by Restin Wells
Chapter Nine
I was beginning a clumsy dialogue with what seemed to be the source of my major trouble for the past many years. Every day, most of the day, I was compelled to search within for just the right words, or answer, or reasoning, that would ease the fears of a being inside that was barely a toddler, suddenly left alone in the world. Regardless of the truth of the situation, that was how the little child felt, and I was made to feel her deprivations, though I was full grown and knew better. I could not turn it off. Even my reasoning and comforting barely seemed to work. The fears and questionings about aloneness ran like a broken record. Have you ever tried to comfort a child who doesn't know you, who has gotten lost, or whose mother has been away too long? Reassuring words, and diversions, might work for a moment, but not for long. Only mother will do, and the separation anxiety gets so it doesn't listen to anything but the sight of mother's reappearance. To the child within me, Dr. Tilden was the only answer. But I, the adult, knew that was not the real problem. It was up to me to convince the child. But being too rough with that brought on more fear from another angle. I had to learn how to listen and follow the roller coaster changes in the feelings inside. Learn to be diplomatic. The bit of reasoning that worked now might not work in a few minutes. I might have to come up with a new answer, and come up with it quickly, or else. But then, several times a day, I would get so overwhelmed with the anxiety, I would have to switch over to my new-found defense of rage, just to get relief. That also was a great demand of energy in itself--but well worth it to feel okay for awhile.
I knew I could never take take the depths of my anger out on Dr. T.
Even though the anxiety seemed to be about her, something.. someone ..inside of me was mistaken about the significance of her. I knew this anxiety, and
the pent up anger, was about people in my past even if I couldn't fully admit it yet. But even now, I have the satisfaction, from my notes I took
then, that I vented my anger to Dr. T about as much as a real life situation could bear. She encouraged my anger, as my therapist, but there was just too
much to heap up on anyone in real life. Besides I had to purge it often, and
when it came due--not at a set time. The worst part of that was done at home in private, screaming rage into my pillow and pounding on such objects as
could receive such a violent physical expression. I guess I emphasize this because I want others to realize how it is important to preserve their
relationships with other people--friends, family members, and marriage.
Regardless of how honest such anger may be, it is very hard for other people to endure a lot of angry expression, even when they know its not specifically for them. Most people are a bit, or a lot, uneasy with anger, and can't help being that way, even with the best of understanding.
As I gained more insight into my problem, I had to wonder why my illness seemed to focus so much upon the therapist. How did Dr. T get to be the "mother figure" that could evoke such a psychotic separation anxiety as I had? I went to the more advanced books on psychology, and seemed to find explanations for my condition in the works of psychoanalysis. I studied into all I could find about Transference, which resonated more than any other subject my particular concerns.
I wondered and wondered how I could focus on one person in present life, to the exclusion of my husband, parents, relatives, and everyone else. It was about then that I recalled some history of Florida I had read. It was a description of Florida's problem with the huge Lake Okeechobee, so large you can see it from a satellite in orbit, just north of Miami. The great, moody lake was a persistent flooding problem for all of Florida in it's early years. In 1926, a hurricane came through, scooped up the lake and dumped it upon the towns and farms below, drowning over three hundred people. Then, in 1928, after everyone said lightning never strikes twice in one place, and settled even more land, another hurricane plowed through and overturned the giant water bowl again, killing two thousand citizens that time. The traumatized residents and businessmen demanded action. The result was that the Army Corp of Engineers constructed an enormous earthen wall all the way around Lake Okeechobee. You can see it as you drive down the main highways of South Florida: an artificial horizon. An odd, high ridge, often with trees growing on top of it, that goes for miles and miles. Never again would that lake be a monster out of control. Okeechobee had finally been tamed.
Likewise, a lot of trauma happened to me in early childhood. Repeatedly. Like water, emotions seek freedom to move and fulfill their genetic purpose. But feelings can be overwhelming when they become too much. In my early years, as in the early years of Florida, I hadn't built the mature resources to deal with so much personal disaster. So, in its neurological way, my mind built a wall around the problem area. All the troublesome emotions were thrown in there, hopefully to drown forever in the deep, dark unconscious. It became like the Land That Time Forgot. Or a Time Capsule, if you prefer. My mother, traitorous Aunt Mary, mean Aunt Matilda, and every other troublesome person or event, were thrown into the thick-walled "lake" and out of the way of progress. The rest of my mind went on to the business of growing and learning. I repressed so much that I actually fancied I never had had any parenting problems growing up, and never had been through death nor grief, as I saw other children suffer. I was happy and full of energy (hyperactive) and never gave a thought about my past. I did okay in school, got along with classmates, and managed somehow to stay out of serious trouble with teachers. In my teenage years I felt especially blessed with freedom. But I wish now that I could have had therapy early, for I paid for my denial dearly when it caught up with me.
But there is more to the story of Lake Okeechobee. And this is the most important part of it. There are the canal lochs. The water levels and pressures from the lake are controlled by a system of lochs, rigidly and scientifically managed in accordance with short and long-term weather conditions. And that part was what was most like my illness. In me, as in the lake, some emotion has to be let in or out. Though I wished I were a stone, even I had some feelings. Even I managed to care about a few things, or a few people, or fake a tear once in a while. I did love my horses, and all other animals too. I also could feel resentful sometimes. I also was very brittle and could be done in, though I would not admit that for the world, and avoided anything which might put me at risk of that. In spite of my tomboy tough attitude, there were small, closely-monitored channels into the domains of love. And that seemed to be controlled by some directing center of my mind. I couldn't seem to help that very much. That's just the way I was, it seemed. I did allow that I admired a few people who were a certain way. If someone especially seemed to appreciate me, I could feel love, and get a feeling of enthrallment at imagining them admiring me. I would really want to be with them more. So, when someone would come into my life that seemed more safe, and seemed to invite it, I opened up just a little at that "loch". But a lot was pressing to go through. I hoped for too much. I didn't realize that feelings from way back were being activated too. I would get painfully in need of being with them. Too much focused upon the one person. And that, in this way of viewing it, is how Transference happens. I transferred all my pent up longings, love-need, and latent resentments, in the one person who opened the door just a little. And when they would pull back, I would be hurt to the core--and scared too.
But everyone does this a little. Everyone who has an infatuation for someone is doing that. But most people handle it, or integrate it well enough that they don't need therapy. Heartbreak is what happens when love isn't returned, but most people get through it. Fortunately for me, I was afraid of getting my feelings hurt, and didn't want to look like a fool either. Yet, everyone who goes into therapy gets into a Transference relationship too. It can be positive or negative, and usually alternating within both love and hate as the treatment progresses. That is expected and normal. Therapists employ the transference to help the patient resolve their relationship problems, since the client will start treating the therapist just the same way this client treated his early significant people, that didn't go very well. Then, some therapists have felt that takes too long, and requires too much introspection from clients not especially seeking a PhD in psychology. So, patients with problems that aren't too deep often respond to Behavior Therapy--a few words to the wise, or a kick in the butt. But mine apparently had a lot to it, and I didn't find my way to healing until I delved into why and how I was transferring my early history to my present Important Person. And the therapist, sometimes to his or her chagrin, becomes the Important Person when he agrees to start digging into the walls.
Copyright ©
Restin Wells