The Family Secret

         My Great Grandmother was born December 2, 1867, and died December 12, 1955. She was my mother’s mother’s mother. I have one vague memory of greeting Grandma (Josephine Day) Saunders and her exuding love toward me.  I knew that she had raised my Grandmother and her five siblings with my Great Grandfather absent most of the time. 
        My Great Grandfather, Franklin Gifford was the Captain of a barge on the Erie Canal.  He routinely traveled from one end of the Great Lakes to the other.  The Canal went right through our hometown of Rochester, NY.  He would visit his family and sometimes leave money for them.  When asked what became of him my Grandmother told me that he got sick on one of his travels and finally died out west. 
        I had no reason not to believe my Grandmother’s story, until one day my uncle told me that it was a family secret.  He told me that when he was a little boy, he visited a hospital with my Grandmother.  He had to wait outside on the lawn, while they went in to visit with Franklin, who was very sick.  My uncle told me that his Grandfather waved at him from his hospital room that day.  He died the next day.
        Evidently, in addition to being the Captain of a barge on the Erie Canal, he was also a two gun totting gambler of some repute.  In Chicago he got in a fight over gambling and shot some guy dead.  My Great Grandfather then went to prison until he was about to die.  He was released to go home to say goodbye to his family. 
        I like the true story better than my Grandmother’s propaganda.  She was raised when it was vitally important what people thought of you.  She was ashamed of the truth so she invented a story.  Her story allowed her to hold her head up.  
        I’m glad my uncle told me the true story.  While my Great Grandfather may have been considered a desperado, I believe the true story adds a certain flair to my ancestry. 

The Power of Self Disclosure

Brian was a tall, handsome sixteen year old boy.  He had been admitted to the hospital in a semi-catatonic state.  He barely moved and didn’t talk.  He had always isolated himself, but recently he had gone over the edge and regressed far back into his own head. Brian had witnessed his father's murder.  When it happened, he was sitting quietly on the back porch watching his father talking to another man.  Gradually, the talking had become shouting.  Before he could react the man pulled out a knife and shoved it into his father's chest.  By the time he reached him, his father was unconscious and the other man had run away.  His father died on the way to the hospital.  The effect was immediate.  Brian shut down.

Needless to say, he was difficult to connect to.  As a staff, we agreed to let him reconnect at his own speed.  I suppose my wife did the best job of relating to Brian.  As a communications therapist, she encouraged him to relate to people again.  She actually brought him back to reality.  However, I did make my contribution.

It occurred to me that Brian and I had something in common.  We both had lost parents to murder.  One day I came across him alone, sitting on the floor.  I sat down next to him, leaving only a foot or two between us.  We both looked straight ahead.  I wanted to avoid the pressure he would feel if I faced him.  I told him I wanted to tell him about an experience I had.  I proceeded to tell him about my mother's murder and how I drowned for several months and then learned to survive.  I told him I struggled with feeling responsible but finally let that go.  He did not say anything the entire time I talked.  He sat and listened to me for almost ten minutes.  When I was finished, I waited for a response, expecting something back.  Nothing!  After some time, he asked if I was finished.  He didn't look at me.  He never looked at me.  I said yes and he got up and left.  I was disappointed as I had hoped my story would be supportive.   He never said another word about it to me.

Several weeks later, my wife mentioned something to me about Brian. I told her about my experience with him, and how I had failed to make a dent.  She was surprised as she knew differently.  Brian had told her how important my talking to him had been.  He totally related to my story.  It gave him courage that he could overcome his own loss.  According to my wife, it gave him strength in the knowledge that he could recover.   

Prior to his discharge from the hospital, he became involved in a staff/patient talent show.  He was able to get up in front of the crowd by himself and recite.  As he spoke I looked over at his mother.  She had tears running down her face as she watched her son recite from Genesis before a room full of people.  Brian was able to grieve his loss and rejoin reality.

As a therapist, you throw out seeds never knowing if they will grow root.  If my wife hadn’t accidentally mentioned him, I never would have known the impact of my talk to him that day on the floor.  

Dad's Lesson on Love

While I knew my father loved me, I was much closer to my mother.  My father was afforded limited access to me because my mother kept me very close to her.  I remember him coming home from work and he’d shadow box with me and it was fun.  Then he would get scolded by my mother who was concerned for my asthma.  My father was a strong presence in the house, but nowhere near my mother’s personality.  There were only a handful of times when my father and I talked intimately.  But they are memorable.  

I was 18 years old and I had just been dumped by my first serious girlfriend.  The relationship had started to become rocky, and I was too young and too stupid to know what was coming.  One night, on a hunch, I discovered her in the backseat of another man's car doing it.  I talked to her and matter of factly she told me it was over.   I was crushed.  I was furious and full of rage.  I didn’t know if I should be sad or angry.  The next day I told my parents what had happened. They tried to console me, but didn’t know how.  I think my mother was secretly glad it was over.  

Later that day, my father came up to me and asked me to walk with him.  He put his arm around me and started to talk.  It took me by surprise.  First he asked me if I knew that he was married before.  I did and I acknowledged knowing my half brother Norman, who was much older.  We rarely saw Normy.  My mother didn’t get along with him.  Then he asked me if I knew anything about that relationship.  I knew that she had become pregnant at the end of High School and being a good Catholic boy, they got married.  

“What you don’t know is how that relationship ended.  I came home early from work one night, and I found my wife in bed with another man.  I was furious.  I did what I thought I should do and went up to the farm to get the shotgun.  It was a double barreled shot gun and I figured one barrel for each of them.  I was loading it up, when my father walked in, your Grandfather.  He looked at me and asked me what I thought I was doing, and I told him.  He got this stern look on his face, was really quiet looking at me for a few seconds.  Then he told me to put the gun away, I was worth more than either of them.”   

I was shocked to hear his story.  Then he looked me in the eye and said, "The same goes for you, your worth more than both of them combined.  Don’t you forget it."  He said no more and walked away.  This was my father's lesson on revenge.  

He never knew how important and ironic it was that this was one of the few lessons he gave me.  Six years later, when my mother was murdered, my soul cried for justice.  However, my father’s words kept coming back to me.  Eventually, I found peace.  I turned my desire for revenge over to the universe, believing in Karma and knowing that the Gods punish much better than I ever would.  Besides, I was worth more than that.  

Becoming a Father

There was one moment in my childhood when I knew without any doubt that my father loved me.  I was very young, perhaps 3 or 4.  I was experiencing a terrible asthma attack, which later that night resulted in my landing in an oxygen tent in the hospital.  I couldn’t catch my breath.  My mother was holding me, trying to sooth me.  I remember the pain on her face.  But I looked over at my father and he was crying.  I have a vague memory of our interchange.

“Daddy, why are you crying?”  

“I hate watching you go through this.”

From that moment on, for my entire life, I have known that my father loved me.  

I have had the opportunity to observe many men become fathers.  We tend to focus on the changes in a woman as she becomes a mother.  However, watching a young man grow into a father is amazing.  Fatherhood is a task that lasts for your entire life.  Yet, there is a transition that happens in men when they first become fathers.  It’s different for every man, but there are some common experiences.  

The first experience is an overwhelming sense of responsibility.  Becoming a parent forces you into the next generation.  The immense importance of parenting a child is frightening.  Most men welcome the opportunity and take pride in this obligation.  Unfortunately, I have known many men that run away from the role.  

As a little boy, I remember when our farmer died.  My mother put a notice in the paper about his passing.  We knew very little about him, other than that he was a bad alcoholic and a good farmer.  We didn’t think he had anybody in his life.  However, at the his service his wife and 13 children showed up.  They only lived  30 or more miles down the road from us.  

Men learn how to be fathers.  They may copy their father’s style of parenting.  Other men from a less nurturing environment may choose to do the opposite of what their father did.  Boys without fathers readily in their life will have to learn how to be a man from other role models: teachers, uncles, other adolescent boys.  Without a positive role model these men often experience difficulty with the father role.  

The most significant experience in becoming a father is the love you receive from your child.  Children multiply the love in the home (and they multiply the chaos).  Their love is infinitely valuable on a multitude of levels.  Just as it changes women into becoming mothers; men are transformed by love.  Children are masters of love, they teach love.  Letting love in is an experience that grows and develops as we mature.  A smile from your child is one of the most coveted experiences in life.  It blesses you and heals you.  It allows you to recognize that the heart is infinite.  A child’s love is healing and empowering.  Perhaps because of the purity of a child’s love, we finally accept that we ourselves are loved.  

Furthermore, a father also has to set boundaries in accordance with mom.  He has to be her teammate in parenting.  Fathers need to learn how to say “no.”   However, they then risk losing all that love from their children.  A grown up father can love the child enough that saying no comes from a loving place and saying no can be said proudly.  I was once told that until you have heard your child say, with all the passion they can muster, “I hate you,” you haven’t earned your stripes as a parent.  

My father showed love by supporting me, putting a roof over my head and showing me what it means to be a man.  But the moment that he had tears for me was the most powerful way he showed me love.  Knowing he loved me has often sustained me during the times in my life when I didn’t love me.  

Modeling an Error

Suzanne’s pout covered her pretty face.  She was attractive and she knew it.  But her plan to become a model had been thwarted.   At this moment, she was being admitted to a psychiatric hospital.  Her career goals had been disrupted when she had a seizure and was diagnosed as epileptic.  She no longer saw herself as perfect.  She totally crashed and made a feeble attempt to kill herself. 

We started meeting and developing a treatment plan.  She told me about her suicide attempt, which she admitted was lame.  We talked about what she had to do to get her life back.  We reviewed the potential therapies she could receive.  She immediately asked to be in the “Models” group.  

She was angry and petulant.  She hated her disease and we encouraged her to hate it.  The more she put her anger on the disease, rather than herself, the sooner she’d be over this setback in her life.  She really wasn’t interested in suicide.  She wanted to live but was angry at her body and at her family.  As we dug deeper we discovered that much of her behavior was dictated by the hurt from her parent’s divorce.  

During our meetings we talked about the epilepsy; how it changed her life and all the ways that it wouldn’t change her life.  We encouraged her to educate herself regarding epilepsy and she did.  She knew her life would change but came to accept the challenge.  She saw the connection between her extreme behavior and her parent’s divorce.  Once again she nurtured the idea of becoming a model.  

One day I asked her how the groups were going.   Her face fell.  She was disappointed in the models group.  The group focused on several hyperactive adolescent boys, each with the assignment of assembling a plastic model.  She had her choice of putting together an airplane or a car.  She chose the car.  She added that the boys were obnoxious.  This was not helping her learn how to model.  I had stupidly not thought about the goals of the group.  

I was slightly embarrassed that she thought she would learn how to be a super model in a therapy group in a psychiatric hospital.  It was clear that she knew nothing about what it meant to be a model or be in a psychiatric hospital.   Following our success with her educating herself about epilepsy we decided she should learn more about modeling.  

Long before google was available, I believed in going right to the source to discover more information.  During one of our talks I stumbled on the idea of calling a modeling agency and asking them questions about the life of a model.  We came up with a list of questions she would ask.  The yellow pages in our area only offered a couple of options for modeling agencies and I called the first one on the page and handed her the phone. 

She was all excited to talk to them and pulled herself up to her full height to put on her most mature self.  She started asking questions and then you could tell that they were asking her questions.  As she listened and responded to the agency, her face changed; it became darker and you could see the discomfort in her eyes.  Briefly, she was done and put down the phone.  

“How was that?  Did you find out what you wanted to know?”  

“Not exactly” she answered.  

“What do you mean?”  

“It wasn’t the kind of modeling I am looking for.”

“What was it?”  

“They were looking for erotic dancers.  I’m not interested in that kind of modeling.”

OMG!  I was embarrassed.  She was embarrassed.  I know my intentions were to be helpful.  I didn’t plan to put her in a compromising position.  But I felt terrible.  Soon, she left the hospital and never returned.  I’ll never know what she ended up doing with her life.  But we both got a little more educated that morning.  I rarely put my clients on the phone any more.  I let them do that on their own time.  It was a simple mistake and I can now see the humor in it; but at the time I was horrified that I put her in that position.  

The Benefit of Piano Lessons

One of my most memorable students was from an Eastern culture.  She was very conservative.  Dating was controlled by her family.  I would tease her about the strict rules she lived by.  One morning she announced that she had become engaged to her boyfriend.  He had asked her family and they had consented to the union.  I asked how being engaged would change their relationship.  She seemed to respond in wonder.  “William, we are now allowed to be alone together.”  Almost conspiratorially she went on, “When we were alone for the first time, we held hands.  William, it was incredible!  I felt this warm surge of energy coming through his hand into my hand.  It was magnificent.”  

I was stunned and fascinated by her confession.  There was a reverence in her voice.  This had been an incredibly powerful experience for her.  She was mature enough to appreciate this very special moment in her life.  I felt a touch of jealousy.  Her recounting the experience had an impact on me.    

That night I remembered the first time I held hands with a girl.  I was in 6th grade.  Thursdays at 5 PM I had a piano lesson with Miss Gilbert at the Eastman School of Music.  For the most part, it was tortuous.  Miss Gilbert couldn’t stand me.  The one redeeming quality about Thursdays was Nina.  Nina took violin lessons at the same time as my piano lesson.  Nina had this exotic gorgeous beauty.  Her long brown hair was captivating.  She wore a school uniform, but rolled up the waist of her skirt.   She had big brown eyes and these knee high boots that I will never forget.  And she liked me!  Or maybe she was just taking pity on me.  I’ll never know.    

On one occasion, she and I walked into downtown Rochester together.  While we walked we held hands.  It was my left hand and I can remember the energy I felt coming from her hand.   I don’t know how else to describe it.  It was one of the high points of my adolescence.  Holding Nina’s hand while we walked downtown made me feel euphoric.  While I remember feeling it, I didn’t appreciate what was happening at the time.  Having remembered the experience, it now stays with me.   

When I transferred to the private high school, I didn’t fit in with the other students.  In order to make myself seem bigger, I told them that Nina was my girlfriend.  Within the day, she had denied it, which made me look like an even bigger fool.  

She may have never been my girlfriend, but on that day, on that walk, when we held hands, she was everything I could ever dream of at the age of twelve.  

Identity

How do you figure out your identity when it keeps changing?  Who I am today is different then who I was yesterday.  Each day I have experiences that continue to shape my personality and attitudes.  Some people seem to know who they are from childhood.  Others never figure out who they are.     

Professionally, when people first meet me, they tend too refer to me as doctor.  They do it out of respect for the work I did to earn a Ph.D.  But I always ask them to call me William.  When they question me, I explain that the doctor title was the result of a few years of study and an extensive research paper.  “William” was the result of a lifetime of looking inside and figuring out who I am.  I worked a lot harder on becoming William than I did becoming doctor.  

Repeatedly in season six of Game of Thrones, they ask the question, “Who are you?”   It started me thinking about my own identity.   Who I am is the most important thing I bring to my clients in my office.  If I don’t know who I am, its difficult to help others figure out who they are.  Then again, knowing who you are is important in intimate relationships.  

Growing up I didn’t know who I was.  I was probably as lost as the next person, but that doesn’t make it any easier.  I didn’t have an identity.  I was whatever my parents, teachers and friends said I was.  This didn’t get any better in adolescence.  When I would begin a new relationship, I would immediately lose myself into the “us.”  I didn’t know how to hold on to me, because I was so poorly defined.  

I know what this looked like.  It would be Friday night and we would be deciding what we would eat and I would keep repeating, “What ever you want.”  I didn’t have enough substance to say, “I want Chinese, or Italian,” or anything specific.  I wanted whatever she wanted.  The person that they were initially attracted to got lost.  

It was all about my insecurity.  I wasn’t valuable enough to myself to think that someone would stay with me if I really let them see me.  So I would hide behind, “You choose.  I’m good with whatever you want tonight.”  

Successful relationships are usually found through each person growing and finding out who they are and then being themselves with the other person.  It took me a long time to figure out who I was.  But I know one major contribution.  

I was a Freshman at Monroe Community College.  I don’t remember which class it was, but the professor was taking role.  I responded when he called out my name, “Bill Boylin.”  I had been “Billy” all my life.  I never really thought much about my name.  The girl behind me tapped me on the shoulder.  She was very pretty with jet black hair and beautiful brown eyes.  She looked me square in the face and confidently informed me that I was not a Bill, I was a William.  The name stuck like glue.  It was as if it was tattooed on my forehead.  From then on, I was William.  She was right, that was a significant part of my identity.  To this day I only have a couple of friends who call me “Billy.”  Predominately they are friends from my childhood who knew me when I was Billy.  

That girl and I almost got married.  We were deeply in love.  We did get engaged after we finished college.  But I wasn’t ready.  It would have been a disaster, because I didn’t know who I was and I was still too immature to maintain a relationship.  Another step in figuring out who I was happened when I realized I wasn’t ready to get married.  We talked and ended the engagement, but not without fighting and tears.  She helped me in figuring out who I was.  All those wonderful relationships I had as a young man each contributed to my discovering my identity.  

                 Today I have a pretty good idea who I am.  I'm just not sure who I will be tomorrow. 

Char

Having had a great experience at Syracuse U. doing telephone crisis counseling, I joined a similar organization when I got to grad school.  I started the Masters in Psychology program at SUNY Geneseo in 1973.  Upstate New York was the home of the suffragettes and Susan B. Anthony.  At that time, our culture seemed at the height of liberalism and feminism.  Char was an undergraduate but the Director of the Telephone Crisis Counseling program at the school.  She and I worked together to teach the skills needed to be on the phones.  She was pretty, petite, insightful with beautiful long brown hair.  

Char gave me my first lesson in systems therapy.   After a training seminar a number of us went out to eat.  Char and I had barely started our conversation when she turned to me, her eyes got thin and almost accusingly she said:  “You’re the younger brother of a brother, aren’t you?”  She had a confidence and an authority in her presentation.  I had no idea how she knew this.  She proceeded to give me my first lesson in family therapy.  She explained how my personality signaled my placement in my family.  She showed me how behavior is tied to the family of origin.  This may have been the beginning of my love for family therapy.    

Char was in an open relationship when I knew her.  On a couple of occasions we ran into each other when we were both single.  It was a time of romance and love without the necessity of trying to maintain a relationship.  The morning after our second encounter she sent me a bouquet of flowers.  It was the one and only time that someone sent me flowers.  It was a very loving thing to do.  Initially, I was confused by the gesture, being that I’m a guy.  It seemed upside down, that she was sending me flowers.   But I quickly came to accept her message.  

Char taught me about the family and how the dynamics affect the people.  She taught me that feminism meant I didn’t have to follow gender stereotypes, I could define for myself who I am and who I want to be.  Finally, she gave me a lesson in love.  

Mrs. Bottsford's School of Dance and Etiquette

Every Friday night over 200 youths attended Mrs. Bottsford’s School of Dance and Etiquette in East Rochester.  In addition to learning the Fox Trot, the Cha Cha, the Mexican Hat Dance, Rock ‘n Roll and the Waltz, we were taught etiquette and the proper way to conduct oneself in public. There were many kids from elite families.  I was from the other side of town, but at that age, nobody cared.  From 6th grade through 9th grade I was trained by Mrs. Bottsford and her dance instructor, Ms. Leonard.  There were two important issues that were relevant on Friday night.  First, I was very popular with Mrs. Bottsford, because my brother had been there and he always did everything right.  Therefore, I was often picked to demonstrate a new dance step.  This was not only embarrassing, but extremely intimidating.

The second thing to know is that I had discovered girls.  Actually, I was totally girl crazy.  At Bottsford’s I had discovered the most beautiful Ginny Summers.  She was pretty and sweet and I had a crush on her.  Because I’ll never be able to forget her or her name, I used her name in my novel, Bedlam.  I used to try and position myself to dance with her as often as possible.  We were only allowed to dance with a particular girl once, before excusing ourselves and moving on to someone else.  I knew she liked me, but I had competition.  Gerald Barney (also a name from Bedlam), was much handsomer than I was.  I’m sure she liked him better.  

The dance hall was a huge futuristic room.  It was beautiful, with a wooden doomed roof like a modern indoor swimming pool.  There were actually two dance floors.  When you first entered, on the upper level was a small dance floor, maybe 30 x 30 feet.  Then, down several steps was the larger dance floor.  The lower dance floor must have been half the size of a football field.  Sometimes Mrs. Bottsford would pull out select children to give her ‘special’ lectures to on the upper level.  I was always included in these lectures.  

We had been dancing for 15 minutes or so when I succeeded in maneuvering myself to dance with Ginny.  When the music ended, I escorted her to a chair, bowed and then sat next to her for social conversation.  Mrs. Bottsford appeared on the upper level of the dance floor.  Instantly, the room fell silent, which is an amazing accomplishment for a room full of 14 year olds.  “A young lady has arrived to join us.  Is there a young man who can escort her to the dance floor?”  While maintaining great posture, every guy there tried to shrink.  She may have been a most wonderful young lady, but at 14 years old we were all scared to be singled out.  It did not help that she was unattractive.  I know that’s superficial, but that’s who I was.  Mrs. Bottsford repeated her request.  She wanted someone to volunteer, but no one was offering.  Then I heard the words I dreaded.  “Mr. Bollin.”   She always pronounced my name incorrectly.  I think she was trying to make it sound fancier, more uppity.  “Mr. Bollin, will you come and escort this young lady to the dance floor?”  I had no choice. 

Following proper etiquette I stood up, faced Ginny and bowed.  I turned and started my trek to the stairs.  Walking the length of that floor with almost 200 kids watching was frightful.  Inside I was shaking.  In my mind I had to think about every step, the swing of my hands, holding my head up high and having a smooth gait.  It only took me a few seconds to reach the stairs, but it felt like an eternity.  I smiled at Mrs. Bottsford as I started up the stairs.  There were probably only 5 or 6 steps, but I wasn’t to make it to the landing.  Just before the last step, I tripped.  I fell on my face and slid back down the stairs one step at a time.  I remember the clunk, clunk, clunk as my body returned to the bottom.  

The laughter only lasted a moment.  One look from Mrs. Bottsford and complete composure was restored.  But the damage was done.  This reinforced my belief in how inept I was.  I had demonstrated my incompetence to Ginny and the entire class.  Shortly, after this I had a war with my mother and was allowed to quit Mrs. Bottsford’s School of Etiquette and Dance.  

I know that I benefitted from those Friday evening lessons.  I still have great posture, I always try to be a gentleman, and I love to dance.   But tripping on those stairs was one of those defining moments of my youth.  It represented my clumsiness and inadequacy.  It took  over a decade before I had any semblance of confidence in myself.  Even now as an adult, I know there is always the possibility that I could fall on my face again.  

All Babies are Buddhists

Carl Whitaker, MD, once told me that all babies are Buddhists, because they feel they are one with the whole world.  Because of this the most important lesson we learn from children is intimacy.  They have an infinite ability to tolerate intimacy. 

It’s 4 A.M.  You are exhausted and sleepy.  Your tiredness almost hurts.  But you are willing to be up, because your baby has cried.  You are holding it in your arms.  It is a joy to have this private moment together.  This is on-demand feeding in the middle of the night.  There is a stillness at this time of night.  There are hardly any sounds in the house.  There is just the sucking, slurping sounds of your infant.  The sucking is rhythmic, but there are rest periods every few slurps.  And your baby is watching you; actually, more like studying you.  He/she is looking into your face, examining everything about you.  You are being watched and memorized.  You may look down at the cheeks as they suck away at the bottle, but your eyes are drawn back to the eyes that are watching you.  Eventually, your hands are touched by the babies little hands.  They hold onto your fingers.  You can’t help but look at the little dimples at the knuckles.  They are captivating.  

It’s just the two of you in the whole world.  There is no place to hide.  This child sees you as you have never been seen before.  This is an intimacy like none other.  Without any words, there is a communication between the two of you.  As the two of you watch each other, the bond grows.  

Sometimes the sucking starts to slow first.  Sometimes the eyes start to get heavy.  You can see them fighting sleep.  The sucking slowly stops.  Thinking they are done, you start to pull them away.  Then, the sucking starts again with renewed vigor.  The eyes open again, as if to say, “I’m not ready yet.”  

Eventually, the baby falls asleep.  These few minutes may have been the most peaceful moments you have had in your life.  Certainly, they are the most intimate you may have ever experienced.  

Did you have this experience?  If you did not, you missed out on one of the most beautiful experiences in life.  If you did, you will remember the love you shared at 4 A.M.  Children provide an unparalleled opportunity for intimacy.  It is perhaps their greatest gift.  

The Professor's Obligation

By the fall of 1975, I had completed the academic course work for my masters degree.   The thesis proposal had been approved and I had collected the data.  Subsequently, I moved to Connecticut for an internship in Psychology.  I would start my internship and write my thesis in Connecticut.  By November I sent my first draft to my major professor.  I knew she wasn’t happy with me.  She had recently divorced, had let me know she was angry at me for breaking up with my girlfriend before we left school and she was angry with men.  I was still shocked when I received her reply to my first draft.  Essentially it read like this:  “I received your paper.  I was extremely disappointed by the quality of the work.  I am now convinced that you will never be able to complete the research adequately and therefore you will not graduate.  The amount of effort that I would have to invest for this to become viable would be astronomical.  Therefore, I am quitting your committee and sending this letter to all the other faculty.”  

I was devastated.  For about three hours I felt hopeless.  Then I had the thought that this was my thesis not hers.  If I kept working on it and improving it, I would eventually graduate.  With hope renewed I wrote another professor that I respected and asked him to be my committee chair.  I sent along a copy of the paper.  

In response, Ray Wolfe, Ph.D., sent me a critique of my paper.  It contained a huge list of changes that had to be made.  I went to work.  I made the changes and sent it back to him.  My internship flew by with my sending revisions to him and Ray responding with recommendations.  

Three weeks after the internship ended, my mother was murdered.  It was a horrible time for me.  Mourning my mother dominated my life.  Over time, I again started working on the paper.  It took me 17 drafts before I was approved for my oral defense.  The defense of a thesis is an intimidating experience.  It is called a defense because it is the faculty’s job to attack the research.  I knew that I would face a hostile faculty.  Upon entering the room, I heard one professor say how this was going to be like “wolves descending on sheep.”  There were thousands of ways that my research could have been improved.  During those two hours I heard every one of them.  Eventually, it came to an end and I was asked to leave the room.  After their discussion, I walked with Ray back to his office and he told me that I had passed.  He had actually secured enough votes for me to pass before the defense.  He hadn’t told me, so that I would experience the full impact of defending my research.  He was right, I certainly felt it.    

As we set down in his office, he began to disclose his experience.  When he received the draft from me, with the request to be committee chair, he didn’t know what to think.  He had received the letter from my original committee chair.  He didn’t think the paper was that bad.  But when I changed the paper in response to his critique, he knew that I was being a student.  If I was capable of being a student, he had the obligation to be a professor.  

Then he told me an interesting story.  He told me that in the history of science there was only one major contribution that had not been the result of a student, working with a mentor and then going beyond.  Evidently, there was a nobleman in England who started studying physics.  He took some classes, but generally educated himself.  He eventually wrote a paper regarding Quantum theory and sent it to Oxford and Cambridge U.  It was so deep and complicated that none of the scholars that read it knew what to do with it.  Eventually, it reached Albert Einstein at Princeton.  He responded that this man had made the next contribution to understanding Quantum physics.  They should award him a doctoral degree.  

I have been blessed with great mentors throughout my career.  They have each contributed to my career as a psychologist and psychotherapist.  But I wanted to acknowledge Ray Wolfe and what he did for me.  My career could have been derailed back there in Geneseo had Ray not lived up to his obligation to be a professor to someone who was being a student.  

Learning About Love

In the early ’60’s my family joined the golf club down the road.  My father wanted to play regularly, and the club had built a swimming pool, so it seemed like a no-brainer for my parents.  The entire family spent much of the summer at ‘the club.’  I was at the pool most days.  I hung around the pool during the summer and made some great friends.  I found and lost my first serious girlfriend at the club.  My parents also made some close friends.  I was often included in many events.  As a result, I was able to observe how couples treated their partners, interacted with others and expressed their love.  

My parents were sitting at the bar talking with Bonnie, a close friend of theirs.  They were all having a good time when Bonnie started getting a little flirty with my father.  

Bonnie put an arm on my father’s shoulder, looked at him and said, “Gene, I think you and I will have to have an affair.”  She clearly meant it as a joke.   

My mother’s entire face changed.  Her eyes narrowed.  Her face seemed to darken.  Her lips tightened.  She gazed at Bonnie.  With great sincerity she very slowly, quietly and deliberately spoke:  “Over my dead body!”  It seemed like time froze.  I know Bonnie froze.  Then she quickly made a joke of it, so that they could move on.  The moment was over.  

There was something very primal about her claiming my father.  He belonged to her and nobody would be able to get near him until she was dead and gone.  She was letting Bonnie, my father and anyone around know that she loved my father enough to fight for him.  The moment changed from fun to serious so quickly, it had a huge impact on me.  The message to me was that you have the right and a responsibility to protect your marriage.  

I saw this  again at my father’s wake.  My mother stood by my father, lying in the coffin, the entire time.  She later told me that she was going to protect my father up until the last moment.  

In Memory of Joe

         After fifteen years of working in an adolescent psychiatric hospital, I transferred to a substance abuse program.  There, I met Joe Doucette.  We became great friends.  Joe was a great person and a brilliant therapist.  He started the family program at Conn. Valley Hospital years before I arrived.  The family night program that he started eventually had a total attendance of 50,000 people, over the course of a couple decades.  I remember watching him run those meetings. As a therapist, he was an artist. It was fascinating to watch him do therapy with one hundred people at once.  He touched thousands of lives.  When I met him, I realized that we thought the same way about substance abuse treatment.  He taught me how to work with addiction and the family.  We spent lots of time working together, but we also got together outside of work to play.  I remember how excited he was when we got an article about our work, published in a professional journal.  He was a great friend to me through all those years.  He never got the credit he deserved for making that program work.  I don’t think he ever felt that he got recognized for his abilities.  He knew that I believed in him.  I will forever be grateful that we crossed paths.  I want to give one example of how I benefited from his wisdom.
         I was working with a young, intellectual drug addict.  He professed to use drugs to stimulate his thinking.  He thought the drugs took him places he might otherwise not go.  He worshiped drugs.  However, he knew they were dangerous to him.   He decided to get clean.  His family came in to help and we held several family sessions.  His mother was sure she knew the problem.  According to her, no matter how often her son got clean, there was one girl that he could not leave alone.  They would get together and use drugs. 
         The son described the girl with reverence.  He believed they were soulmates.  They understood each other.  He believed their using drugs brought them to a deeper connection.  The girl was as intelligent as he was and they were magnetized to each other.  But he heard our warnings that she would bring him down.  He found a new resolve to stay away from her and not use drugs. 
         After the holidays I got a call from his mother.  Her son remained clean for several months then he had met up with the girlfriend and they had started using together.  He had overdosed and died.  Would I see her again to help her mourn?  We met the next day.
         She brought in a picture album.  We talked as we went through the pictures.   She knew she wasn’t responsible for her son’s death but she felt responsible.  We talked about what she did and didn’t do.  I helped her get out from under some of her regrets and I gave her permission to mourn as long as she needed to.  It was a very sad meeting. 
         Several months later, a young woman was admitted that caught my attention immediately.  She was attractive and profoundly intelligent.  Her insight was deep and impressive.  Within a couple of days of seeing her in groups, I felt a strong pull to help her.  
         One day in group, she started talking about her boyfriend that had overdosed when he was with her.  She talked about trying to save him and watching him slip away.  As she talked, she provided enough details that I knew who the boyfriend was.  This was the infamous girlfriend of my previous client.  There was something about this girl and her relationship to my client that fueled a compulsion to save her.  It was as if I was caught in a spell.  I had seen this in other staff many times over the years.  It was at that point that I knew I needed more input.
         I went and talked to Joe.  In addition to being a dear friend, I respected his skills as a clinician.   He knew recovery, he knew addiction, he knew people and he knew me.  He listened quietly while I told him what I was experiencing.  When I was done, he just starred at me for a minute before he began. 
         “William, during the next week, I want you to spend more time with her.  I want you to talk to her whenever you get the opportunity and then we’ll talk again in a week.” 
         I was surprised that he didn’t tell me to stay away from her.  That would have been the standard recommendation.  But his suggestion sounded terrific.  I went about talking to her whenever there was an opportunity.  My experience was an eye opener.  The more I got to know her, the more I realized that she was crazy.  She wasn’t crazy in a psychotic way, but her logic didn’t make sense.  Her thinking was upside down.  I found it a total turnoff and realized that my delusion of saving her was gone. 
         When Joe and I again talked he just smiled.  After that we never talked about it again.  He brought me through a dangerous experience.  I’ll never forget his wisdom and guidance.    I am forever in his debt.  He touched many lives and made the world a better place for it. 
         I never got to say goodbye to him.  That was my fault and I regret it.  But I wanted to write something that would honor him while demonstrating his therapeutic wisdom.  Goodbye Joe, I miss you and will always remember you. 

My New Title

Today my oncologist referred to me as a survivor.  I can’t begin to convey the feeling that came with that label.  It is an incredible way to finish the year.  

How Aunt Dorothy Saved my Life

I was never close to my Aunt Dorothy.  She always treated me well, she seemed nice, she even gave me cool Christmas gifts; but that’s not the same as close.  I was therefore surprised at my mother’s funeral, when she walked up to me, waited until she had my full attention and then told me the wisest thing I have ever heard regarding grief.  I have read books, attended countless workshops, and talked with some noteable experts on grief.  None of them contained the brilliance of her thinking.  Her words are enshrined in my heart.

“William, hold onto her as long as you need to, then let her go.  Don’t listen to anyone who tells you to move on before you’re ready.  Don’t set a time limit on your grief.  Hold onto her as long as you need to, then and only then let her go.”  

She was right.  You can’t put a time limit on grief.  It ebbs and flows throughout your life.  While you may not feel anything at a gravesite, a tune on the radio can trigger tears.  You may not feel anything for a long time, then a holiday or anniversary may unleash a wave of sadness.   

Grief is an unavoidable part of life.  I do believe that avoiding grief can physically hurt the body.  Keeping that kind of pain within you will damage your body over time.  With that one little comment my Aunt Dorothy may have saved my life.  

The Letter

No matter how much you work on some issues, they will still come back to haunt you.   Sometimes current events will trigger you.  Sometimes an anniversary or a holiday will trigger you.  Sometimes divine providence interrupts the tranquility.  The result is that you have to work through issues that you have worked through before.  Such is the reason I haven’t been writing for the past couple of months.  I have had to wrestle with an old issue yet again.  

Fall has always been a delicate time for me.  My mother died on September 25th, my parents anniversary was October 25th, my Mother’s birthday was November 25th and Christmas was always the big holiday in our house.  In succession, these events would emerge each year to require that I feel the loss.  Early in our marriage, my wife pointed out that if I didn’t allow myself to feel the sadness during Autumn, I would get sick by Christmas.  

One of the complications of my mother’s death was that just prior to her getting killed she visited Connecticut.  I was finishing my internship, the only thing that was holding me here.  During her visit she asked me if I would return to the family home after my training.  I could complete writing my Masters Thesis from the farmhouse in Rochester as well as I could in Connecticut.  I knew she was lonely and wanted my companionship, but I wasn’t about to move home at the age of 26.  I declined and I knew it hurt her.  I think she took it personally.  It was only a few weeks later that she was killed.  Along with all the other emotions that accompanied her death, I was overwhelmed with guilt that I had not moved home.  I reasoned that if I had been there, maybe she wouldn’t have died.  Maybe I could have saved her.  

This question has haunted me over the years.  I knew I wasn’t responsible for her death, but did my absence contribute to her demise?  I also became angry with my father who had died 6 years earlier.  Maybe if he hadn’t have smoked those damn Camel straights, he would have been there to protect mom.  Then during my grief I realized that if I had been there I might have died also.  Murderers don’t like to leave witnesses.  I rationalized my decision, while also acknowledging that moving home at my age, would not have been healthy.  But the feeling that I had let her down by not moving home had stayed with me.  For 39 years I have carried this small guilt.  

We have been in the process of cleaning out all kinds of stuff that has accumulated over the years.  It was on Sunday September 20, 2015 that I pulled out another box, from under the stairs to go through and see what could be tossed.  In the box, I found my mother’s purse.  I don’t know if I had ever looked in it.  It still had her car keys and lipstick.  Mostly it was filled with bank deposit slips for accounts long gone.  Then I came across a letter.  It was a letter from me dated September 20, 1976.  I had written the letter exactly 39 years to the day that it was returned to me.  I opened it and read.  

The letter described the work on my thesis.  It described my plans to seek employment.  But it also told her how much I loved her and that she shouldn’t take it personally that I didn’t want to live with her.  I needed my independence and to find my own way.  My not returning home was about me, not about her.  

She would have received this letter only hours before she was killed.  Before she died, she knew that I loved her dearly and that my not moving home was about my trying to grow up.  Reading the letter, finally after 39 years, absolved me of the guilt I had been carrying.  While it totally let me off the hook, it also triggered my grief again.  At times, during the next few weeks, I felt the devastating pain just as strongly as when she first left me.  For several weeks, I had to return to mourning the loss of my mother.  

I no longer avoid these feelings.  Over several weeks, I let the pain roll over me and through me.  It slowly ebbed away and I again feel grounded.  It took some time for me to recognize this experience as a “great gift” as my son called it.  The fact that the letter came back to me exactly 39 years later impressed me that the Gods wanted me to pay attention and work through another piece of my grief.  

Maternal is as Maternal does

In my humble opinion, I am one of the most maternal men you will ever meet.   As maternal as I am, I’m not in the same ballpark as my wife.  She could spend days with our infants without a single complaint.  I could handle extended hours at best.  She has always had this internal ability at mothering.  It was an instinct that was built into her.  She knew what our children needed before I could even recognize the question.  But everyone has their limits and before long we had to have a talk about her getting a break from infant babble.  We finally worked out an arrangement that one night a week, I would stay in with the baby and she could go out.  This worked for us.   Many years later that negotiation came back to me as an intervention.

I was working with a nice young man, Elliot, who was in the rehabilitation program for substance abuse.  He was married with 6 boys, all under the age of 10 years old.  One afternoon we had a family session with the entire family.  I only had to cope with those boys for one hour, but they almost sent me over the edge.  His wife was great and loved her husband and the boys with all her heart, but she had a legitimate complaint.  She needed help with those boys.  He explained that he would do his best to stay home and help her.  But eventually, he would reach his breaking point and leave.  On the streets he would meet up with ‘his boys’ and he would end up using drugs sending him back to the bottom again.  Elliot was frustrated, his wife was frustrated and the boys were out of control.  His wife certainly was not going to like the idea of his attending 12 Step Self-Help groups 5 nights a week.  

It was nearing the end of the hour and I felt that my only accomplishment had been to keep the boys from taking a crayon to my wall.  The office had not been totally destroyed, only partially.  I was disappointed in how the session had turned out, when I remembered how my wife and I had negotiated a similar problem.  I told them of our experience.  I suggested that one night a week, Elliot stay home and watch the kids and the wife go out for the evening.   She brightened up immediately.  I insisted that this would only work if Elliot was encouraged to go to 12 Step groups on the other nights.  It took the rest of the hour for them to work out the details of the negotiation.  But they both went away satisfied that they would get their needs met.  Elliot left the rehab. program the following week and he didn’t return in the years that I worked there.    

               Despite our limitations as fathers, we can make our contributions.  Elliot could handle the overwhelming responsiblity of the boys for one night a week.  One night a week out, was all the wife needed to keep her sanity.  She could then encourage Elliot to attend 12 Step groups to continue his healing.  

Sometimes You Just Get It Right

It was August 30, 1975.  We were going to see the Rolling Stones.  I was accompanied by my college roommate, Jim, and two wonderful women who went with me to SUNY @ Geneseo.  The concert was at Rich Stadium, where the Buffalo Bills play football.   We were all totally excited.  We were in the stadium by the early afternoon.  It was a beautiful, warm, sunny summer day,  a perfect day for an outdoor concert!  I don’t remember who was the first warm up band, but I remember Sheryl Crow being the second act.  She was still not well known.  When we heard her, we knew she was going to be a great star.  

The Stones were incredible that night.  The music was amazing.  Jagger was outstanding as he danced across the stage.  He was Jumping Jack Flash, the Midnight Rambler and an unsympathetic devil all in one.  Keith Richards’ on lead guitar was brilliant.  Hearing him live, you came to appreciate all that he added to the sound.  Billy Preston was playing keyboard for this tour which just added to the fullness.  There was a frenzy that ignited when they performed Midnight Rambler.  This had to have been before the Altamont disaster.  Jagger took off this big, white belt that he was wearing and he repeatedly whipped it on the stage in time with the music.  It had a dark eroticism to it.  It totally electified the audience.  Later, they sang “Wild Horses” acappella.  They all grouped around Jagger and sang back up to his lead.  It was beautiful, powerful and impressive. 

The 1975 concert ended close to midnight.  Fireworks marked the finale.  Then there were 100,000 people exiting the stadium at the same time.  It was the only time in my life where I was in such a tight crowd of people that you literally couldn’t move other than to go with the flow of the mass.  It was scary.  By the time I got home and to my car, it was almost 3 AM.  

In the fall of 1975 I was lucky enough to be driving a copper-colored Ford Mustang hatchback.  It had 360 hp and was gorgeous.  I had spent the day before filling the car with my most important possessions.  At 4 AM, I got in my little Mustang and drove off to Connecticut.  On Monday I started an internship at Elmcrest Psychiatric Hospital in Portland, Connecticut.  I was 25 years old and I would never again live in New York State.  This was farewell to my childhood home.  It was a wonderful way to leave.  In my way of thinking, the Rolling Stones gave me a send off to my new life.  

When Does Grief End?

My wife Catherine, taught me an important lesson about grief.  It was the fall after our daughter was born.  She had a very serious look on her face when we sat down to talk.

“Every year during the fall, you get sick.  Now that we have our daughter that has to change.”  I really didn’t understand what she was talking about.  She could see it in my face.  “William, every year at this time, you get sick.  When you get sick, I get sick, and the baby will get sick and we’ll have a miserable Christmas.  It has to change.”  I was still confused about what she wanted from me.  “Let me put it this way, your mother is here in our marriage and she’s fucking with us.  Get her out.”    

This was a challenge.  At this point, my mother had been dead over ten years. I was sent to the basement (exile) to “work” on this issue.  At first I didn’t think she knew what she was talking about.  But she knew me well and I knew she believed it.   

My mother died in late September.  The anniversary of her death was always a powerful time for me.  My parent’s wedding anniversary was in October, my mother’s birthday was around Thanksgiving and Christmas was our big holiday.  Fall was filled with emotional anniversaries.  In September I would start to avoid my feelings.  Clearly, the cork was put in the bottle with the anniversary of her murder.  As Fall proceeded I would get more and more depresssed.  I bottled up the sadness I had from all those family times that I used to celebrate.    I would get more and more depressed and numb, until I would get sick.  Catherine was right.

Then I had a memory of an experience I had shortly after her death.  My brother and I had decided to rent out our farmhouse in Rochester.  We should have sold it then, but neither of us could consider parting with it.  I was given the job of going up to the house, cleaning it and preparing it for sale.  

I knew that this was going to be tough.  I knew I would have to clean up blood.  When I arrived at the house, I steeled myself to the task at hand.  If I allowed myself to feel the sadness, I would never be able to complete the job.  So I turned off all my feelings and went about my cleaning.  By the time I left there, 8 hours later, I was sick as a dog.  I felt like I was coming down with a flu.  But I needed to get back to Connecticut, so I jumped in my car and started driving.  I was outside of Albany, when I finally had to pull over.  Once again, I felt the hurt.  It was the familiar pain that accompanied losing my mother.  It was excrutiating.  I believe I sobbed for over 15 minutes.  It was deep and cleansing.  It took me a while, before I could regroup and get back on the road.  But by the time I reached Massachusetts, I was totally healthy.  My body had washed away whatever it needed to.  

I knew what I had to do.  In order to get my mother out of our family, I had to spend some time with her.  Each Fall, I had to allow myself to mourn my mother.  I needed to cry and feel the loss.  Some years I would pull out pictures of her and that would open me up.  Some years I would write her a letter and tell her about my life.  To this day, I can still find tears if I think about how much my kids would have loved their grandparents and vice versa.  That thought will always be a trigger for me.  

For several years as fall would approach, my wife would remind me that my mother was sneeking back into our lives.  Would I kindly get her out?  For more than a decade, this was our ritual every year.  In fall, I would start taking time to think about my family, my childhood, my mom and dad.  Eventually, I would open the flood gates and have a good cry.  Once I opened up to the tears, I wouldn’t get sick.  

I don’t know when I noticed that Catherine stopped bringing it up.  Eventually, it was no longer necessary.  While the pain will always be there, as time and my family healed me, my mom’s death lost its power over me.  

Great Mothers

Sometimes great mothers end up in my office.  I call them "Great Mothers."  Great mothers are the ones that can juggle their responsibilities to the children, the husband, the home and a job.  They don’t question their duties, but go about them effectively and with love.  They are comfortable making dinner, while feeding the baby, kissing their husband hello and checking their schedule for the next day.  You wouldn’t think that great mothers would end up talking to a therapist. 

It has to do with the development of the family.  Juggling everything for everybody works when the kids are small.  But we all need to learn to do things for ourselves.   The more you do for maturing children what they can do for themselves, the more you handicap them.   Adolescents need to learn how to take care of themselves.  This is a slow process that continues until the child is launched.  When problems occur during teen years, great mothers revert back to doing the things that worked before, namely fixing things.  Now, these efforts backfire.  What the child really needs is enough support to handle the problem themselves if they can.  The message the child gets is that they can't handle their own life, so parents will control them.  Parenting requires that the adult continually be changing as to how they raise their child.  This is a difficult shift for some mothers to make.  It requires that the parent watch their child fail, hurt, face disappointment and generally struggle through the chaos.  As parents, we hurt when our kids are hurting, so we want to spare them.  Further, adolescents are now much more capable of doing permanent damage to themselves or others.   Now matter what the age of the child, parents will want to protect them.  The basic job of parenting is to teach the child to take care of themselves.  This means that mom needs to change how she does things.  In order to change this pattern, mothers can start by finding one thing a week, that they are doing, that their child could do for themselves and give it up.  When the pattern is broken for the first time, parents tend to apply the process to other issues.  As they learn to adapt, great mothers again become great mothers.