compared to a
piece of
embroidered
material of
which, everyone
in the first
half of his
time, comes to
see the top
side, but in
the second
half, the
reverse side.
The latter is
not so
beautiful, but
is more
instructive
because it
enables one to
see how the
threads are
connected
together.
_________________________
When the group left, Julius watched them walk down his front
stairs to the street. Rather than peel off singly to their parked cars,
they continued in a clump, undoubtedly on their way to the coffee
shop. Oh, how he would have liked to grab his windbreaker and go
flying down the stairs to join them. But that was another day,
another life, another pair of legs, he thought, as he crept down the
hall heading toward his office computer to enter his notes on the
meeting. Suddenly, he changed his mind, walked back into the
group room, took out his pipe, and enjoyed the aroma of rich
Turkish tobacco. He had no particular purpose other than simply to
bask for a few minutes more in the embers of the group session.
This meeting, like the last three or four, had been riveting.
His thoughts drifted back to the groups of breast cancer patients he
had led so long ago. How often had those members described a
golden period once they overcame the panic of realizing that they
were truly going to die. Some said living with cancer had made
them wiser, more self–realized, while others had reordered their
priorities in life, grown stronger, learned to say no to activities they
no longer valued and yes to things that really mattered—such as
loving their family and friends, observing the beauty about them,
savoring the changing seasons. But what a pity, so many had
lamented, that it was only after their bodies were riddled with
cancer that they had learned how to live.
These changes were so dramatic—indeed one patient had
proclaimed, «Cancer cures psychoneurosis»—that on a couple of
occasions Julius impishly described only the psychological
changes to a class of students and then asked them to guess what
kind of therapy was involved. How shocked students were to learn
it was not therapy or medication but a confrontation with death that
had made the difference. He owed a lot to those patients. What a
model they were for him in his time of need. What a pity he
couldn`t tell them. Live right, he reminded himself, and have faith
that good things will flow from you even if you never learn of
them.
And how are you doing with your cancer? he asked himself.
I know a lot about the panic phase which, thank God, I`m now
coming out of even though there are still those 3A.M. times when
panic grips with a nameless terror that yields to no reasoning or
rhetoric—it yields to nothing except Valium, the light of breaking
dawn, or a soothing hot–tub soak.
But have I changed or grown wiser? he wondered. Had my
golden period? Maybe I`m closer to my feelings—maybe that`s
growth. I think, no,I know I`ve become a better therapist—grown
more sensitive ears. Yes, definitely I`m a different therapist.
Before my melanoma I would never have said that I was in love
with the group. I would never have dreamed of revealing such
intimate details of my life—Miriam`s death, my sexual
opportunism. And my irresistible compulsion to confess to the
group today—Julius shook his head in amazement—
that`ssomething to wonder about, he thought. I feel a push to go
against the grain, against my training, my own teaching.
One thing for sure, they didnot want to hear me. Talk about
resistance! They wanted no part of my blemishes or my darkness.
But, once I put it out, some interesting stuff emerged. Tony was
something else! Acted like a skilled therapist—inquiring whether I
was satisfied with the group`s response, trying to normalize my
behavior, pressing about «why now.» Terrific stuff. I could almost
imagine him leading the group after I`m gone—that would be
something—a college drop–out therapist with jail time in his past.
And others—Gill, Stuart, Pam—stepped up, took care of me, and
kept the group focused. Jung had other things in mind when he
said that only the wounded healer can truly heal, but maybe honing
the patients` therapeutic skills is a good enough justification for
therapists to reveal their wounds.
Julius moseyed down the hall to his office and continued
thinking about the meeting. And Gill—did he show up today!
Calling Pam «the chief justice» was terrific—and accurate. I have
to help Pam integrate that feedback. Here`s a case when Gill`s
vision is sharper than mine. For a long time I`ve liked Pam so
much that I overlooked her pathology—maybe that`s why I
couldn`t help her with her obsession about John.
Julius turned on his computer and opened a file titled, «Short
Story Plots»—a file which contained the great unfulfilled project in
his life: to be a real writer. He was a good, contributing
professional writer (he had published two books and a hundred
articles in the psychiatric literature), but Julius yearned to write
literature and for decades had collected plots for short stories from
his imagination and his practice. Though he had started several, he
never found the time, nor the courage, to finish and submit a story
for publication.
Scrolling down the lists of plots he clicked on «Victims
confront their enemy» and read two of his ideas. The first
confrontation took place on a posh ship cruising off the Turkish
coast. A psychiatrist enters the ship`s casino and there across the
smoke–filled room sees an ex–patient, a con man who had once
swindled him out of seventy–five thousand dollars. The second
confrontation plot involved a female attorney who was assigned a
pro bono case to defend an accused rapist. On her first jail
interview with him she suspects he is the man who raped her ten
years before.
He made a new entry: «In a therapy group a woman
encounters a man who, many years before, had been her teacher
and sexually exploited her.» Not bad. Great potential for literature,
Julius thought, though he knew it would never be written. There
were ethical issues: he`d need permission from Pam and Philip.
And he`d need, also, the passage of ten years, which he didn`t
have. But potential, too, for good therapy, thought Julius. He was
certain that something positive could come of this—if only he
could keep them both in the group and could bear the pain of
opening up old wounds.
Julius picked up Philip`s translation of the tale of the ship`s
passengers. He reread it several times, trying to understand its
meaning or relevance. But still he ended up shaking his head.
Philip offered it as comfort. But where was the comfort?
31
How Arthur Lived
_________________________
Even when there
is no
particular
provocation, I
always have an
anxious concern
that causes me
to see and look
for dangers
when none
exist; for me
it magnifies to
infinity the
tiniest
vexation and
makes
association
with people
most difficult.
_________________________
After obtaining his doctorate, Arthur lived in Berlin, briefly in
Dresden, Munich, and Mannheim, and then, fleeing a cholera
epidemic, settled, for the last thirty years of his life, in Frankfurt,
which he never left aside from one–day excursions. He had no paid
employment, lived in rented rooms, never had a home, hearth,