Sunday, September 1, 2013

Ambushed


It was April of 1977.  On Saturday morning my brother called inviting me to attend a Carl Whitaker Workshop he was participating in.  The Gestalt Insitute of Connecticut was an elite group of therapists who came together for their mutual education and support.  They invited the noteable gurus of psychotherapy from around the country for workshops each year.  
I jumped in my car and flew down to Madison.  When I entered, they were still on a break.  My brother took me around to meet everyone.  There were a number of clinicians from Elmcrest Psychiatric Hospital that I already knew.  I had met Carl before, but was reintroduced. 
Shortly, everyone set down and the meeting convened.  I found a couple of pillows next to my brother and sat down.  When it was quiet for a minute, one of the men started thanking Carl for his work with his family last year.  The work had resulted in greater connectedness and joy within the family.  I thought that was cool.   
Following another short silence, my brother spoke up.  “Carl, about 6 months ago, our mother was killed.  At the time I was close to Billy, but we’re not close any more and I want to work on that.  Every eye turned to me.  
I was totally taken by surprise.  This I did not expect.  I didn’t know what to do.  Then Carl extended the invitation.  “William would you like to work on this?”  In my wildest dreams I wouldn’t have known how to say no.  “Sure.”
When I said this, several things happened at once.  I literally could feel all the people sitting around me very slowly moving away.  The next thing I was aware of was Leo Berman moving over to the video camera and turning it on.  What made this all tolerable was that Carl came over and sat down on a pillow with my brother and I.  It was now a threesome sitting alone in front of the camera and a room full of people.  
Like my brother and I, Carl Whitaker grew up on a farm.  He was a big strong farmboy who had left the farm for a professional career.  He was tall and broad.  His personal stature alone was an intimidating presence.  To describe him accurately would take volumes.  However, I must emphasize his kindliness and his brilliant mind.  I felt safe with him next to me.  
For the next two hours, Carl went up one side of my family tree, and then down the other.  He explored deep family themes.  We talked about the lonliness we each felt.  We talked about the horror of the murder.  We both cried repeatedly.  The funny part was that immediately after the session, I would not have been able to tell you one specific thing we said.  Over the years, I have come to understand this.  Carl talked in such a basic, primitive language, that he kept pushing us into the unconscious side of the brain.  He talked primary process and my brain followed him into the depths of my thinking.  It wasn’t that we talked about the love for our mother that we had when we were three or four; we felt the love for our mother that we had when we were three or four.  Being that we were talking from the deepest part of our memory, my mind wasn’t holding on to what was being said.  
I do remember how it ended.  After lovingly exploring our family for two hours, Carl leaned back and gave a big laugh.  He then held out his two big arms as if he was hugging someone and said, “I feel like I have each of you on a different breast and I can’t get you together.  He then wrapped his hands behind each of our necks and pulled us together.  
As soon as we touched, we started hugging, we experienced a new level of our crying.  We were now two little boys who had lost their mother.  We held onto each other and sobbed.  It went on for a few minutes, before the moment ebbed.  My brother sat back and looked at me.  “You know that now we’re both orphans?”    
Carl spoke,  “I want you both to leave, walk on the beach, hold hands, throw sand at each other.  We’re going to talk about what just happened and I don’t want our talking to alter what you just experienced, so you have to leave.”  We slowly wandered out to the sand and walked and talked.  
What happened over the next few months was extraordinary.  As I went on through my grieving and my attempts to avoid my grief; when I came to a roadblock, I would remember something that we had talked about.  It was as if he had scattered breadcrumbs all through my unconscious.  As I stepped on one, a memory would come back that would be like a new piece of the puzzle, that would help me make sense of who I was and what losing my mother really meant.  
It took me 10 years to get that video tape from Leo Berman.  I don’t know if his excuses were real, or he just did not want to give me a copy.  I finally gave him a blank tape and put it in his hand. 
Carl later told me that it was during this session that I captured him as a foster grandfather.  Up until his stroke, he nurtured me.  He shared with me what he thought psychotherapy was, but he talked much more to me about what it meant to be a person, a husband, a father.  He gave me permission to become who I am and I will forever be appreciative of this gift.  

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