Seventeen years ago when my son was only ten, his basketball coach recognized certain impulsive behavioral characteristics in him that were consistent with those of his own son who had recently been diagnosed with ADHD.
Being a very kind man, the coach suggested to us that we take our son to a group of psychiatrists and therapists in the adjoining town who specialized in this area. Being responsible and loving parents (also a hair's breadth away from exhaustion ourselves due to our son's utter in-exhaustion), we readily and immediately complied.
I remember this day well because I ended up heavily implicated as the sole contributor to his genetic misfortune, and I wasn't sure whether I was at all prepared to add yet another square of maternal guilt to the substantially dense guilt-quilt I was already in the process of manufacturing.
Unfortunately, I owned that large square with the small blue dots and purple stars.... well, not actually purple; more of a soft lilac color with little rings of gold that were stripped with crimson red but not the bright shade like you see on fire trucks although some fire trucks are a deeper shade of red than others but at least the firemen can be distinguished by their odd hats, although I wonder if they are expensive and whether they have to cover the cost themselves or do they get the hats when they graduate from fireman school, but I don't suppose they call it "Fireman School" because it sounds pretty ridiculous but ....oh!... Look at that bird!
Did I mention the background was teal?
The first question the doctor posed to my husband and I was, "Which one of YOU has A.D.D.?"
He looked first at my husband who had on his lap the requisite index cards he carries with him religiously every single day listing all of his upcoming and pressing activities, phone calls needed to be made, items to be picked up at the grocery store, bills to be paid, as well as his datebook, and his teacher's planner. His shoes were shined (a thrice-yearly ritual), and his attention was focused.
Then all eyes turned to me. I didn't notice at first having moments earlier become quite captivated by a painting above the sofa as I was bending down to tie my shoes (after realizing I had forgotten) because that painting had such a peaceful cast to it it set me to wondering if that sofa was the one his patients would lie on to relate their dreams and sorrows, and how many various textures of both skin and material must have made contact with that fabric but did they have a satisfactory vantage point when reclining to benefit from the tranquil nature of that beautiful painting or were they probably in SO much pain that their eyes were shuttered from any tactile forms of consolation and it might just make them too tired to speak anyhow, which would defeat the purpose of all the money they were shelling out to visit a shrink, and I wonder just HOW much money the doctor actually takes home versus the insurance companies and does he use it to take elaborate vacations, and I wonder if he loves his wife and....oh!....Look at that bird!
The following Tuesday evening I found myself sitting in a circle of women all having psychological issues of one sort or another after having been unanimously fingered as both the culprit in this hereditary misfiring, as well as possibly in need of a healthy dose of behavior modification myself.
I was not happy.
Before the session began, the therapist and moderator suggested we go around the room and have everyone state their name and give a brief statement about why they were there, etc.. As long as I went last, I could handle that.
We began with the woman on my immediate left; a frail slip of a thing about thirty-two years old with thin, mousey brown hair. She gave her name and in a voice barely above a whisper said that she was there because of an eating disorder created as a result of issues revolving around something of a non-sexual nature that happened between herself and an uncle once when she was twelve. She lived alone and was thinking of getting a cat. She had been coming to this group for ten years.
Next in line was a stout, matronly-looking gal in her early sixties who had been having difficulty asserting herself in her marriage to a man with a large appetite for other woman but little regard for the one who bore his children and picked up his laundry at the cleaners for the past thirty years. She would be at one moment smiling and releasing an abnormally tinned and staccato-paced laugh, then the next be glassy-eyed and folded over unleashing a desperately hollow but positively subterranean bellow of moans and sobs such as paid keeners at an Irish Wake could only hope to imitate. She had been in therapy with this group for twelve years.
And as the tales were told one by one, I couldn't help noticing two stark, recurrent facts:
The first being that entirely without exception not one of these women acknowledged or inserted any sense of ownership for their present situations. They each described their specific situations and issues lacing their words with syllables of defeat as though they were nothing more than the ragged human refuse washed up upon the shore by an indifferent and unkind tide and without aptitude nor inclination to learn how to swim nor walk.
The second blatant commonality were the sheer number of years these women had independently and collectively devoted to this roundtable of battered hearts with their varying levels of indulgent self-pity as well as with an intractable reluctance to let go of the past and grow some cojones!
This was a progesterone-catered pity party with dainty finger sandwiches of victimization served with estrogen punch spiked with tears.
By the time the circle had moaned its way to me, I was already hungover from drinking too much whine, and somewhat unnerved at the professional impertinence of the therapist who, after I stated my name, that I had three kids and the fact that I was married, quietly interjected, "But she shouldn't be."
It was then I understood that there was an accepted, albeit silent, collusion between these women and the therapist, who, however well intentioned, was unwittingly enabling the feelings of victimization to thrive within them to a certain extent and it was also quite likely one of the reasons why the tenure in this co-dependent klatch of sniveling womb-holders was so radically over-extended.
So, when I was asked if I had any questions, the only one that came to mind was, "Does anyone ever graduate from here?"
For a moment there was silence at our psychogenetic soiree, then some muffled coughing errupted in the far corner of the dimly lit room, which shifted the focus once more to the cowering domestic keener who had yet to stop blubbering and whose hubby was probably out getting laid at that very moment; only at this point, he had my total sympathies.
Out of devotion and in deference to obtaining clean psychological passage for my son, I attended these dark, group sessions for several of months and was even game to play a little one-on-one. Yet in the back of my mind was the clear understanding that for me this was little more than an exploratory adventure, as it it seemed that was inadvertently designed to break down autonomy and foster dependency through mutual consent, which was about as distant from my vision of authenticity and definition of empowerment as it could possibly be.
I decided to find purpose in my deficit of attention and use it to my best advantage, which should be true of all who suffer with the supposed disorder. I also opted for the belief that the best change agent we can hire is ourselves; and while I don't argue the fact that, of course, there are legitimate disorders, dysfunctions, phobias and psychological conditions that require professional assistance to manage and/or conquer, there are equally as many, if not more, challenging physiological and psychological states that can easily be mastered and navigated with just a little help and a lot of determination.
Yes, my mind wanders incessantly and I find it to sometimes be a nuisance. But most of the time, I find it takes me to shores of thought I never would have discovered if it were not in my natural wiring to let myself travel down that current of ideas and explorations.
I think of stories to write while on that damned elliptical and paintings to paint while vacuuming and all manner of things to build and design and concoct while driving the car or preparing a meal or standing in the shower. So what if I forget to shampoo my hair or burn the occasional chicken?
I'm harvesting all the random blossoms of miraculous, creative grace and putting them into form to share with whomever is inclined to sit under my tree in whatever the season; although it could get a little chilly in the fall and I wouldn't suggest a visit in winter because the snowfall index has been quite high the past couple of winters, but autumn would be fine if you wore a sweater; which reminds me of the one I wore to the Fourth of July fireworks at Winged Foot when I was seven because it was white with these tiny mother of pearl buttons and always made me wonder how they got those pearls out of those oysters....or are they clams; and oh how I loved going clam digging in summer in Shinnecock Bay out on Long Island in Quogue; but summer, of course, is always favorable unless it happens to be a rainy day in which case you'd need to.....oh!.....Look at that bird!
