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Book: Voicelessness and Emotional Survival: Notes from the therapy underground
Dr. Richard Grossman:
Hi everybody,
Given the book that my patient wrote about her therapy with me, some may wonder whether I have treated other patients with a severe, life-threatening Adult Attachment Disorder. And the followup question: did I use the same out-of-the-box approach with these patients? Unfortunately, I haven’t treated any other patients with this extremely rare, VERY hard-to-treat disorder, so I can’t provide any more data. I can say that my ex-patient continues to do very well in all aspects of her life, including the relationship aspect, and is very grateful. But, no, I haven’t used this approach again.
Also, it is very unlikely that any of my other patients will write a book about their long-term therapy. Almost all fit into the categories: senior professors/department chairs, surgeons, business owners, hospital heads, lawyers, psychologists, etc., so they could not risk being exposed. Plus, we all know that very few people (including therapists) read personal books of this nature unless the writer is a celebrity. So, there would be little point in writing such a book. This is too bad, because, as I wrote in my book, the data from the patient side of the room is most important, including an answer to the question: “How big a difference did the therapy make in my life?” Sadly, that question answered by therapists—and even researchers—have been inaccurately reported. Freud, for example, fabricated significant elements/descriptions of his patients’ lives, and I know of one incident where a world-famous researcher in the mind-body area used fabricated data. It is far better that patients, ideally who have tried multiple therapies, report the long-lasting difference a particular treatment has made.
Richard
lighter:
That makes sense, Doc.
Lighter
Dr. Richard Grossman:
Hi everybody,
So, for me, where was the line drawn between doctor/therapist and friend? After all, like it or not (!), I am the same human being in both “roles.” Aside from the fact that my doctor role is patient-centered (or, as Carl Rogers would have said in the 1960’s, “client-centered”), for me, this is not such an easy question. A stranger stopped me on the street while I was walking my dog some months ago and reminded me of the eulogy I had given for one of my dear friends a decade earlier. Apparently, she remembered it well. I pulled it out of one of my many file cabinets and re-read it. The eulogy spoke to what I believe and practice as a therapist, though crossing the fine “patient-centered” line to “friend.” So, here it is:
“About 10 years ago, Don and Betsy invited Hildy and me to spend a day at their house on the south shore of the Cape. Don had Bat Mitzvahed our daughter Micaela a couple years before, and we had been friends ever since. When we got there, Don asked me if I wanted to go for an ocean ride in his boat.
When we went around to the dock behind the house, I looked at the boat. It was not much bigger than a rowboat, with a body of what seemed to be ancient wood, and a puddle of water splashing around in the bottom. The outboard motor looked like it had last been started in the 1960’s. Not being much of a swimmer, I asked myself: Are we really going out into the Atlantic in this? But I trusted Don, and luckily, there were oarlocks on the side and a set of oars in case all else failed. Don held the boat steady as I got in, and then he stepped in and pulled the starter rope nine or ten times with no results, each try followed by a minor adjustment to the carburetor. I looked at him to say: well, how about a margarita on the dock, with the usual seltzer and twist for you? But he was unconcerned about the motor: he smiled with every pull. Suddenly, and I must say, somewhat to my dismay, the motor coughed and then came to life. And out we headed.
On the ocean, we rode in and out of the swells large enough to swallow us whole. Large waves slapped fiercely against the ancient gunwales sending spray into our faces, making me wonder what pieces would be large enough to hold onto if the whole thing came apart. But the boat held. And in that tiny, wooden skiff on the edge of a vast ocean and separated what seemed to be a thousand miles from the rest of humanity, Don and I began sharing stories of our lives with each other. Stories of childhood, stories of family, stories of illness, stories of pain, stories of happiness, stories of life. And with sharing those stories over the years, as it so often does, came love. Many of you knew Don as a gentle, patient, wise mentor. He was. But I also came to know a very different side, his vulnerable side—a side that he shared with me for over a decade. It was this vulnerable side that I most valued, and the side, I believe, from which his other sterling qualities emerged.
But suddenly I find myself back in the tiny wooden boat again, miles off shore. The old motor has stalled, the boat is drifting with the ocean wind in and out of the swells, and this time there is no Don. All I have are the oars—and my memories of his love.
But that’s good enough. Stroke by stroke, they will get me home.”
Richard
Hopalong:
This touched me a lot, Doc G...
it's beautiful.
How very lucky Don was that you knew how
to listen, how to be present, how to value another person.
I'm sorry you lost him but how beautifully and poignantly
you rendered your deep appreciation for him.
Thank you for sharing this.
love
Hops
lighter:
Doc:
I wanted to read every word you wrote. You had my full attention, then Don took my heart.
I love the trust he had in his little boat. I love that experience helped you understand all will be well, even if the motor goes, and you have only the oars and yourself.
All will be well.
Those were lovely words, Doc.
I'm glad you shared them with us.
Lighter
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