Monthly Archives: June 2017

More things in heaven and earth

 

I am watching it. I am compelled, and I should not be writing of this while I know so little, while so much is unexplained. But that is my life, my “subjective” reality: the unknowing. And not knowing doesn’t stop me from writing or doing my job.

I am four episodes into The Leftovers, an HBO series adapted from a novel by Tom Perrotta which is set in the aftermath of a rapture-like event in which 2% of the world’s population has inexplicably disappeared. October 14th of 2011, is a 9/11-style shorthand for a mass “departure” that scientists can’t explain. This results in a social malaise that recalls P.D James’ Children Of Men. In that novel (also made into a film), the world’s population has become sterile for similarly mysterious reasons, and in the aftermath an aging (and therefore dying) population is variously depressed or psychotic. Cultists speculate that mankind is being punished; that its hubris, perhaps manifest as a privileging of science, is to blame.

In Leftovers, the focus is not so much on a failure of science as it is that of mainstream religion. Major denominations are nowhere to be seen. A baby Jesus replica is stolen and later desecrated by the acting out daughter of a local police chief of a grim, middle-American town. Baby Jesus is later returned, but significantly, the response is indifferent, and the police chief ultimately dumps the rejected figure on the side of a road. Meanwhile, cultists are represented by a group call the Guilty Remnant, a name reduced to the letters GR until episode two. This tidbit of withholding is typical of the series thus far, which parallels the air of unknowing by minimizing exposition, thus keeping viewers in the dark, and not just about the headline departure, but also about personal details. I am gripped, but optimally frustrated—the essence of suspense, I suppose. Four hours in, I am yet to understand the following: why do all the followers of GR smoke (an ironic play on ‘don’t waste your breath’?) Have the departed transformed into dogs or birds, creatures of either violence or passivity, as is also suggested? Why do the dreams of some enter those of others, as indicated by the profusion of nightmares featuring strangers and foreshadowed events? Why is the police chief estranged from his kids and his wife? It seems implicit that something happened, and whatever it was, it happened before the departure.

It’s just a story, after all: a good one that promises more about meaning; perhaps how religion, ostensibly exiled, has a defiant, parting comment on humanity. The stories of those who enter therapy are good stories also, and the details are likewise often obscured; divulgence of truth, not to mention meaning, is delayed. It is a feature of projective identification, a primitive defense yet more ubiquitous than most imagine, that individuals communicate in fragments: through play, language that is reduced to slang, idioms and inside jokes; by ‘acting out’ infused with terse revelations; by somatic displays that medicine can’t explain. Symbolic expression, via the articulate, coherent use of language, has broken down, though it may repair and unfold over time. Unpleasant emotion is dissociated, replaced by a standard of flatness and baffling obsession. When something has happened that is traumatic and not understood, life goes on, promise onlookers. It goes on with ritual, structure; with substitute things to do that mark time but also betray, in pieces, an epistemological drive.

The police chief of Leftovers loses his bagel in its inadequate incubator, and he’s not gonna take it lying down. He bemuses colleagues by not giving up on the search: for his bagels, for that baby Jesus. He finds the bagels also, eventually, through a semi-violent dissembling of machinery. They were stuck in back of the toaster, trapped in a secret passage, burnt. As the chief pulls them out, he sits back, moping over burnt food, dead…something. He is mildly relieved, having discharged energy from a nagging mystery. He is also depressed, aware that mysteries will keep coming, and that unfolding reality may yet be horrific. “Say it! Fuckin’ say it!” he later cries towards the wife who won’t speak, won’t explain. But she wants to leave him, she writes, giving an answer. It’s not enough. He pleads to know why. About everything.

 

Graeme Daniels, MFT

 

 

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Interruptus

 

A hypothetical dialogue (believe it or not) about a crisis:

 

“What’s the point in talking about it. It’s not gonna solve anything”

“What’s the point of checking out that person at the gym. You’re married, right?”

“Yeah”

“Well, that’s not gonna solve anything, either”

“Yeah, but…”

“What?”

“It’s different”

“How?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously, put it into words”

“Well…I dunno, it’s…when I’m looking at someone I’m…I don’t know how to say it”

“You’re blocking. You know but you stop thinking, and you act instead”

“Right. You’ve said that before. I’m…wait, acting?”

“You’re acting on something, a feeling”

“…yeah, you know what it is—this is interesting—I think I am solving something, in a way. I mean, when I do that stuff I’m taking care of business, if you know what I mean. It feels necessary. It’s…”

(pause)

“…you want me to say the rest?”

(sigh) “Maybe, I…now I lost my train of thought”

“Interruptus”

“What?”

“Forget it”

“Oh, I get what you’re saying, I think. Well, I mean—okay—I’m expressing my sexuality, right? Jeez, that sounds weird putting it like that. Finishing, I mean. I’m…(laughs) I don’t know why this is so hard to say. I’m used to…I guess I can’t control myself, or it seems like…I just can’t turn it off, ya know?”

(pause)

“Or on, in another sense. Again, it seems like—”

“Yeah, okay, I get it. You’re not gonna say it for me. I need to use the words, give it meaning because…Gawd, I wish you’d explain again why that’s so important. (pause) Awright, so again, I can’t just turn off my sexuality, right? That’s the problem. It’s there…all the time. Waiting”

“True”

(pause)

“Okay…(shrugs)…so?”

“But so is the rest of you”

 

Graeme Daniels, MFT

 

 

 

 

 

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How do I…?

How do I…?

  A question that emerges after the story has been told, the problem outlined. A man doesn’t trust himself: he has a plan to stop doing what he’s been doing for a long time, perhaps his entire life. He’s determined; the stakes are higher than they have ever been before, which usually means that others will be affected. Guilt will be key. The guilt stems from the prospect of failure, a background of it, and the implicit knowledge that there is something inside that demands expression.

 How do I…?

 As a therapist, I attend to the question on its own terms, responding with an outline’s semblance. First I mimic the crowd, who also knows the story, the history of the problem, and the stakes. Those stakes are reiterated. Regular reminders about the consequences of problem behavior: the impacts upon self and especially others; the damage to health, career, family. To hear some, you’d think that nothing more than such interventions are called for in the prevention of self destruction. I think that therapy supplies the subtext: people care; the man, despite himself, and despite the observations of some, cares also Further, reality can be cruel. Fate is indifferent.

 Implicit is the call for fellowship. The man in question has been isolating, not talking to others, getting lost in himself. Where is the accountability? I ask. I’m quick to explain: I don’t mean he should answer to me, or that he owes anything to anyone. At an early stage of therapy, I avoid stepping into dynamic roles wherein lines of authority are unconsciously laid. I mean something subtler; having something like structure, containment—that there is someone to speak to, to be honest to, when mania has run its course.

 How do I…?

 Continuity. How do you keep it up, your motivation? A woman changes her mind, doesn’t want what she wanted last month, has forgotten what drove her in another mood; what seemed different. The next twisting, turning switch must be explained while the past is denied. A therapist is memory—an aspect of containment. Something changed. Why? The question doesn’t compel answers as much as it does thinking, the protraction of curiosity, and slowing down. Very little has to happen “right now”.

 How do 1…?

Needs. A subset of the why question: why do people do what they do, especially if what they do generates guilt? Why doesn’t guilt itself motivate change? Why doesn’t remorse always do what courtrooms think it should? People do what they do in spite of guilt, in spite of shame, guilt’s less confident twin. Truth—that something within—hurts; it hurts self and others, and it always will. It needs out. It needs to be released, titrated in the spirit of compromise, for if it can be discharged without anyone knowing, then no one gets hurt.

 How do I…?

 Hope. When continuity has broken down; when the relapse once cast as a mere change of mind has returned the individual back to square one, a knowledge of pain lingers. The day after is another appointment. The fellowship, in all likelihood, is still there. People still care. The questions are still worthwhile. Curiosity is resilient. The therapist is in his office, waiting.

Graeme Daniels, MFT

 

 

 

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