by Restin Wells
Chapter Three
So, after the initial phone interview with Dr Tilden, I began weekly outpatient therapy again. Gradually, I came to regard her as an especially intuitive, sensitive individual, yet possessing an unusual strength. I found myself confiding in her more than I had with anyone before. She had the most soulful eyes, that drew up an angst of mystic wondering. Yet, the slightly terse mouth roused a certain uneasiness, almost a warning. But she loved to speak of the unconscious. She spoke of it with deep knowledge and specific application to me.
On the adult level, I dared hope Dr. Tilden could lead the way to the mental healing I so desperately needed. In the beginning months, we talked of many personal and spiritual matters that were of more than sufficient depth to hold my attention. I came to feel the sessions were more important than anything going on in my life. I argued that it would be expected, if one could find a cure for a serious health problem. But I also began to realize that it was even more than that concern. I was free of my anxiety only when I was with her. I felt deep love for the doctor and also deep worry that she might not always be there for me. But I figured that My growing dependency would moderate itself, as therapy progressed, and I would be grateful with eternal affection for the wonderful Dr. Tilden, whom I could still see as often as I wanted to for the rest of my life.
I began to feel a lot better. Life even became enjoyable as I continued my part time college, and some work with the horses and art in my spare time. The house began to look better too. I continued to regard Dr. T as the best and scariest therapist I ever had. But something began to happen that was both mysterious and ominous. In a subtle way I first perceived only through my anxiety level, Dr. T didn't seem to be so interested in my talk as she did in the beginning. I would do my part and "say what comes to mind" and she would have little to say about it. I would wait for her response and she would just sit there, looking inscrutable. I would feel myself blush, and hope she couldn't see that out of the corner of her eye.
At first, I thought she was just having a bad day or two. But it got worse instead of better. I thought she might be ill, or going through a relationship problem herself. I asked if she were discouraged about my case and all I got was that psychiatrist way of answering with perplexing quasi-question. And she would suddenly announce she was going away a few weeks. She started going on "vacation" more times than anyone I ever knew. Then I began to experience a return of the anxiety and sickness symptoms I dreaded so much. I resented that especially, as I felt that part of her job was to calm the anxiety. But it escalated back up to that level which was disabling agony.
I began to lose time at school, which seemed a problem she ought to appreciate. I swayed between anger and perplexity. Then came therapy hours where she said absolutely nothing at all. I protested, though seemingly in a vacuum. I would sit in silence myself. But I wasn't strong enough to argue. I felt I would perish of shame if she found out I cared that much. I couldn't threaten to terminate. For some strange reason, I couldn't quit. I just hoped upon hope she would let me keep going to the sessions, which seemed the only thing that made life endurable.
I began to question her motives, wondering if she were being mean or negligent. I even suspected her of having an evil connection, even witchcraft, where some evil spirit were using her to bring me down. Then, one day, I harangued her with questions until she unexpectedly, suddenly, launched into a long discourse about my needing to face it that I'm alone in the world, wouldn't die if I were, and should stop using her for a substitute mommy.
After that fateful session, I wavered out the door, and nearly fell down the stairs. I felt as if I were being dragged by a tractor beam to a far, dark place. I felt a heavy, mantel-like horror drape down over my head, invading into my mind with nightmare poison.
Wandering into the parking lot, I couldn't recognize my car. Forcing myself to attend, I located it, got in and turned on the ignition. I looked out onto the streets and didn't recognize a thing. I had been in this surreal dreamscape before. I knew what it would always do. I might as well not even try to go home. But I did. I tried to get a hold on myself... tried to tell myself this was childish to get so upset over a mere criticism of my lifestyle. I felt contempt for my weakness, and believed I should be able to manage my people problems with some dignity. I had always regarded myself as being tough and independent. I didn't have problems with other people. Surely I should be able to get hold of this.
I had been through a lot of therapy, read a lot of books...been through three years of college---for crying out loud! I should be able to control myself after all that! Yet, after arriving home, (I don't even remember driving there) I was engulfed by a tidal wave, and its irresistible undertow. When Ben got home, he found me unable to move or speak. He kept asking what had happened and all I could say, out of my shame, was "I don't know...I don't know." But he knew enough to realize what he needed to do. He got me into the car and headed for the hospital, again.
I found myself in the nurses' station again. But, by now, they never waited for the action--the seclusion room always came first. I let go in there, was grateful to be there where it didn't matter, and I raved and yelled, and ran around the walls until too exhausted to take another step. But this time was different. There was no way I could know it at that time, but this would mark the last time I would be in the hospital for anxiety disorder again. This time would mark the introduction of THE ANSWER.
I was let out into the open ward soon, and tried to follow the routine there, as many times before. Then, the fourth morning, when I went for the daily few minutes with the staff psychiatrist, Dr. Pash, (not his real name) it would turn out to be a most decisive day for my case. I walked into the conference room to which I was summoned, and glanced at the spiffy, gray-suited doctor. I presumed I, in turn, looked rather rumpled. As we sat, he commented, "Come back to the world, Restin, you've been out in left field but hard this time." I flushed with embarrassment for a second because if its showing so much. Dr. Pash was relatively new to me. I had seen him around during previous stays, and had been assigned to him for a two day admission a long time ago.
As I said, I had been seeing Dr. Tilden as an outpatient every week, for a few years, but my great difficulty over her silence was so intense I was in quite a bind indeed! Yet, Dr. Tilden wouldn't be my doctor for hospitalization, as she said it reinforced my dependency upon her. Therefore, if I had to be admitted, I would have to see whoever was on call on the inpatient staff, since patients were required to have a psychiatrist while there. Thus, I happened to be seeing Dr. Pash. But I go to this detail because he, too, was instrumental in helping to find that vital key which could open the door to my trouble.
I had decided to tell Dr. Pash about my frustration with Dr. Tilden, even if we didn't usually take time for actual therapy here. I was afraid to be untruthful about what seemed to be a grave and terminal sickness. And I always held out the hope that a new person might somehow be the one who can help. But, after describing my situation, I thought Dr. Pash had less to say about it than anyone else. Instead, he focused on my "intellectualizing".
Dr. Pash was an outspoken man with electric blue eyes, and he was smart. One reason I especially wanted to talk to him was because he spent more time with patients to deal with their thinking, rather than just dispense medicine and check on how it's working. Though a bit overbearing, he would get right in there and try to do something. He would even have the staff running ragged sometimes.
We were in one of the little conference rooms interspersed among the patients' rooms, especially for doctor visits. He was sitting at the desk with my file; I in a yellow, plastic-and-wood chair a few feet away.
I had just ventured to comment that I was reading a book by R.D.Laing, and "compartmentalization" was a psychological concept that seemed very relevant to me. I also brought up some stuff about transference neurosis from Carl Jung. When I finished, Dr. Pash leaned forward, looked an arrow straight into my eyes, and declared: "I don't want to hear what you Think! The adult in you thinks, the parent in you judges, and the child can't even squeeze out a whimper!"
I was stopped short, indignant at his rudeness, yet intrigued. So, I replied, not to seem naive, "Oh, I know what you mean. You're referring to Transactional Analysis. I read all about that in my applied psychology course at UCF. It's interesting how..."
"I don't care one little hoot what you read in college," Dr. Pash sliced.
He leaned forward a hitch further, and harder into my face. "You are in serious trouble here, Babe. It's your life we're talking about! And you have to learn how to cut out the hedging and start listening to yourself. I want you to go somewhere quiet, sit down, and listen for a NEED deep down inside. But I also want you to recognize that something you do shuts off that need."
"But", I protested, "I don't think that will...I already know what my needs are, but I just can't get...any relief from my feelings."
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Restin Wells