Get Me Out of Here (17 page)

“So you're telling me I should quit being a good mother and be a violent, angry one? You're telling me to think only about myself and not about them?”

“No, I'm not. It doesn't have to be all or nothing. You can acknowledge your feelings of resentment without ever having to act on them. You can be angry with them. You can even fantasize about being violent toward them without hurting them in the least. And it doesn't mean that you love them any less. If you're open about the feelings, we can work on them. They won't frighten you as much. But if you keep them buried, they become larger-than-life, which only makes it that much harder to be a good mother.”

“So you're saying there's nothing morally wrong with wanting to beat the crap out of my kids? Which, by the way, is what
you
say I'm thinking not what
I
say I am.”

“Exactly. There's absolutely nothing morally wrong with thinking about it. Just with doing it.”

“Haven't you ever heard the biblical saying ‘impure thoughts are as impure deeds’?”

“I have, but I don't buy it. Haven't you ever heard the one about ‘actions speak louder than words’?”

Always a comeback. I could never be right with Dr. Padgett. I wasn't going to play that game, so I sat back, arms folded, glaring at him. I'd never debated competitively, but I could outdebate almost anyone I'd ever met. Except Padgett.

“I remember one time when my kids were small,” Dr. Padgett continued, ignoring my silent treatment. “I took them to see a cartoon movie. I thought it was a great movie and one they'd really enjoy. But in one part a puppy was abused. When we walked out of the theater, both kids were in tears. They'd barely speak to me. It was only a minor piece of the plot, but it was the only part they thought about.

“Children are much more in tune to abuse and much more empathetic than adults are. Because they're vulnerable. Cartoon or not, they related to that puppy. And I felt terrible. I'd made a big mistake in taking them to see it. Because I forgot what it was like to be a kid.”

Padgett making a mistake?
And admitting it?
I leaned forward and tuned in more closely.

“You are an adult, Rachel. And a good mother. And it's harder for you to be a good mother than it would be for a lot of people. You aren't just dealing with the two kids you have. You're dealing with the fragmented child within you. To that vulnerable child, the mere thought of abuse is tantamount to doing it. The mere fantasy of violence or anger is no different than if it were real. But there is a big difference between fantasy and reality. The inner child condemns you for having normal human emotions of anger and frustration.”

“Okay, okay,” I blurted out. “Sometimes I do resent them. Sometimes they make me mad as hell. Sometimes I just have to run upstairs and let Tim handle things because I'm afraid of what I'll do. And sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if I hadn't gotten pregnant. If I hadn't been such a goddamned slut, so stupid about birth control. But I feel guilty as hell when I think this way. Actions have consequences.”

I paused, thought a moment. “Sometimes I even wonder what life would be like if I'd had an abortion and just walked away from Tim instead of deciding to get married. I wouldn't be dealing with kids, my career would be much better off, and I wouldn't be trapped in a situation like this.”

I had to stop as the bile rose up in my throat, and I fought back the urge to vomit. My entire body was shaking. Dr. Padgett waited silently for me to continue.

“What kind of a selfish bitch am I? What kind of horrible mother would even speculate on how her life would be better if she'd had an abortion? What kind of a hateful, ungrateful, despicable mother would think like that?

“And Tim is probably the best thing that ever happened in my life. He's been a rock through all of this. A lot of guys would have hit the road a long time ago. But he hangs in there. He loves me. Damnit, Dr. Padgett! I don't deserve anyone as good as Tim. I don't deserve those beautiful kids. They've all kept me alive by loving me no matter what I've done. How dare I even think about hurting them, leaving them, or wondering what it would be like if they weren't in my life—even thinking life might be better. How horrible!”

I was crying hysterically now, shuddering at the evil thoughts spinning through my head. Ashamed of getting pregnant through my own promiscuity and negligence. Ashamed of wanting to run from my responsibilities and having the audacity to resent my own family who gave me nothing but love.

“It's totally natural to think these things, Rachel. Especially in your position. Motherhood wasn't a decision for you. It was the consequence of impulsive actions. Maybe in ways you weren't ready for it. But let's look at the facts and not just the feelings. You have faced your responsibilities and done so admirably. You've had many more obstacles to overcome, but you haven't given up. And no matter what thoughts and feelings you've had at times, you haven't acted on them.

“Maybe if you had it to do over, you would have done things differently. But you've accepted the fact that you didn't. And it isn't a total loss. It might be more difficult to mother your kids as they grow up while you try to grow up yourself. But it isn't impossible. Whatever thoughts you've had, they haven't driven you to abuse so far, and they aren't going to do so just because you discuss them.”

With that time was up.

I was frozen in my chair. It took a few moments to get up; my mind was spinning in so many directions I had difficulty fishing for the car keys.

Finally, numbed and overwhelmed, I rose, mumbled a quick good-bye, and headed for home.

On the drive home I speculated on Dr. Padgett's notion that feelings had no moral consequence—only the actions taken in the throes of them. It contradicted my Catholic upbringing. I could envision the elderly priest standing in front of a sixth-grade classroom full of adolescents and repeating the phrase: “Impure thoughts are as impure deeds.”

In those days I'd cowered in the confessional, afraid to mention the thoughts I was having, afraid to confess to the masturbation I knew to be a mortal sin. I'd emerged from the confessional deliberately withholding my thoughts and actions. And I knew the consequence of acts of deliberate omission. Deliberate omission—a mortal sin.

Why had I never confessed those thoughts? Was I too ashamed to utter them aloud? Or was I afraid of committing an even greater sin, that of confessing a sin that I knew I would repeatedly commit again, thus making a sacrilegious farce of the sacrament?

Dr. Padgett's philosophy on relative morality, the lack of moral implications to thoughts and feelings, was a comforting one indeed. I'd spent a lifetime chastising myself for what I felt were demented thoughts—a lifetime of shame so great I could not bear to share it with another soul. To believe Dr. Padgett would be a tremendous burden lifted from me, and part of me fervently wished I could do so.

Intellectually it all made sense. Intellectually I had already made the decision to discard much of the Catholic doctrine I had been taught. For several years I hadn't practiced Catholicism at all and had gone so far as to wonder if God even existed. But changing my beliefs on an emotional level was another story. Regardless of how I viewed Catholicism and its tenets today, I had spent nearly all of my childhood in Catholic schools. Its impact on me was just as entrenched as that of my parents.

Which was it? Was Dr. Padgett right? Or was he advocating a lesser morality, one designed to appease me and absolve me of guilt when such absolution was not deserved? Were impure thoughts and shameful feelings amoral or immoral? Was he easing my conscience at the cost of my soul? Was he leading me into temptation, away from the church I had only recently re-entered? Was I being forced to choose between my therapy and my religion?

A year ago I had been obstinate in my opinions about almost every aspect of life, including my own interpretation of Catholicism. I had steadfast views on parenting, morality, marriage, and family. I could argue my viewpoints with such rhetorical flourish that I could often convince others to adopt them. But mostly, I now realized, I had been trying to convince myself.

Now no ground was solid. I questioned everything. The more deeply I probed the issues, it seemed, the more deeply conflicted I became, the hazier and increasingly elusive the answers seemed to be.

In one year everything I thought I believed had been challenged. And I began to wonder if I could ever believe anything again.

It had been a rough evening. Vicious, resentful thoughts about Jeffrey and Melissa exploded in my mind like hand grenades. I was torn between analyzing these thoughts and defusing them as quickly as possible. Yet another Pandora's box had been opened. So many boxes, so many issues, all unresolved. My mind was spinning.

Once Tim arrived home I retreated to the attic, fell asleep, and didn't re-emerge until morning. Yet another evening when the kids didn't see Mommy. Is this what they deserve?

Was this abuse?

I was determined to resolve the conflict between Dr. Padgett's views and my religious upbringing. I needed to believe in something.

So I walked into the Wednesday session with a clear and predetermined agenda. If Dr. Padgett were going to espouse such views, he would have to support them convincingly. I could not simply take this one on his word. The moral stakes were too high. Today Padgett's brain was going to be picked apart; his motives were going to be assessed.

I had barely settled in my chair before I started the interrogation.

“Are you Catholic, Dr. Padgett?”

“Why would that be important to you?”

Answering a question with a question. His same old trick. This time I'd stand my ground.

“I asked you a question,” I replied, ignoring his question. “Are you Catholic?”

“We need to explore why you want to know.”

“No,” I answered tersely. “
We
don't.
We
need a straight answer to a very direct question. I'll repeat it in case you missed it the first two times. Are you Catholic?”

“I'm not going to answer that.”

“Are you Christian?”

Silence.

“Do you believe in God at all?”

Silence.

“Look, Dr. Padgett. I know your little power-play game. I have to answer everything; you don't have to answer anything. I'm not going to play it today. I think, for as long as we've been in therapy together, I deserve at least one straight answer to a simple, direct question.”

“Therapy isn't about what I believe, Rachel. It's about what you believe.”

“But that doesn't stop you from spouting off your own versions of morality, does it?”

He looked genuinely puzzled.

“Yesterday you said that there were no such things as impure thoughts—which directly contradicts Catholicism. About 25 percent of this country is Catholic, Dr. Padgett, so if you're going to contradict them, you'd better be prepared to say where you're coming from.”

“There are no such things as impure thoughts,” he replied. “People can't always control their thoughts and emotions—only how they choose to react to them.”

“I don't believe you! You're pretty damned convinced of your views, but you won't say a word about where they come from.”

“Why would it matter if I were Catholic?”

“Because, if you were, then you would know exactly why your views contradict the stuff I was taught growing up. And if you're not, then we might just not be on the same playing field.”

“Playing field?”

“Yes. For all I know you might just hate Catholics. You might not believe in God at all. You might think all of it is really just a bunch of mindless, anti-intellectual, fundamentalist crap. And I need to know that if we're going to work together.”

My rabid defensiveness about a religion I had so often questioned myself surprised even me. I was confused, angry, and on a roll.

He said, “My religion, if I have one, whether I believe in God or not, isn't the issue here.”

“There you go again. The blank-screen shit. Maybe you don't believe in anything; maybe behind that blank screen there's just a big pile of nothing.”

“I don't see any benefit in sharing my views on organized religion with you. As a matter of fact, I can only see harm in it.”

“Harm?” I laughed incredulously. “You think that talking about God and religion is harmful? What? Is therapy a religion now? Are you supposed to be God?”

“I didn't say I wouldn't discuss religion—only that the discussion needs to focus on your views, not mine.”

“I spent my entire childhood in Catholic schools, Dr. Padgett. And the teaching on impure thoughts was very clear. Impure thoughts are as bad as impure deeds. Are you saying the whole Church is nothing but a lie?”

“What do you think of that teaching? What do you think about impure thoughts?”

“You know what I think? I think you're on such a power trip, you don't want me to believe in God. You don't want me to have a religion because you want me to bend down and kiss your ass and worship
you
. I think you're trying to manipulate me into thinking exactly what you think and calling it gospel. That's what I think!”

Out of the mouth of an agnostic, yet I spoke the words like a tent-revival zealot.

“I think,” Dr. Padgett said slowly, “that you are confusing me with your father. Your father was the one who equated opposing viewpoints with intolerable disrespect.”

“Don't bring my father into this one. He was a staunch Catholic. He knew what he believed in and wasn't afraid to say it the way you are.”

“And your father beat the hell out of you, tormented you, and exploited your vulnerability as a child. Maybe he was staunchly Catholic, but I don't see how you could say his actions were moral.”

“You're intimidated by people with strong beliefs, aren't you? What kind of a man are you anyway? A touchy-feely, wishy-washy wimp.”

“That's your father talking, Rachel. And you know it. You're the one who was intimidated by strong beliefs and scared to death to question. You're the one who isn't sure what you believe in, and that's perfectly okay.”

“So you're saying I'm too much of a wimp to believe in anything? To stand for anything?” I retorted defensively.

“I'm saying that you're confused and conflicted right now. You aren't sure what you believe. Not only about religion but also about life, about how you feel about your gender, about being a parent, about how you feel about your own parents. A major part of this process is to look back on your whole framework of thinking without the distortions and re-emerge as the person you're destined to be.”

I sat back, defeated. “I'm tired of reassessing, Dr. Padgett. I want to believe in something. I don't know what I stand for anymore. I can't even trust my own judgment. It would be a lot easier for me if you'd just answer my question so I could know whether your challenge to a major Catholic doctrine is valid or not.”

Dr. Padgett reclined a bit and sighed.

“I can't tell you what to think, Rachel. I'm here to help you sort out the questions, not to give you the answers. You're the only one who can provide the answers. If I try and influence you with my own viewpoints, then the person who emerges won't be you. You're the one who has to make all the decisions. My role is to help you do that, not to do it for you.”

The vulnerable, whining child entered the picture.

“But Dr. Padgett! Why can't you help me make the decisions? You don't always keep the blank screen. You told me about your kids, didn't you? Why can't you tell me about religion?”

“The purpose of the screen is to benefit you, Rachel, not me. I thought that revealing the fact that I have two kids of my own was beneficial to your progress. Just as I think revealing my religious beliefs would be detrimental.

“This is a critical issue to you. It's going to take some time for you to sort it out. I'm not going to influence you in any way about beliefs you have to reach on your own.”

“But you're telling me to turn my back on my religion. You're telling me not to believe all that I was taught.”

“What I'm telling you, Rachel, is that you need to revisit the entire issue. You need to take a new look at your religious upbringing in the same way you've taken a new look at what happened in your childhood. Only this time without the distortions and without the black-and-white filter. This time you need to face it as an adult.”

“But what if it turns out to be different than what you believe?”

“What if it does?”

“How can you understand me if my views are different than yours?”

“If that were the case, how could I understand your issues of femininity without being a woman? How could I understand mental illness without being mentally ill myself? I don't have to be the same as you, Rachel, and you don't have to be the same as me. What matters is that I care. What matters is that I have the ability to respect who you are as an individual and the ability to empathize with how you feel.”

Another master plan, another predetermined agenda had gone awry. I'd sought direct answers and asked for quick solutions only to be presented with more questions.

I was weary of introspection. Yearning for simplicity, I found only more complexity. Slowly and painfully every layer of perception and distortion was unraveling. I feared there would be nothing at the core. A black hole.

Dr. Padgett had been right. My father—and my mother—had discouraged questioning. They saw introspection as a pathological weakness. The childhood flashback from the couch session focused in my mind. I was a six-year-old, lying in bed, awake and frightened, looking out at the seemingly infinite darkness outside my bedroom window. My grandfather had just passed away, and we had been discussing the concept of heaven and afterlife at school. Heaven seemed comforting. But, even then, I could not accept it.

I had wondered what happened before I was born. For thousands of years life had existed, but I had been alive for only six of them. What had I been before then?

In the haunting darkness the answer had kept coming to me.
Nothing. I'd been nothing before I was born
. Endless questions had consumed me with fear.
What was nothing? What was I for the thousands of years I didn't exist?

Death scared me because I feared nothingness. If I had been nothing before I was born, then I could imagine that I would be nothing once I died. I'd been absolutely horrified, paralyzed in my bed. But I could not cry or seek comfort because I knew what would happen if I did. It had happened before.

My parents thought it was nonsense that a six-year-old would harbor such thoughts. I could remember their answers the few times I did dare share my fears.

“You know what your problem is, Rachel? You think too much. That's positively stupid. People go to heaven or hell when they die, and you are already born, so what difference does it make what you were before then? You're too smart for your own good. Your mind is playing tricks on you. It twists around with terrible thoughts. What is wrong with you? Quit thinking about those things this instant!”

As convinced as I was that I was paying the price for too much thinking, I could not stop. The worries horrified me, and I was ashamed of them. So I kept them to myself. I'd spent innumerable sleepless nights looking out my bedroom window as if it were a prison cell.

This is how I'd learned the value of rhetorical argument and obstinate opinion. Convincing those around me—and especially myself—that my thoughts were absolutely right. If my mind began to wander again, I found a way to distract it. Stay busy. Get drunk. Get laid. Anything to escape the chamber of torture that was my mind.

And now Dr. Padgett was asking me to reopen that chamber, to question everything again. To enter that frightening black hole of infinite smoke and mirrors where nothing was solid and everything was an illusion.

Suddenly I was aware of my surroundings again. I had no concept of how much of the session I'd spent in my own world. Dr. Padgett was still sitting there, apparently having decided not to interrupt my thoughts.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked when my eyes once again focused on him.

“Nothing,” I replied. “I'm just tired, Dr. Padgett. Really, really tired.”

“Well,” he said, “that's about it for today. We can pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

Perhaps that was “it” for the session, but I knew it was not “it” for my thoughts. The questions had only just begun. I was grateful for the antidepressant Desyrel I took at night. It would thrust me into a deep sleep.

The sluggishness of Desyrel. Once asleep I couldn't be aroused by the buzzing alarm clock or the early-morning bustle of Tim preparing for a day at the office. It took a real effort—or a horrifyingly explicit nightmare—to stir me.

Yet the alarm had not rung nor would it for hours. No nightmare had roused me, and I was stirring nonetheless. Strange. One eye half-open, I looked at the clock. Two o'clock.

I was uncomfortable for some reason. Warm. Damp. My skin chafed.

Had one of the kids spilled something on the bed? How could it still be so warm? A little less groggy now, the dampness of the sheets irritated me. I ran my hand across the mattress sheet. It was soaked. So, for that matter, were my pajamas. I sat bolt upright as I smelled my moistened finger, and the reality hit me.

I had wet the bed
.

Tim was sleeping soundly, and his side of the king-size mattress appeared to still be dry, so I gingerly moved the blanket aside and climbed out of bed, not wanting to disturb him and not particularly interested in letting him know I'd wet the bed.