pills. I must be allergic to something, the strawberries I had yesterday or was it the new soap? Well what followed was an eye opener to a whole new phase in life. A word from the doctor triggered a terrible upheaval of self-pity and a torrential flow of tears and sobs, which the doctor thought best not to dam in. He gave me a box of tissues and walked out of his consultation room with a pretext of having to look for something he had forgotten in his car.
When he came back, he diagnosed that I was a perfectly healthy young woman if I could cry so much. He looked at the waste paper basket with raised eyebrows and a congratulatory laugh. He sent me home with another appointment for the next day. 'We've done enough for today. See you tomorrow at 10am.' This feeling of having fallen apart in front of someone else was new. I picked myself up and strolled back home in a daze, feeling lighter and relieved. I knew I was in distress and someone else knew I was in distress too. I had given myself away. So what? I was not alone. I went back home and hit the bed and slept almost until the next day's appointment I was looking forward to.
I was calm and collected the next day. My doctor was brief as always. He was a man of few words, very professional and yet so friendly.
"We need to figure out how to deal with it now..." He went on, always keeping a close eye on my reactions. "This is all part of growing up. We never stop growing up. Everyday makes you grow up a little bit more and we do it, all by ourselves, without help from others... We don't have our parents with us anymore to help us along. We all feel betrayed by all those promises that life hasn't kept up...We were all made to believe that it was going to be beautiful. You as a parent will also have to let your children believe in those promises...and we all get jolted back into reality once in a while though."
I looked up at him and wondered why he was giving me all this speech about having to grow up. I thought I was a grown-up already. Wasn't it stupid to admit that I was still growing up, when I had growing up children myself?
Now that he had finished with his diagnosis, I knew that my sickness was something to do with 'growing up'. What was it yesterday? Oh yes 'a perfectly healthy woman'!
What was the therapy for this?
Here’s what he came up with. "Now, if you want, I can send you to a real shrink who will probably charge you an arm and a leg so that you can cry over your sickness on his couch! But you can also stay home on your couch and cry, for free. What I suggest is that you write down everything you'd want to tell the shrink. Ask the questions the shrink might ask you and answer them. And if you really need someone to read you, bring your creation to me." He winked and carried on. "Or, you could just throw it off into the waste."
I looked up at him bewildered. Now, how is that supposed to rid me of my eczema?
"Now you go home and try this and if it doesn't work for you, you come back. You are a smart, beaming young woman, full of life. I'm sure it'll work and you're going to be okay." (Do we know that compliments could be excellent placebos?) I strutted back home, feeling tall but a little puzzled about the rashes.
Back home, I took my long nap thinking of my doctor's therapy for my rashes. But he did not once speak about those damn rashes, or did he? I woke up at sundown and set about writing after a nice little cuppa....
In retrospective, I'm able to give a logical sequence to it all. But, when I saw the rashes on my skin, I marched off to see our family doctor to get it fixed with some ointments and pills. I must be allergic to something, the strawberries I had yesterday or was it the new soap? Well what followed was an eye opener to a whole new phase in life. A word from the doctor triggered a terrible upheaval of self-pity and a torrential flow of tears and sobs, which the doctor thought best not to dam in. He gave me a box of tissues and walked out of his consultation room with a pretext of having to look for something he had forgotten in his car.
When he came back, he diagnosed that I was a perfectly healthy young woman if I could cry so much. He looked at the waste paper basket with raised eyebrows and a congratulatory laugh. He sent me home with another appointment for the next day. 'We've done enough for today. See you tomorrow at 10am.' This feeling of having fallen apart in front of someone else was new. I picked myself up and strolled back home in a daze, feeling lighter and relieved. I knew I was in distress and someone else knew I was in distress too. I had given myself away. So what? I was not alone. I went back home and hit the bed and slept almost until the next day's appointment I was looking forward to.
I was calm and collected the next day. My doctor was brief as always. He was a man of few words, very professional and yet so friendly.
"We need to figure out how to deal with it now..." He went on, always keeping a close eye on my reactions. "This is all part of growing up. We never stop growing up. Everyday makes you grow up a little bit more and we do it, all by ourselves, without help from others... We don't have our parents with us anymore to help us along. We all feel betrayed by all those promises that life hasn't kept up...We were all made to believe that it was going to be beautiful. You as a parent will also have to let your children believe in those promises...and we all get jolted back into reality once in a while though."
I looked up at him and wondered why he was giving me all this speech about having to grow up. I thought I was a grown-up already. Wasn't it stupid to admit that I was still growing up, when I had growing up children myself?
Now that he had finished with his diagnosis, I knew that my sickness was something to do with 'growing up'. What was it yesterday? Oh yes 'a perfectly healthy woman'!
What was the therapy for this?
Here’s what he came up with. "Now, if you want, I can send you to a real shrink who will probably charge you an arm and a leg so that you can cry over your sickness on his couch! But you can also stay home on your couch and cry, for free. What I suggest is that you write down everything you'd want to tell the shrink. Ask the questions the shrink might ask you and answer them. And if you really need someone to read you, bring your creation to me." He winked and carried on. "Or, you could just throw it off into the waste."
I looked up at him bewildered. Now, how is that supposed to rid me of my eczema?
"Now you go home and try this and if it doesn't work for you, you come back. You are a smart, beaming young woman, full of life. I'm sure it'll work and you're going to be okay." (Do we know that compliments could be excellent placebos?) I strutted back home, feeling tall but a little puzzled about the rashes.
Back home, I took my long nap thinking of my doctor's therapy for my rashes. But he did not once speak about those damn rashes, or did he? I woke up at sundown and set about writing after a nice little cuppa....
Words, words, words...and more words flowed out. I filled lines, pages, books of them words. Though never published and almost always sent into that waste paper basket, writing has never stopped being a therapy for a sickness, called growing up.
My children are almost grown-ups now. And I'm going to let them believe in the promise of life. No matter how absurd the lie, they will have to believe in it. That is the only truth. If you stop believing, you might as well drive a bullet into your head. But if you choose to live (many people do!), you have to keep the faith, even if the planet Earth is about to be sucked into a black hole.
Epilogue : Well, this is a family secret, don't tell anyone please! My daughter will kill me.
I stumbled upon my daughter's story-writing files while cleaning up my computer, written when she was going on ten. The timing, not so strangely, coincides with our parental refusal to letting her have a horse in our backyard. My girl's story is about rearing horses in a ranch inMontana
Oh I almost forgot... I had eczema for those two days (was it eczema at all ? whatever!). I stopped feeling itchy on the third day. Ever since, I've been itching to write. And I've been going back to the waste paper basket, a Pandora box of sorts, picking up those crumbled balls of paper, reading them, rewriting them, playing with words and enjoying the power of words Writing can bring a satisfaction denied by the frustrations of reality. From not obtaining the permission to rear a horse in your backyard, you can go on to rearing mustangs in a beautiful ranch inMontana
My children are almost grown-ups now. And I'm going to let them believe in the promise of life. No matter how absurd the lie, they will have to believe in it. That is the only truth. If you stop believing, you might as well drive a bullet into your head. But if you choose to live (many people do!), you have to keep the faith, even if the planet Earth is about to be sucked into a black hole.
Epilogue : Well, this is a family secret, don't tell anyone please! My daughter will kill me.
I stumbled upon my daughter's story-writing files while cleaning up my computer, written when she was going on ten. The timing, not so strangely, coincides with our parental refusal to letting her have a horse in our backyard. My girl's story is about rearing horses in a ranch in
Oh I almost forgot... I had eczema for those two days (was it eczema at all ? whatever!). I stopped feeling itchy on the third day. Ever since, I've been itching to write. And I've been going back to the waste paper basket, a Pandora box of sorts, picking up those crumbled balls of paper, reading them, rewriting them, playing with words and enjoying the power of words Writing can bring a satisfaction denied by the frustrations of reality. From not obtaining the permission to rear a horse in your backyard, you can go on to rearing mustangs in a beautiful ranch in
I loved reading this, Beulah. Your writing is intelligent and thought-provoking. I will add my own diagnosis, though! I was going through a horrible time and developed horrible itchy patches, too!!! They were hives brought on by stress. Took me two months to recover! I wish I had had your doctor!
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