TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 39

[Tobie Shapiro]

October 25, 20000000006


Dear Everyone, and that means you,

	Thank you to those of you who "weighed 
in" on the issue of the rental house.  It helped. 
Most of you told me to tell the landlord and lady 
to go fuck themselves, worded in a variety of 
ways.  But I didn't have to, because I crunched 
the numbers during a bleak moment thinking about 
awfulnesses, and came up with: after the $10,000 
move, I can't afford it.  The rent's too high 
($4,500/month) and what with moving again, and 
first and last plus deposit, I couldn't do it. 
So that's what I told the woman.  She offered to 
come down on the rent, but by a measly two 
hundred a month.  I told her I still couldn't 
afford it, and that I wished them luck.  Sorry 
all around.  Oh well, so here I am at my mother's 
house for a while, until I'm finished licking my 
wounds from the move.  And I'll just have to 
worry about something else, like how living in 
the same house erodes a beautiful relationship. 
(My mother is following me all over the house). 
I have plenty to busy me.

	More busyness.


 
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Abnormal Psychology

	By the time I was thirteen, I was dying 
to see a shrink.  I knew enough to know I was 
confused and miserable, that things were not as 
they should be at home.  I knew what neurotic 
meant, and I knew I belonged.  I suspected that 
my perseveration about suicide was outside of the 
norm, that I needed help badly.  I divided my 
time between  laughing and crying.  There was not 
much in between.  I was frightened of my father 
and felt abandoned by my mother who allowed my 
father to treat us three children pretty much as 
he felt like.  We were his laboratory rats, and 
he was deep into his sadistic research.

	I also knew that my parents had both gone 
off to their private appointments with therapists 
at various times.  It was a mysterious, nearly 
sacred connection they had with their therapists, 
because unlike everything else that became public 
knowledge, it was forbidden to ask about what 
went on between the psychologist and my mother or 
father.  Something private!  Unheard of in  my 
house, where every detail of your outer and inner 
life was opened up for inspection and commentary. 
If I so much as relaxed my face and was not 
smiling or joking around to get others smiling, I 
was asked, "What?  What's the matter?"  The 
thought that I might be able to talk with someone 
without having to reveal every word seemed 
unfathomable.  I wanted it.

	I asked my mother if I could see a 
shrink.  She said she'd try to arrange it through 
Kaiser Permanente Hospital, our health plan.  The 
first meeting was arranged.  It would be for an 
evaluation, to see if I needed therapy.

	I sat in a chair and the therapist, a 
woman, sat behind a desk.  She asked me why I was 
there, and I attempted, as best I could to sound 
absolutely insane.  I wanted to qualify for 
therapy.  I wanted this, and only a 
misinterpretation of my state of sanity was in my 
way.  So I told her that from school, it was like 
walking down a long corridor, and in that 
corridor everything began to change, so that by 
the time I got home, it was hell.  There were two 
different worlds.  Of course, I didn't articulate 
that my father treated me as if he were my 
suitor, or describe some of the family scenes 
that had taken place, nor did I go into my 
suicidal fantasies.  I kept family secrets 
secret.  But I explained how wretched was my lot. 
She listened, nodding her head, adjusting herself 
in her chair, her hands folded on her desk.  She 
looked very serious, even grim.

	I wanted to scream, "HELP!  HELP ME!" 
But I didn't.  I did say that I really needed to 
see someone, that my life was crazy, and I wanted 
someone to tell me that I was sane.  The fifty 
minutes went by as I made my sales presentation. 
Then, it was over.  She let me out, saying that 
she would consider all the things I said, and 
would call my parents and tell them about the 
corridor.  I supposed she would render her 
decision at that point.  I waited.  I waited some 
more.  Finally, we got a phone call from her. 
She told my parents she didn't think I was as yet 
ready for therapy.  I was outraged.  What did I 
have to do to be ready?  Should I be on a ledge 
threatening to jump?  Should I be wandering the 
streets carrying on an animated conversation with 
various people who weren't there?  How could I 
have flunked this test?  It was my most important 
final exam.

	I did without.  At last, when I'd been 
away to the University of Washington in Seattle, 
and dropped out after the first quarter because I 
couldn't adjust and cried all the time, they took 
me back to the same idiot who said I wasn't ripe. 
Oh, I was plenty much too ripe fine, now.  And in 
the first session, she expressed to me that my 
parents were worried about me, especially my 
father who cared for me so much.  It dawned on me.

	"You're the one my father's been seeing, aren't you!" I accused.

	"Well, yes, I have been seeing him as a 
patient, on and off for a number of years."

	"Well that concerned father you speak of 
so fondly, that so concerned man beats me."

	I said the lie with spite and vengeance. 
I was getting even for the years I'd been on hold 
getting ready to be insane enough to need her 
help, when all along, her loyalties were 
conflicted.  I was furious.  And I left her with 
that salvo, never came back, sought therapy 
elsewhere.

	I finally got my therapist after I 
swallowed pills for the second time, and the 
folks at the emergency room handed me a list of 
shrinks.  I asked, "I don't know any of these 
people.  Who's good?"

	"They're all good."

	I doubted it.


 
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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net