Get Me Out of Here (20 page)

“But if you love her, a little girl who acts like a little girl, then it must be possible for you to love being a girl. If you couldn't, you could not possibly love her.”

My eyes narrowed.

“Leave my daughter out of this! She can be anything she wants to be. Being a girl is fine for her, but it's not fine for me. I know it's inconsistent. I know it doesn't make sense, but I don't give a flying fuck! You aren't going to trap me into liking being a girl, you understand? You're not!”

With that I picked up the little ballerina, holding her by her botched haircut, and smacked her with my fist as the little arms and legs swung back and forth, each blow becoming more violent. Finally I hurled the doll against the wall, her pudgy arm separating from her body and landing with a clatter on Dr. Padgett's desk.

My entire body was shaking, and I was overwhelmed with the urge to vomit and filled with a sudden rush of remorse.

Dr. Padgett rose from his chair, gathered the two pieces of the doll, and set them on his lap. He looked at the broken doll then at me. No blank screen. His eyes were filled with sincere sadness.

“I'm sorry,” I mumbled under my breath. “Very sorry. I broke it. I broke it. It was a nasty, hateful thing to do. I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to be sorry, Rachel,” he said kindly.

His words did little to comfort me as my eyes began to glaze with tears, still focusing on the smiling little ballerina with the bad haircut and missing arm.

“You're mad at me,” I cried inconsolably. “You should be mad at me. I'm an awful, twisted person. I broke the doll. I was so cruel, so mean. I'm so sorry.”

“I'm not mad,” he replied with a sigh. “I'm sad. For you, Rachel. You treated that doll the way you were treated, broke it the way you were broken. You weren't born hating being a little girl. You were taught to hate being a little girl. But you
were
a little girl. So you grew up hating yourself, imitating the same violence and destruction aimed at your femininity that someone else inflicted on you. It makes me very sad that it happened, and if I'm mad at anybody, it's at the kind of person who could do that to a little girl.”

Looking at the shattered ballerina, I felt her pain as if it had been me being crashed into the wall instead. And realized that, in ways, long ago it
had
been me. I began to cry in soft moaning sobs, a hollow portion of my soul crying to be touched, a part of me that had been taken away. I longed to be held more than anything else, to crawl up into Dr. Padgett's lap and sit there while he rubbed my back and stroked my hair. It was an impossible expectation that, for once, I realized and accepted as impossible.

Still the need to be cuddled was burning within me. I reached for the toy clown, the one that had so frightened Melissa, and clutched it, crying my tears into its soft permanently smiling face. A stuffed clown. Genderless. Comforting.

My arms wrapped around it tightly, as if it could hug me back.

I could not hug Dr. Padgett. By his strict limits I could not so much as touch him. And yet, as he had the broken ballerina doll nestled in his lap and I snuggled up with the clown, I felt, in ways, as if the doctor were actually hugging me. Neither of us said much for the rest of the session; we just looked into each other's eyes. His image was blurred by my tears but not so much that I couldn't see the traces of tears in his own eyes. Painful and frightening as it was to have gotten in touch with my childhood feelings, there was also a warmth there, a closeness of being connected, of being comforted as we both realized the sadness of femininity beaten and shamed away.

I wished that the session would never end, and I could sense the same in Dr. Padgett. But inevitably the words came.

“That's about it for today.”

I gathered the toys into the bags as Dr. Padgett fumbled to reassemble the ballerina's arm, making it whole again.
Maybe someday he can do the same for me
.

The toys, including the ballerina, remained in the trunk of my car for several months. Except the clown. Hidden by towels, bags, or anything else I could find, the clown was shuttled back and forth and became my therapy companion for many sessions to come.

The toy session had been one of those rare, compelling moments of catharsis. I was filled with warm feelings of love, acceptance, and empathy. My connection with Dr. Padgett was almost like a high. I spent the evening observing my children, enthralled by their innocence and beauty, grateful to be their mother. Grateful, for once, to be alive.

While regression had worked for me on this one occasion, giving me the euphoric feeling of closeness I so fervently desired, regression of the unproductive and extreme variety dominated my next several sessions. It was all or nothing. If I didn't feel that unique cathartic warmth all the time, then Dr. Padgett was cold and cruel. Vulno and TC sometimes shared, sometimes alternated during the next sessions.

Dr. Padgett had cried for me, and I desperately wanted it to happen again. Thus would I go into long diatribes of pathetic, helpless, and hopeless self-pity, just waiting for the emotional reaction that did not come.

When he didn't respond in the way I'd wanted, TC took over with tough defense and cynical assessments of his motives. The doctor had led me on once again.
He
was responsible for this disgusting display of vulnerable helplessness.
He
was deliberately withholding the warmth from me in his never-ending effort to control and dominate. The man who had given me comfort—whom I had loved with all my being in the immediate aftermath of the toy session—now became the object of my hatred.

I wanted him to cry again, but he wouldn't. Soon, deprived of that emotional reaction, I hungered for even more than his tears. I wanted to be held, to sit in his lap, have him stroke my hair like any good father.

Tim, who at one time had been profusely complimentary about my looks, had, in the aftermath of my diet, taken to being guarded in his comments. He could never be certain just how I might react to the most innocuous of statements. When he said something nice about how I looked, it would backfire as I'd immediately pinch my thighs, clutch imaginary fat, and emphatically insist how fat I was. It didn't take a licensed psychiatrist to figure out that the last thing on earth Tim would want to say was that I was looking good because I was
gaining
weight. Appearance became, between us, an unspoken issue.

But subtle changes were taking place. The five pounds I'd lost after my last hospital visit had slipped back on, and I'd added a few more. At 112 pounds I was still too thin but not quite so emaciated. My ribs were less prominent now, and there was a little softness about me. It wasn't nearly as uncomfortable to sit in a church pew. As the autumn leaves began to turn, so, too, were my own “colors” beginning to change.

I had discovered the merits of resale shops. A bean counter at heart, I loved buying a sweater for three dollars instead of fifty at the mall.

When I discovered the racks of size-five clothing at the Goodwill, I could afford to experiment with new looks and new styles. Now the old blue suits remained abandoned in the closet as I opted for lacy, flowing dresses. I developed a passion for floral prints, for the soft and colorful. Cottons gave way to silks.

It began to matter to me how I looked. Although I didn't wear makeup every day, I wouldn't dream of going certain places without it—to church or a client appointment. Frequently I found myself searching through my new “used” wardrobe, devoting some time to the choices, pulling out the iron, the curling iron, the makeup palette just for a fifty-minute session with Dr. Padgett.

As trained as he was to notice the smallest of nuance, certainly the doctor noticed this as well. It was a crisp day in October when he ultimately brought it up.

I'd walked into the session in a cream-colored sweater dress with elaborate lace and tiny embroidered flowers on the collar. I wore matching pumps and a cream-colored bow in my thick, black hair. I was fully made-up, including lipstick, something I'd never worn even in my man-chasing days. I carried myself differently, with smaller, almost floating steps, and I crossed my legs at the knees instead of the ankles.

I looked good, and I felt good because I knew I looked good.

Still I was astounded when Dr. Padgett opened the session with a compliment. Like direct advice, direct compliments were something he rarely, if ever, doled out.

“That's a beautiful dress you have on,” he said, not in a leering way, but as a perfect gentleman. “You look very attractive today.”

Certainly this is what I'd wanted him to think but not necessarily what I'd expected or wanted him to say.

It reminded me of when I'd been a child, pedaling a bike without training wheels, riding solo without being aware of the fact that Daddy was no longer holding on, steadying the seat. Then Daddy cried out, “You're doing it yourself! Way to go!” Meanwhile, now aware that I was pedaling solo, I was gripped with fear, and the bike soon crashed to the ground. It was Daddy's fault for saying anything. Daddy had spoiled the moment.

“Why should that matter to you?” I snapped back, a bit guilty at having rejected his compliment and yet somehow driven to do so.

Even the “master of the mind” was visibly surprised by this one.

“I was just commenting that you look very nice today—as you have in the last several sessions.”

“Is this a come-on? What do you want from me?”

“No, actually. It's an objective statement. You really do look nice.”

“What's that supposed to mean? You just want me in dresses all the time, don't you? To be some little Barbie doll, some Stepford Wife. You know, just because I'm wearing this doesn't mean I don't hate being a woman, if that's what you're trying to prove!”

Where is this stuff coming from?

“I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm just making a comment,” he replied.

“Actually this is a horrible color on me. It makes me look fat as hell. Oh yeah, that's right. You want me to be fat.”

“I want you to be happy, and I want you to be able to accept yourself for who you are.”

“Why don't you just come out and say it, Dr. Padgett? You want me to be able to accept myself for being a woman. Well, I might have to live with it, but I'll never ever like it.”

Dr. Padgett settled back in his chair. Obviously this was going to be an intense and confrontational session. If he'd had the stereotypical psychiatric goatee, he might well have been tugging on it now.

Why am I being such a bitch to this man? He was only being nice
.

“You thought I'd be a pushover just because I walked in dressed like this, didn't you? Well, I'm just as tough as I've ever been. This is just a costume. And the last time I'll ever be wearing a dress to this place.”

“You think I respect you
less
because you're wearing a dress?”

“Bingo!” I said, uncrossing my legs, taking off my pumps, and planting my feet on the coffee table. “That's exactly what I think.”

“You are what you wear?”

“You are what you wear if you're wearing a dress. I'm announcing the fact that I'm a woman.”

“And because you're a woman, somehow I think you're a pushover? You're saying I think you deserve less respect?”

“Yes!”

“Why can't you be a strong person and a woman too?”

“Don't patronize me, okay? You wouldn't get it. You can say all you want to, but you don't know what it's like to be stuck being a woman. You have no idea. You're a man.”

Dr. Padgett redirected the focus, “What is it precisely that you hate about being a woman?”

I countered with a litany of reasons. He would not render me speechless on this one. It was something I'd been thinking about for as long as I could remember.

“There were those stupid frilly dresses that you couldn't play in instead of the pants boys always got to wear. Boys got to pee standing up, and they could do it anywhere.

“Boys did fun things: they played sports, climbed trees. Girls did prissy things like fooling with dolls. Boys were direct. Girls were catty. Boys were strong and tough. Girls were weak and had to cry to get their way.

“Boys who stuck to their guns were assertive; girls who did so were pushy little bitches. Boys were steady and strong, while girls were overemotional and oversensitive.

“And no matter how much I, as a girl, might have learned in high school or college, there would always be a man who'd think I couldn't hack it because I was female.”

Content that I'd made my point undeniably and unequivocally, I smugly leaned back in my chair.

“That's your father talking again,” he sighed.

“No, not just my father. My mother too. My mother thought the same things. I know she did.”

“I don't doubt that she had as many distortions about her gender as you do. But they're stereotypes. Every single one of them. There are men who are emotionally weak and women who are emotionally strong. These are individual qualities; they don't have anything to do with gender.”

Time to move away from the topic of emotional stability and strength. Besides I had plenty more ammunition to make my case.

“So, are you so blind, then, that you don't see men who discriminate against women? Men who refuse to believe that a woman is capable no matter what she accomplishes just because she's a woman?”

“Now you're talking about discrimination. I'm not going to deny that it isn't a part of our culture, but it's still wrong. It's a distorted view. One that, hopefully, some day, will go away.”

“So you're saying there's no difference between women and men?”

“Not at all. I'm saying that most of the issues you've brought up are gender neutral. Assertiveness and strength aren't the domain of one sex or the other. Neither are intelligence, competence, or emotional stability.”

“All I know is one thing,” I replied, ignoring his points. “It would be a cold day in hell before my father would ever step into a shrink's office.”

“And that's a good thing?”

“Yes, it's a good thing. Maybe you respect women because you are touchy-feely and emotional yourself. Maybe my dad was right; you shrinks are nothing more than frauds and pansies.”

A verbal kick in the balls, I thought smugly.

“Maybe your father felt that way because he was afraid of his own feelings. Did you ever think of that?”

“Maybe that's your own brand of self-delusion. My dad was tough. He didn't sit around and wallow in his problems. He pulled himself up by his own bootstraps. He was strong. He wasn't afraid of anything.”

“Strong enough to abuse an innocent, vulnerable little girl,” he said softly.

“I heard that!”

“I intended you to hear that. You're confusing toughness and brutality with strength. An easy mistake to make, considering what you were exposed to while growing up. But wrong nonetheless. Not every character trait that is stereotypically male is desirable, anymore than the stereotypically female character traits are.”

“Then what? Am I supposed to be like my mother? Crying all the time, manipulating the hell out of him, out of us? Totally helpless. Hysterical. Unreasonable. And then she'd point the finger to her triggerman and let him fight her battles. She could just bat her little eyelashes and get him to do anything she wanted. Pathetic. Manipulative.”

I was exhausted and depressed by now and wasn't up for any more combat or debate.

“Look, Dr. Padgett. I don't know what to think. I don't know what the answers are. My head is spinning. I'm tired. I'm sick of fighting you on this one. I came in here all dressed up, hoping that you'd notice, but then I turned into some kind of raging bitch when you said what I wanted you to say.

“I try to be tough, but I'm really just as emotional, just as manipulative as my mother. Ruled by hormones. Let's face it. I'm screwed. And stuck. Why don't we just drop this one and move on to something else, okay?”

“This is your therapy,” he said gently. “We don't have to talk about what you don't want to talk about. But your conflict about your gender is something that isn't going to go away. And, at some point, you're going to have to come to grips with who you are and who you want to be.”

I nodded, tears coming to my eyes. Indeed, I was conflicted on this one. And just as deeply convinced that there was no way out of it. I looked down at the collar of my dress and fiddled with the lace. As much as I hated to admit it, I did like the lace. I liked the dress. And I didn't hate
everything
about being a woman, just most things.

Dr. Padgett began to tell one of his parenting stories. His little girl, then a toddler, all dressed up on a spring day, had modeled her pretty dress to him, spinning in circles until she nearly fell down just to show him how she could make the dress twirl. She'd playfully run out of his reach as he'd tried to hug her, giggling at the game of chase. And he had looked at her, her proud and impish smile, her pretty dress, thinking she was the most beautiful thing in the world. He'd been so proud to be her father, so grateful to have a little girl.

Visions of Melissa danced through my mind as I listened. Melissa was also a big fan of pretty dresses, although she was just as comfortable and content in a hand-me-down pair of her brother's sweats.

One day Tim and I had spied on her as she was absorbed in a game of Barbies and G.I. Joes. The Barbies had been teaching the G.I. Joes how to fly the fighter plane. Then she sat them all down for tea. Melissa, a little girl proud to be exactly who she was, undeniably feminine and yet not in the least prissy. Just free to be who she wanted to be. Had I been just like Melissa at one time in my life?