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Shrink
by
David Wolgroch
Copyright 2011 David Wolgroch,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0165-2
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
INTRODUCTION
It is not easy to be normal when you are a shrink. For me the problem began during the early stages of formal studies. Everyone seemed to depict worrying signs of unrecognised psychopathology, depending on whatever clinical syndrome was being studied at the time. Dad was showing signs of paranoia, mom was passive-aggressive, my girlfriend was acutely hysterical, and my wretched roommate, Tony, was exhibiting the early stages of drug induced schizophrenia with psychotic delusions of grandeur. I came out surprisingly normal, except for a brief period of acute panic after incorrectly interpreting the results of a self-assessed personality test, which indicated that I was a lesbian. Some go for therapy during their studies. I was relieved that I was not studying oncology.
The second challenge to sanity takes place during clinical supervision. Delving into someone else’s subconscious can be quite perilous if you cannot separate the patient’s pathology from your own. At least that was the rationale given for the relentless examination of my reactions to clinical material. “I noticed that you arrived late today,” my supervisor would say, “Does this have anything to do with your difficulty in accepting authority?” As a rule, most clinical supervisors find it easier to interpret your comments rather than respond to them.
Then there is the daily exposure to severe maladjustment. The spectrum of psychopathology is as dynamic as it is challenging. For some, Human nature provides the creative impetus for music, art, and poetry. It is quite simply a job for the clinical psychologist. A similar process is experienced by policemen who adopt a dismal perception of the world that is based upon crime and punishment, or firemen who notice subtle safety infringements while out with the family for dinner. Fleeing from threat, danger, or bizarreness may be considered a natural reaction among normal people. But the clinical psychologist tries to engage, to confront, and to contain. In time one develops a defensive barrier, in the form of professionalism, which helps maintain the vital boundaries needed for self-preservation.
It is the banal, and sometimes ridiculous, reactions of others at cocktail parties that set the psychologist apart from normal people. “So, what am I thinking?” someone might challenge – assuming that I had the extrasensory powers of a telepathic medium. Or they might call a friend over and teasingly joke, “Here’s someone you gotta meet. He needs a shrink.” Over the years I have developed a fund of reactions to these embarrassing situations. There are funny responses, mischievous ones, and serious ones – depending on my mood. For instance, a not uncommon question is, “What is the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist?” to which I might say, “Oh, about 40 bucks an hour,” if I wanted to be funny.
The question that I hate the most is, “So, what made you become a Shrink?” It is asked in the same manner that one might wonder why someone was a vegetarian. My response is either non-committal, evasive, or funny. Failing this I ask, “So, why is that question so important to you?” in a classical analytical tone of voice, as Freud would have responded. Invariably the topic is changed.
Don’t get me wrong. I like being a Shrink. No day is like the previous one. The complexities of Human Nature continue to fascinate me. I get a great sense of satisfaction from managing to identify the underlying issues that drive people to behave illogically. Manoeuvring through the rigid defences of a paranoid schizophrenic can be as exciting as playing chess. Encouraging someone bent on suicide to re-engage in life is rewarding. Every day presents a new challenge.
Over the years I have managed to build up a robust private practice in a plush tree-lined suburban neighbourhood. My office has a large green leather sofa and matching armchair, where I usually sit. A tropical fish tank stands between two large windows that face the East. Books that line the walls are not just for show. A large flat screen computer monitor sits on my antique oak desk in a corner, which is lit with expensive china-based table lamps.
Looking around me I can understand why others consider me ‘established’. Indeed, things worked out well, considering. Few would guess how far I had come. No one has any idea that my career began in the slums of the Bronx. What would they say if they knew about the gang life, the crime, and the poverty? They certainly won’t understand why I did what I did, back in 1969, unless they heard the whole story.
I
The Bronx was nowhere to be in August 1969. Two months of relentless sun had forged the cement pavements into mosaic slabs of putrefied litter. The lack of a decent breeze meant that exhaust fumes lingered, and merged into an invisible carbon monoxide cloud - until eventually settling onto any exposed surface in the form of black soot. The natural colours of park foliage faded into an indistinguishable brownish/yellow landscape within which little solace was found from the humidity. Billboards were outdated, the graffiti was random, and schools remained idle.
Entire city blocks were totally deserted after desperate tenants torched their own homes in order to coerce the city into providing hotel accommodation. Most of the windows were securely boarded up with aluminium sheets. Large sections of chain link fences were unravelled in order to provide easy access into playgrounds, school basketball courts, and mid-street crossings over busy roads. Left behind was a collection of abandoned cars in various stages of disrepair, or abuse.
The unfortunates who were not able to escape the summer misery of the Bronx appeared stubbornly sluggish in their movements. Many wore simple attire, which consisted of DIY shorts made from old jeans, loose fitting T-shirts with the sleeves ripped off, and plastic flip-flop sandals. It was almost as if people remained in the casual, well worn clothing that one restricts to lazy Sunday afternoons at home. At first a quick dash to the local newsagent was chanced without dressing up. Soon a slightly longer excursion to the bakery on the next block would hardly be noticed. Eventually care about one’s appearance was abandoned in favour of comfort.
We were among the thousands of fortunate urban families who regularly escaped the summer torment of the Bronx to the Catskill Mountains in upper New York State. Those summer months would comprise the happiest memories of my childhood. The country air was fresh, cool, and fragrant. Little time was spent in the meagre cabin at Weis’ Bungalow Colony. Mostly we enjoyed swimming in the large concrete pool and playing baseball, hide-and-seek, checkers, and Frisbee.
The nearby woods provided plenty of adventure. Top-secret paths towards a hidden field of blueberry bushes were cleared. Hideouts were camouflaged, and wildlife was collected. Regular competitions were held to see who could amass the most orange-coloured salamanders, the fattest toads, and the creepiest Daddy-Long-Leg spiders.
Evenings began with a barbecued meal consisting of hamburgers, salad, and a baked potato. We would play cards or hitch a ride to the nearby town for a strawberry milkshake. At night we sneaked into the resort hotels in the area for a free movie, stage show, or game of 8-ball. Most importantly were
