January 2015 archive

My mother is a psychotherapist

One of my daughters wrote this piece and I post it here with her permission, along with some name changes to preserve privacy.  
My mother is a psychotherapist
of the psychoanalytic variety. She’s the kind of therapist you’d explain your
childhood to, your dreams, perhaps your repressed sexual fantasies. My mother
would never describe herself as a Freudian, but he is the ‘grandfather of
psychoanalysis’, so he’s hard to escape.
I first learned about Freud’s
life and work in Grade Six. I’d seen his name in my mother’s consulting room,
on the spines of books that were all the same, but had different numbers at the
bottom.  I’d heard her say his name.
When I picked up a book in our
classroom with Freud’s name and face on the cover, I knew I had to borrow it.
It was one of a collection of books on important people’s lives and work.
Churchill was there, and Marie Curie, among others. But Freud was a guy I
needed to know about. He reminded me of photographs I’d seen of my grandfather.
A serious European gentleman with dark framed round glasses.
I took Freud home with me, and
my mother was tickled by my interest. I felt this was the first step to
understanding the adult world, my parents’ world. I can’t remember what I read
in that book, except for the chapter on ‘Penis Envy’, because I showed my
friends and we giggled. But I knew this man was important. He knew things about
people and how they worked, and my mother had his books in her room, and I
wanted to know about him.
My mother practices from home. Ever
since I can remember, the doorbell rang on the hour, and my mother travelled
down the hallway, opened the front door, and let her patient in. The patients sat,
or sometimes lay down on what my mother called a couch, but was more like a bed,
in the front room of our house. 
The room was beige, red and brown. On one side
were two large chocolate brown armchairs. They sat like giants, facing each
other, silent and solemn. As a child I saw in them crinkled faces, broad arms,
and solid legs. Sitting in them swallowed me.  
On the other side was the large
red bed, with a hard pillow at one end and an itchy throw rug at the other. It
was not like my bed, there was no doona or soft toys. A beige carpet covered
the floor. It was the only fully carpeted room in our house – the rest was parquetry.
This room was different,
special. In the centre, a rectangular coffee table stood on top of another
carpet – Persian with swirls of colour. I squished my bare toes into the
carpet, or lay on the Persian rug, arms and legs spread like a star. It was the
softest, and cleanest rug in the house.
The cats were not allowed in
here. Between the two chairs there were two high windows. Rich, velvet red
curtains draped the sides, but they were never drawn. Instead, lace curtains
and frosted glass blocked out the sticky beaks.
The door to this room was
mostly closed, but I was allowed in when it wasn’t in use. 
I would push down
the door handle – it was different to all the others, you didn’t twist it, you
pushed it. The door squeaked open; the sound buffer at the base lifted off the
floor. I often walked around the room, picked up and inspected objects I had
seen many times before. A small glass vase with a tiny opening held dried
flowers, a wooden bowl my father had made, and a table lamp with a push switch
underneath the shade.
These objects seemed deliberate
and meaningful, like the bits and pieces I kept in a special box in my
wardrobe. But the objects in my mother’s consulting room were serious and
adult; they held a different kind of power.
They were always in the same
spot. Perfectly placed on a table, or shelf. In my box I kept a friendship
bracelet, my sister’s old mobile phone, and a gold plated frill-neck lizard
pendant I bought at Sovereign Hill. I tried hard to make them mean something,
to make them important and significant.
Sometimes I picked them up, one
by one, and placed them back in the box. I inspected them, contemplated their purpose,
and outlined the reasons why I kept them. But the mysterious objects in my
mother’s consulting room had seen and heard things that I could only wonder about.
They had absorbed the mystery and the adultness the room, and my mother’s
occupation, held.
My siblings and I, and my
father, weren’t allowed to leave or enter the house when patients arrived. My
mother is a reasonable woman. She didn’t make rules unless they were needed and
I respected that the things she decreed were important, even when I flouted
them.
But patients were off limits. We
weren’t supposed to see them, or interact with them. We avoided them. If I
asked my mother about her patients and their lives, she told me of the
importance of patient therapist confidentiality, of boundaries, of the sacred
privacy of her work. I understood. I could take on the responsibility.
The rhythm of my mother’s
sessions ran my day as a child, and I respected and enjoyed the pattern. It was
always the same. At ten to the hour, she let her patient out. I heard the
outside come in, the sounds of trams and cars, and then the front door clicked
shut and the patient was gone. In the ten minutes between her sessions, when
she sometimes gobbled down a snack or skulled a cup of tea, I snuck in to see my
mother. That was our time – the ten minute increments allotted to me.
“Mum, I hate Helen,” I often told her. Helen was my nanny when I was seven
or eight. She cried a lot because the father of her child was “a real arsehole”
(as mum told us), and had left her. Helen’s son, Ben, was the worst kid I had
ever met. He broke things, he screamed, he ran around our house shrieking. I
hated him. I hated being left with him. He was snotty and out of control, and played
with my Lego without asking.
When I told my mother how much
I hated Helen and Ben, she told me that life was hard for them, and I needed to
understand this. It made me cross that Helen cried and that she didn’t tell Ben
off when he was naughty. 
This was not how things should be. She was the mother,
and he was the child. Mothers were supposed to help people. They were supposed
to help their children be better.
At this point in my life, I didn’t
know exactly what my mother did, but I knew she helped people. She talked to
them and they talked to her, and sometimes they cried. She did what she was
supposed to do, as a mother, and I accepted her role, and her fifty-minute
absences entirely. I see her room as sacred, it was where she did her work, and
saved other people, helped them be better. I didn’t mind sharing her.
My mother worked on
Saturday mornings. She had two sessions and finished before 10am. One Friday
night, a girl from school, Ellen, slept over. We were friends, but I found her
annoying, and she only came over when her mother asked if she could. Ellen was
a ‘difficult’ child, my parents told me. But we should be kind to her, and be
her friend. 
I dobbed on Ellen in Prep when she stood on a table while the teacher
was outside the classroom.  She was sent
down to Kinder for the day. I didn’t like the way she flaunted the rules, but Ellen
and I had fun together, most of the time.
One Saturday morning after our
sleepover, my mother was with a patient, I told Ellen, and when we were in the
hallway we must be quiet, and we must keep the door closed when we’re in the
kitchen because the noise will carry. 
We played on the floor in the kitchen
with my Barbies. I liked dressing and undressing them, putting shoes on their
tiny pointed feet, brushing their hair. I was preoccupied with tasks such as
these, so I didn’t notice Ellen stand up and walk towards the hallway door.
By the time I realised, it was
too late. I looked up and saw she had gone and the hallway door was open. I got
up to try and find where she was. I looked down the hallway and saw Ellen at my
mother’s consulting room door, hand poised to knock.
The door opened and I saw my
mother’s blonde curls poking out. I couldn’t hear what they said. She closed
the door, and Ellen walked back up to the kitchen, and to me. 
My face was red
and hot. My throat was claggy and it was hard to swallow. I looked at Ellen and
I wanted to hit her, to punch her, until she said sorry. 
How could she violate
the sacredness of my mothers’ room? How could she dare to attempt to pass the
threshold? I was so angry I almost couldn’t speak. 
“Why did you do it?” I said.
“I wanted to know what the room
looked like,” she said. 
Ellen’s mother came to pick her up an hour later, and I
spent the day in my room with the door closed, simmering with rage.
When people find out what my
mother does, and where she practices, they ask me if I’m comfortable with it.
“Aren’t you worried about these people coming to your house?”
“They’re just
people like you and me.” That’s what my mother always said, when my siblings
and I asked about the strangers who rang the doorbell.
Sometimes people ask, “Aren’t
you curious about the people your mother sees?” 
There isn’t room for curiosity 
The constant reminder of confidentiality and privacy I received since a child dampened
my curiosity. The line was drawn, thick and strong. 
Even as a child, when I
picked up those objects in the consulting room, hoping to absorb some adult
sensibility from within them, I stopped myself from trying to discern what they
had seen and heard. 
I know my mother worried about
how her children, the offspring of a therapist, would turn out. Would we feel
neglected or ignored? Would we feel these other strangers who rang the doorbell
were more important to her?
In fact, my mother’s work
provided me with a structure, a pattern, and an authority that comforted me as
a child. She was a mother, helping people, as mothers should, and Freud was the
man who told her how to do it.
I see things in a different light
now, obviously. The world is messier, less black and white. Old men don’t often
connect with authority to me anymore, and women aren’t always maternal.
Little did I know, when attempting
to absorb the power of those objects in my mothers consulting room, I was
trying to enter a world that I would have found far too confusing, far too
complex than I could have coped with then.
My mother’s consulting room is
still beige, red, and brown. She refuses to change it because it might disturb
her patients. The chairs are different, but they are still large and brown. The
bed is new, but it is still the same shade of red. It holds few mysteries to me
now. I know it well. Its musty smell is unchanged.

The objects are still the same,
same vase, same lamp. When I enter our house through the front door I pass the
two high windows of her consulting room. Sometimes I take a quick look through
the window and see the outline of a figure lying on the red bed. The frosted
glass and the lace curtains prevent me from seeing a clear picture. 
That’s how
it should be, though, so I look away.

Take your spurtle stick and stir

I dropped my husband at the railway station in Camberwell this morning,
from where he will take a metro train to Southern Cross and from there, a
country train to Ballarat. 
He’s off on an adventure. 
He and a friend have decided to spend the day exploring the town. 
I should be there with him, you might think.  The happy couple off together on an adventure,
but ever since I began my PhD over ten years ago, I’ve had this wonderful
excuse for staying at home. 
For locking myself away in my study and purporting to
write. 
Some of the time I write, some of the time I read, and some
of the time I surf through Facebook and other people’s blogs for information
about the world in which we live.
Last night over dinner my husband told me the story of his
trip through Warranwood last weekend, where he travelled with another friend, an
old work colleague, who now lives in Ringwood, and had asked my husband to show
him around the local area and point out places from my husband’s past. 
As my husband began to tell me the story of his bike
rides through the dirt roads of Warranwood on his way home from the Ringwood
East post office where he once held a pre-Christmas job to help clear the
excess mail of the season, my imagination soared. 
My husband worked the night shift and as he rode home at five
o’clock in the morning he strapped his transistor radio to the handlebars and
listened to Dave Brubeck’s jazz band play La Paloma.  Listen now and you, too, might be inspired.
I listened to my husband’s story and as I listened, all ears and
imagination, I wished his story had been my story so that I could go into such
memories and sensations to write about them. 
And as I listened to my husband, and tried to shake off the fug of mind
that a second glass of wine brings about in a Japanese restaurant where we
shared agadashi tofu, sashimi and tempura, the stories from the past added a resonance to our meal
that would otherwise be lacking. 
I like to sit after a meal and talk.  My husband likes to get up immediately the
meal is eaten, pay the bill and high tail it home. 
We have some degree of conflict here.  But we live with it.  We compromise. 
I sense something of my mother in me here, too.  She loved to sit for a long time after a meal
and talk.
‘We can talk when we get home,’ my husband says, but by then
for me it’s too late.  The magic is
lost.
 Besides, when we get
home there are things to do.  Dishes
to put away.  The dog to take outside for
a pee. 

I do this more regularly now because our dog has become
increasingly reluctant to venture into the garden alone at night, as if he is
frightened of the bogey man or of intruders or of whatever else it is that
troubles a dog in his back yard in the evening. 
I did not tell my husband that I prefer to talk at the
restaurant after the meal because when we are out and about we have more energy
for conversation. 
When we get home, we tend to go off to our separate
activities. 
He likes to snooze a bit, drink another glass of wine, muse,
sit in the garden and think. 
I take myself off ‘to communicate with my public’, as my husband puts it.  Or to escape into some lightweight – preferably
light weight – DVD or online offering, because by the end of the day I am keen
to escape the pressures of life. 
My husband and I once lived as a Darby and Joan type couple,
barely separable, but in more recent years we have entered a place of shared
and also separate lives. 
And so, with all my children away from home and my husband
off for the day, I find myself in this rare place, a day on my own, a day of my
own. 
A day when I can choose to do what I want to do without
recourse to others. 
A day when I can sit at my desk free from recriminations for
being such a homebody.  Free from the
usual requirements that I shop for something we need – though I will have to go
out at some stage later and think about dinner before the end of the day.
My husband made a spurtle on his lathe two days ago for one
of our daughters who has long wanted a spurtle for cooking. 

He made it out of bits of the discarded front door of one of our other
daughters, from red pine. 
He plans now to make three more spurtles for each of his
daughters at my request. 
Once one sees the first spurtle, they will all want one, not for its
inherent value or usefulness, but for the fact their father made it, and it’s beautiful: a
cross between a Harry Potter wand and a stirring stick. 
A spurtle deserves to be in everyone’s home.  A poke-your-eye-out spurtle, a change- the-world-with-your-magician’s-wand spurtle, a stirring stick for porridge or
sticky jam spurtle or for any other foodstuff that needs stirring on the
stove. 
My husband will use kauri pine for his next spurtle, he tells
me, and then hoop pine for the next, and after that who knows?
He will find a type of wood suited to the purpose. 
He will weave his magic on his lathe and carve a rough piece
of wood, a long rectanglar piece of wood, into a thing of beauty.
If only I could write like that.  Pare away the hard edges and wind up with
a spurtle. 
And here’s a thought: not mine but Raine Maria Rilke’s, from Letters to a young poet.

The point of marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the
contrary, a good  marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other
to be the guardian of his [sic] solitude, and thus they show each other the
greatest possible trust. A merging of two people is an impossibility, and where
it seems to exist, it is a hemming-in, a mutual consent that robs one party or
both parties of their fullest freedom and development. But once the realization
is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a
marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them, if they succeed in loving
the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of always seeing
each other as a whole and before an immense sky.

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