I confronted some difficult memories last week, I kept a journal, and I brought this info to the therapist. She immediately asked about my childhood. What the heck, I thought, that’s why I pay an expert. (She doesn’t often do this, but when she pulls out her probing Freudian questions, I gamely play along, because it’s like being in a Woody Allen movie, and my husband and I would have gotten a kick out of it.) We got to childhood experiences that explained why I approached my husband’s illness as I did.
As I prepared to leave, with this nugget of Freudian insight in my lap, I asked, “Now what?”
“You keep moving forward,” she responded.
Arrrgh! That’s all I ever do, is move forward!
I figured, after all this childhood probing, she would open up Door #3 and reveal a gleaming meadow, and I’d walk through it with a certificate from the American Council of Psychologists, or something. But, no, there’s no prize for probing. There’s just get out of her cozy chair, e-mail the co-author, prep for class, pick up the kids, make the dinner, mop the pawprints from the floor, chop wood, carry water. Ah, we’re back to that again, are we? Aren’t we always.