The Gateway Building

I wonder if my therapist realizes how dark his office is, especially compared to the small ante-room where I wait for him to greet me.

The ante-room is bright. It would be easy to read magazines in there. The magazines don't interest me, so I read, over and over and over, a scroll on the wall, displaying words from His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, concerning compassion and "wise selfishness."

The interior of the Gateway Building, where my therapist's office is located, is generally dark, except for this small ante-room with two chairs, a lamp, two windows, two coasters, and a couple of month's worth of Time magazines.

The interior of the building is dark. The therapist's office is dark.

Darkness within darkness.

The gateway to all understanding.

I wonder if this is intentional, or if the therapist even realizes it. He has read the Tao, so I can envision either case.

KER-CHUNK

My mother forgot my 16th birthday.

I was never a very demanding child.

Still, 16 ... isn't that kind of a big deal?

I acted out.

I pouted.

I may have stomped a foot, but not as vehemently as my little sister stomped hers when she wanted any-damned-thing, for no occasion at all.

My older brother did not have to foot-stomp. His needs for material things were anticipated and worried over and met before he even knew he had them.

No idea what She was going through, specifically -- didn't have an idea then, don't have an idea now. I just know she was broken long before she had kids.

Finally she said something along the lines of, "Well, what do you want?"

I said, "If you'll give me ten bucks I can add it to the money from my birthday cards and go to Walgreens and buy an 8-track player."

She rolled her eyes, but it was a smart purchase.

I'd listen to Boz Scaggs, Chicago, or Linda Ronstadt in my room at night, just loud enough to buffer my parents' yelling. And Stevie Wonder!


It's okay, I think, if your children occasionally hear you argue in a civil manner -- in a way that is mutually respectful and productive.

It's not okay for your children to hear you call each other names, or tell each other to go fuck yourselves. It's not okay for your children to witness blows.

A lot can be learned from healthy discussion.

When parents abuse one another though, a child infers that she does not matter, that she is nothing, that she is less than nothing.


For my 18th birthday I wanted a backgammon set.


Seriously, after all the eye-rolling I caused my mother, it's a wonder she still has eyes in her head.

I'm a liar

I feel guilty.

Years ago, I felt compelled to drive to my brother's home. I felt the need to clear the air, to clean things up a bit.

I was going to have minor surgery. I'd talked the surgeon out of general anesthesia, but one never knows how surgeries will go. I'd thought, well, if they have to put me under for some reason, and I react to the anesthesia and die, I don't want this unfinished business between my brother and me because it might be bad for him.

So, I made the drive. Under two hours, that's how close we live and I rarely see him.

I felt anxious as I neared his house. He was standing there in the middle of the road. It was as if he knew I was coming. There was no way he could have known. My husband didn't even know.

He's always been more sensitive than me, or so it's seemed. We shared a strange sort of ESP as kids. Nothing alarming or very profound. Occasionally we would say the same random thing simultaneously, or maybe burst into the same song. Later, in our twenties, the night our father died, we shared an almost identical dream. So, I wasn't surprised to find him pacing in the middle of the road as I pulled up. He'd made things easier for me, knowing I would have chickened out if I'd had to go to the door.

I left the car running when I got out.

I told him something like, "I just wanted you to know that I'm okay with everything, I'm okay with us."

He said, "I think you may have found out something about me that you probably didn't want to know."

I said, "I don't have a problem with it. I don't think it's wrong, or weird, or anything anyone should worry about. I'm fine with it. I hope you're fine with it. I hope you're happy."

He didn't seem to feel any better, but maybe in time he would.

I pretty much leave him alone these days. I've stopped inviting him because he does not come. I do my best to allow him his space. I tell myself this is best for him. When I tell myself this, I don't know if I'm lying or not.

I feel guilty because I knew how to escape in more or less socially acceptable ways and he didn't. I retreated into books and drawing and writing and fantasy -- solitude. He coped by controlling the situation with asthma attacks. Asthma was the ticket; all I could ever muster was an ear infection, and an ear infection doesn't stop anyone in their tracks.

So, I have been lying.

I leave him alone and he leaves me alone because we are too close -- so close it's painful.