Dancing with the Octopus

by Debora Harding

  I made a couple of stop-and-start attempts at working with someone local, practitioners who had different techniques. I found them experienced and fluent at their art, but on both occasions, I found their approaches too vague to allow my internal censor to relax. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I wasn’t interested in being helped, that I was sabotaging sessions with my cynicism.

  Just when I was reaching the point of total despair at finding the right kind of help, I received a call from a psychiatrist who had been highly recommended by a manic-depressive friend whom I deeply respected. Dr. H had space for a new client.

  Would I like to come in?

  In Which I Meet a Real Doctor of the Soul

  Shepherdstown, 2001—Dr. H greeted me when I came into the empty waiting room. He was a tall man in his mid-fifties of unassuming elegance, thin-shouldered, his light ginger hair conservatively cut, and he wore a suit that hung too loosely for someone who cared. He invited me into his office, which was sparse and comfortable, gesturing for me to sit in a rather comfy leather armchair with reclining options. Dr. H then sat in a chair a few feet away from me. His recliner was angled so we could share a view out the window if that’s how I wanted to spend my time, or, with a slight turn, converse with each other. When he spoke, his voice was soft and genuine.

  He began our hour by asking if I could review the intensity of symptoms that I had told him on the phone. Being rehearsed at intake interviews, I spoke in the academic tone of a PhD student: I could not sleep at night yet found it difficult to get out of bed in the morning; when I was able to sleep, I often woke in a night terror; I no longer had the willpower to work out, something I had always relied on for my mental health. I had recently gone on an antidepressant that was doing nothing but making life harder. I had been on anti-seizure medication for five years but discontinued it before we left England. I had two children who filled me with joy, but the confidence in which I parented sat in total contrast to the feelings I carried inside.

  I could spend an entire day feeling a moment away from losing them, like something awful was about to happen. It was a physical feeling, like pins in my stomach. And there were times when being inside my head for a minute was so excruciating, it felt like torture, yet hours could pass without any sense of time spent. If I interacted with the outside world or socialized, it was just hard work.

  Dr. H asked what life was like before I had started to feel this way.

  I told him about our move from England, that we downsized our lifestyle to focus on raising our children. It had been a good decision, and the right decision for our family. But since arriving in the States, I hadn’t been able to work. I was the sort of person who needed big projects to calm me, but I barely had the energy to get through a day in my own home. I was exhausted. If it hadn’t been for my husband, who was waiting for me in the lobby, I wouldn’t have been able to drive the hour and half it took to get to this meeting. I added that my husband and I shared childcare, but recently we had to rearrange our schedule so I could sleep longer hours.

  Dr. H asked more questions about my husband and children, which prompted the first visible emotional reaction I had felt since entering his office. Once I began to speak about my feelings for them, my heart started racing. I became teary. I had everything: an ideal marriage, two beautiful children, financial security, no major health problems.

  He asked me if I could tell him what my childhood had been like. I shared I had grown up with two parents with middle-class privilege. That things had not always been easy at home—my strong personality hadn’t made things easy for my mother. My parents had been very young, my mother overwhelmed and also experienced serious depression.

  He asked if I enjoyed being a mother.

  I told him I had been terrified of becoming a mother for years, because I had seen what it had done to my mother, and I was afraid that someone was going to attack or murder my children, that they were going to die.

  I had known this man for less than thirty minutes, but somehow I felt safe with him. Compelled to share my secrets. So I went further. I said I was hearing my mother’s voice in my head. And my fear was—if her voice was in my head, then I might be a danger to my children. This terrified me the most. I would rather kill myself than risk any chance that I might hurt my children.

  “Why do you think you might hurt your children?” he asked.

  I felt physical pain at the question. I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t have an answer.

  “Have you ever fantasized about hurting your children?”

  “No.”

  “So why do you think you are in danger of hurting your children?”

  “Because my mother lost control with us at home, though I don’t believe she ever meant to hurt us, and I believe it was that she was emotionally overwhelmed.”

  “And you believe that you might act like your mother?”

  “I am scared because I don’t know why my mother behaved as she did.”

  “Or it might be that you do know why your mother behaved as she did, but that you don’t want to accept it. And you are afraid, because you’re depressed, that you will act like your mother?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. That sounded right.

  “Why?”

  “Because she was severely depressed at times. And clearly, if I am hearing her voice inside my head, I have no control over my thought processes at the moment.”

  “Is she telling you to hurt your children?”

  “No.” It was the lowest moment of my life, putting myself in the hands of a professional who would have to ask me such a question.

  “What words do you hear her use?”

  “She’s telling me I’m selfish and I’ve always thought my emotions are more important than anyone else’s. That becoming a mother hasn’t made me any different than the self-centered manipulator I’ve always been. I’m pathetic, and if I am as miserable as I claim to be, I should kill myself.”

  “I don’t know how your mother behaved at home, or the reasons for her behavior, but you do know there is a difference between experiencing the symptoms of depression and violently hurting someone?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but they both start in the same place, both stem from the inability to control behavior. Prisons and mental asylums were the same institution for centuries.”

  “Can I tell you, you are very different than your mother. We might not know the causes of violence, but we do know this. If you have reached the age of thirty-eight and have no history of violence, I can say with confidence you are not in danger of hurting your children. Your problem is very different from your mother’s.”

  And with that, he possibly saved my children from losing their mother, and my husband, his wife.

  Over the next several months, I drove an hour and a half each way and met with him three times a week. He would not keep notes of our sessions to protect my privacy, nor would he speak to my husband or anyone else about my health, which helped alleviate the discomfort that I felt in divulging fears that I myself did not want to face. The sessions were not inexpensive—they cut into our savings, but we were fortunate to have some cash left over from selling our house in England.

  Our first priority, he suggested, should be to reestablish my sleep patterns, so he prescribed a sleeping pill, which was one of the biggest gifts I had been given in years. He then suggested I was experiencing rapid mood cycling, which is something that can happen when some patients take an antidepressant without a mood stabilizer, and that I immediately go back on the sodium valproate. Within a couple of weeks, I started to feel stable.

  After Dr. H and I had worked together for a short time, I learned my physical symptoms, including the seizures, were in line with someone suffering from complex post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

  By far the most difficult material to approach over those months was my relationship with my parents. It felt disloyal and triggered a degree of shame, going back to my childhood. What’s more, I felt I had just fo
und a way of being with my parents. I had tried to forgive Mom, and because of that we were experiencing family happiness. It felt immature to revisit my youth, and I was scared it might put our current relationship at risk. It was like I had parents for the first time in my life, no doubt the result of the marital therapy they had invested in.

  Dr. H explained the value of our sessions—that if I left the emotional coping skills I learned as a child unexamined, I would continue to use them as an adult, when they were no longer necessary. And only more extensive work in therapy would give us the opportunity to look at how they might be limiting my day-to-day functioning. He was fully confident that after this episode was over, I would again be able to enjoy my marriage, my family, my career, my health. I hadn’t lost any of these things. I just needed to get better.

  We went through events of my childhood and adolescence. For the first time in a therapeutic environment, at least since working with Robin at the age of fourteen, I recounted in detail my experience of the violent crime in Omaha. Dr. H reflected that he was awed by my level of resiliency. He suggested the reason I had survived the kidnapping was a mastery of the skills I had learned in living with my mother—that children growing up in destructive homes learn to adapt to survive violence.

  And Dr. H relieved me of my anxiety by suggesting that he didn’t see the benefit of revisiting my memory about that night further. It was what happened at home, both before and after the event, more important to examine.

  A few months passed, and the Christmas season arrived. I told Dr. H that Dad had called to ask if we were joining them for the holidays. I had confirmed we’d be leaving for Indianapolis in several days.

  “Remind me why you are going home?” Dr. H looked truly stumped.

  I paused. It hadn’t occurred to me I had a choice. It was our first Christmas in the States as a family.

  “You have worked so hard to regain your mental health, it seems an odd choice to go home at this time,” he observed. “It is no coincidence this episode began when you moved back in close proximity to your parents. As long as you lived in England, you didn’t have the challenges they pose. You do understand your mother is the same person,” he said gently. “When empathy is not in the wiring, medication can’t help. She might be able to calibrate her behavior, but it doesn’t mean she has changed. And there’s nothing you’ve shared that suggests she is interested in facing the truth that would allow you to reconcile your relationship in an honest way.”

  I sat quietly. I found it difficult not to want to hear more of what he had to say, but also found my loyalty to my parents making me defensive. Dr. H had never offered an opinion like this. And to suggest that my parents might be connected to my emotional problems, at the age of thirty-eight, felt too simple—silly even. Dr. H almost read what I was thinking.

  “May I go on?” he asked. I nodded.

  “I’m concerned that your mother isn’t your real problem. I think you know she hasn’t changed. It’s your father who poses your moral dilemma.”

  I stiffened. This felt heavy, harsh even, a judgment of me, not my father. I had to remind myself that Dr. H had my interests at heart.

  “I see I have upset you, but there is one more thing I’d like to say. You, of course, may disagree with me.”

  This conversation was pushing against a deeper instinct, for self-preservation. But I asked him to continue.

  “Kathleen may be Jim’s wife,” Dr. H continued, “but he has no right to insist that you have a relationship with her.” His use of my parents’ first names was jolting. “You have always talked about your home as if it were your mother’s house, and your father the well-behaved visitor. And I understand it, because you’ve built your identity on the fantasy that he’s saved you. And you’ve needed that fantasy. But perhaps you can now let it go. It’s your blind spot. It’s as much his home as it is hers. And he has no right to ask you to bring your children into it. More important, you are a wife and a mother with a family to protect. And unlike Kathleen, you are a real mother to your children. She may have played a role biologically, but she was not a mother to you. She is incapable of the maternal instincts required to be a mother. Perhaps if you can’t make the decision to distance yourself from your parents for your own emotional well-being,” he concluded, “then you could consider your husband and children’s need that you be emotionally well. Of your responsibility to them?”

  We sat in silence. I was speechless. He waited. I tried to collect my thoughts. Instead, I watched for the minute hand to reach the end of the hour, finishing our session. I stood, thanked him, told him I would consider what he said. And then slowly walked to my car.

  In Which I Ponder the Meaning of Family Togetherness

  Shepherdstown, 2001—As I drove home to Shepherdstown from my session with Dr. H in bumper-to-bumper D.C. traffic, I felt my family values, including honoring my mother and father, under attack. My parents might have failed me, in grotesquely painful ways even, but surely I shouldn’t turn my back on them. I found myself reacting with a fierce protection. How, for example, would I explain my actions to my children when they were older? That the grandparents they had loved weren’t good people? That they were so dangerous they weren’t safe to be near? Isn’t that what Dr. H was suggesting? Or instead, was it that I was so emotionally weak, so psychologically fragile, that I should not put myself near them? There wasn’t an easy door to open here.

  I looked at my options. Maybe instead of canceling the trip altogether, I’d ask Gayle if I could stay at her house. It was smaller, but we could sleep on a floor, and it would mean more time together for the cousins. Instead of spending a week, we could limit it to a couple of days. We could still see my parents for Christmas Eve, but have Christmas Day at Gayle’s for the kids. That way I could see Vivian, who was living with my parents as well.

  I couldn’t help but think of Genie and where she might be. I knew she was married, I knew she had a son, but she hadn’t been in touch with my parents, Gayle, Jenifer, or me for six years. And Jenifer was in Seattle. I knew what she’d say. She wouldn’t hesitate in telling me to take the exit road. She’d done it by enrolling in the army right after high school, which gave her structure and financial independence, and it had paid for her college education. At the age of thirty-two, she had done two tours in Iraq as a medevac nurse, was moving up in the officer ranks, and would end up a lieutenant colonel in the air force. She had little patience for emotional games. She hadn’t made any formal estrangement announcements, but she rarely spoke to my parents. She was the only person in the world that I could joke with about the extremes of my mother’s behavior and never hesitated to tell me to take care of myself first. Ironically, it also meant I wanted to be careful about calling her.

  I discussed things with Thomas when I returned home. This was the first time anyone had offered me a break from working on my relationship with my parents. It felt too easy. But it would also require that I change. And it would affect Thomas and the kids. Thomas’s reaction was immediate and swift. “Whatever I can do to support you, I’m there.”

  In Which I Hear the Sleigh Bells Ring

  Indianapolis, 2001—It was late afternoon when we arrived in Indianapolis. After having unloaded presents and other sundries at Gayle’s house, I told Thomas I was going to duck over to my parents’ house to check out the mood and hopefully grab some time with Vivian.

  Coming down their street, I spotted the glow of Dad’s Christmas display from a block away. The lawn was packed. There was a life-size Santa in a sleigh, pulled by eight reindeer with Rudolph in the lead. Positioned center left, a nativity scene: Mary and Joseph in a stable, looking adoringly down on their baby in a manger, three wise men in the background. The house was wrapped in baubled lights, the trees hung with white glowing icicles. In addition, there were glowing candy canes lining the sidewalk leading to the front door. And in the middle of it all, the American flag, illuminated by a spotlight, which had adorned every one of their homes.
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  When I came into the house, no one appeared to be home. I snooped a bit and eventually found Vivian lying in bed off the sitting room, a waif of a being. She’d always been healthy and active, but now she looked sickly thin. When she saw me, she lit up like a firefly trapped in a jar. I asked her when she’d last eaten. She said it had been two days.

  “Two days!”

  “I’ve had the flu, so have had no appetite or the energy to get up.”

  “Haven’t you told Mom or Dad?”

  “Jim doesn’t come home until late in the evening, and your mother . . . well, she’s your mother.”

  I asked her if she’d like a cup of tea and some toast. Her gratitude pained me.

  When I approached the kitchen, Mom was leaning against the counter, dressed in her nightgown. As usual, she showed no predilection for warmth toward me. She must have heard me with Vivian, but made no effort to greet me. She had just poured herself a cup of burnt coffee from the percolator.

  “Where’s my son-in-law and my grandkids?” she asked, as if I were hiding them somewhere.

  “They’re at Gayle’s.” I said it in as sensitive a way as I could. I didn’t want to provoke her, to make the situation worse. “Mom—did you know that Vivian hasn’t eaten for two days?”

  “She can get out of bed if she’s hungry. She knows where the kitchen is.”

  “Mom, she’s sick, and she barely has any energy.”

  “Yeah, she works it.”

  I asked if it would be okay to get her a piece of toast.

  “Sure thing. Here you go.” She dramatically opened the drawer to show me where the bread was.