How Grown Up Am I?

“My house feels like a morgue,” 20 year old Chelsea says looking down at her hands. “I guess that’s a poor choice of words, since it sort of is, but not exactly. I mean, I’m not happy I had to have an abortion, but I also don’t think it will be the greatest tragedy of my life. And truthfully, I don’t think it’s the abortion that my parents are so upset about. They don’t like the idea that their ‘little girl’ was having sex. It’s not like I’m 14. And Brad and I have been going together for two years. He was pretty upset too. I think he feels guilty that he didn’t use a condom 100% of the time.”

I have been seeing Chelsea for several years now, watching her struggle between wanting to remain the child who is forever taken care of by her parents and striving towards adulthood with her own dreams and desires. We have a close bond although, not surprisingly, her internal struggle is often replayed with me in the consulting room.

“What are you going to use for birth control in the future?” I ask.

“We’re not. We’re not going to have sex.”

I knit my brows, puzzled and skeptical. “You mean you’re not going to have sex until you give yourself some time after the abortion?”

“No. We’re not going to have sex. Or at least not intercourse. Maybe we’ll fool around a little, maybe not.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Why, what?”

“Why did you decide not to have sex? Do you feel more guilty about the abortion than you’re saying? Is it a way to punish yourself?”

“No! For heaven’s sake, I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about it. You sound like my parents!”

“In what way?”

“In making such a big deal about sex.”

“Wait. I’m getting confused. I thought your parents were making a big deal about your having sex. I’m questioning your saying that you’re not going to have sex.”

“You mean you don’t believe me? You don’t think I can give up sex?” Chelsea says angrily.

“I’m trying to understand why you’d want to give up sex.”

“Because I don’t want to risk getting pregnant again. That seems pretty simple.”

“I hear you’re angry with me but I’m not clear why.”

“Everyone thinks I’m doing something wrong and you’re just like everyone else,” Chelsea says, her voice cracking. “If I say I’m not going to have sex, I’m not going to have sex! End of discussion.”

“And how does Brad feel about that?”

Chelsea crosses her arms in front of her chest and glares at me. “Why should I care how Brad feels?”

Aware I’m feeling more and more confused, I suspect my feelings mirror Chelsea’s own confusion. “Chelsea, tell me what’s going on. What’s going on inside of you? What has you so distressed?”

“Brad wanted me to have the baby. He said we should get married, that we were old enough, that we could both work and go to school and take care of the baby.” She pauses. Tears fall silently from her eyes. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I’m not ready. I don’t want to be responsible for another person. I don’t want to leave my parent’s house and go off on my own. It’s way too scary. Brad’s really mad at me. I’m not even sure we’ll stay together.”

“I’m sorry, Chelsea. It’s like your parents are mad at you for being too adult and Brad’s mad at you for not being adult enough and each side represents your own conflict about how grown up you feel or want to be.”

“Yeah, that’s right. That’s exactly right.”

“And does my asking you about birth control feel like I’m pushing you towards the adult side?”

“I guess. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose it does.” She pauses. “So what about my deciding not to have sex? Is that my going towards the child side?”

“What do you think?” I ask, aware that my not answering her question could also be construed as my pushing her to be more adult.

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” she sighs. “But is that so bad? Can’t I take a little break here?”

“You can, but none of us can stop time. We keep growing older whether we like it or not, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have conflicting feelings about growing up and it also doesn’t mean you have to push yourself to act or be more grown up than you feel.”

“Thanks. You gave me a lot to think about.”

The Risk

“It’s been a while,” says Delores. “I appreciate your seeing me so quickly.”

“My pleasure,” I respond, truthfully. I always liked Delores, a spunky, vibrant woman who was in her late 60s when I last saw her.

“This time it’s actually not an emergency. Not like last time. I was such a mess. Losing Marvin so unexpectedly was devastating. I just wasn’t prepared. And having him be the third husband I lost, well, that was all way too much.” She sighs. “But I guess that is part of why I’m here. I’m trying to figure out if I dare do it again. After Marvin I said never again, no more men. And now, now I just don’t know.”

I certainly remember Delores’ trauma at losing Marvin. I myself was a relatively recent widow, Delores’ pain clearly reverberating with my own. And the fact that she had lived through two other such losses felt truly overwhelming. I can certainly understand her reluctance to take the risk again.

“Is there a specific man?” I ask.  

“Oh yes, Harry. A friend of mine kept asking me to go out with him. She said he was a widower, a friend of the man she dates, a good bridge player and an all-around nice guy. I said ‘no’ for quite a while. Then one day I felt lonely and they were going to a movie I wanted to see, so I said, why not, it’s just one date. That was three months ago. And now, well, it’s going to go one way or the other. I either have to stop seeing him or take the plunge.”

I certainly understand Delores’ conflict. Harry perhaps offers a more fulfilling, richer life, but certainly raises the specter of another devastating loss. I’ve lived my life believing that it’s “better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all,” but perhaps there’s a limit to the number of excruciating losses any person can sustain. Fortunately I don’t have to make Delores’ decision for her.

“So, what are your thoughts?” I ask.

“Well, I’ve thought of all the obvious things – he’s older than me, although only by a couple of years; he has prostate cancer but they’ve been watching it for years and it’s never gotten worse; he’s also had a lot of skin cancer, but that seems under control as well; no heart disease, but Marvin supposedly didn’t have heart disease either, until he keeled over dead. I go round and around in my head about all that. But what’s really odd, is that I keep thinking about my father, dreaming about him too.”

I remain silent, giving Delores time to reflect.

“My father’s been dead for almost 50 years. It was very traumatic for me when he died. I felt like an orphan, even though I was in my 20s. My mother had been dead since I was 10, so it had been just me and my Dad for a while.” Pause. “But I don’t know why I’m particularly thinking of my Dad now. He didn’t come up for me when Marvin died, or any of my other husbands either if I remember correctly. No, that’s not true. John, my first, died not that long after my Dad. I wasn’t 30 yet and I remember then thinking of my Dad a lot. There were so many losses. I could cry just thinking about it.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

“So do I want another one? I mean, I know no one ever knows, that I could drop dead tomorrow, especially since I don’t exactly have longevity in my family, but I guess my experience is always that the men go first.”

“Except not for your mother. She died first.”

“That’s true,” Delores says pensively. “I wonder what that meant for me. This is a crazy thought, but I wonder if I expected my Dad to live forever. I mean I knew he couldn’t, but still …”

“Was that a wish, Delores? As in you wanted your Dad to live forever because you couldn’t face another loss.”

“I’ve certainly faced lots of them.” She chuckles. “I wonder if I keep looking for the one who’ll live forever. Just kidding.”

“Maybe you’re not kidding. Maybe you keep looking for the man who won’t abandon you, who will live to be there for you, unlike either of your parents.”

“That’s deep. My unconscious would have to be real smart to think that one up.”

“Perhaps it’s that the child part of you is still yearning for the safety and security that was so absent in your childhood.”

“Perhaps. But I don’t know if that helps me figure out what to do about Harry. I’ll have to think about it during the week and see what my unconscious comes up with.”

“Sounds good.”  

You're Back

“I’m really glad you’re back,” Christine says, her eyes filling with tears. “I know you were only gone a week, but it’s been a hard week. I thought I was more prepared, more ready to deal with my parents this time, but I don’t know, I guess it was the holidays. It was awful. I felt sorry for my girls. They were so looking forward to Nana and Poppy coming for Christmas and it was such a disaster. My parents never stopped fighting, my mother never stopped telling me what I was doing wrong, most particularly as a mother and, of course, as someone who couldn’t keep my husband from straying and my father just got more and more depressed.”

“I’m sorry, Christine. It does sound awful and so disappointing.”

“Yes, that’s exactly right, terribly disappointing. I guess I thought since we’d been working so much on my parents these days, I’d be able to handle them differently or be less affected by them or something.”

“So it sounds as though you’re saying that you’re disappointed in me too, in our work together.”

“No. I don’t think so. I was disappointed that you weren’t here to bounce things off of, to maybe give me some ideas of how to handle things differently.”

Although Christine’s denial doesn’t convince me, I let it go for the moment. “For example,” I say. “Can you give me an idea of what you thought you could have handled differently?”

“There are so many things. How I could have gotten them to stop fighting. How I could have stopped my mother from being so critical of me. How I could have stopped her from being critical of my girls.”

“All right, let’s look at those three things which don’t all strike me as the same. Could you have gotten them to stop fighting? If I’m not mistaken you’ve been trying unsuccessfully your whole life to get them to stop fighting.”

Christine looks startled. “Oh, right. One of the things I need to give up on. I forgot. I can’t keep hoping for what will never be. I need to accept my powerlessness. I knew you should have been here. But why did I forget? I feel ashamed of myself. Why couldn’t I hold onto that?”

“Seems like you said a lot there, Christine. First, I think you are angry with me for not being here. Then I think you got uncomfortable with your anger and felt ashamed instead. And, I agree we should look at why it’s easier for you to hold onto your feelings of hopelessness and powerlessness when I’m here.”

“I do feel ashamed of myself. We’ve talked and talked about my needing to give up hope with my parents and I just can’t seem to do it.”

“Well, it’s very painful. It means you can never have the parents you want or wanted either now or in the past. It involves mourning for what never was and never can be.”

“I know. I guess that’s why it’s harder to do when you’re not here. If you’re not here and I don’t have my parents – and I sure don’t have my ex any more – I feel all alone. Except for the girls of course, but that’s different.”

“That’s a great insight, Christine.”

“Thanks. But what about the other two things I mentioned, why did you feel they were different?”

“The second one might not be all that different, getting your mother not to be critical of you, but I guess I wondered what it is that you felt when your mother’s so critical.”

“I do feel angry, but I try to pretend it doesn’t bother me and just ignore her.”

“Because?”

“Confronting her only makes it worse.”

“And when she attacks your girls?”

“I guess I do about the same thing.”

I am annoyed by Christine’s passivity. I feel she is leaving her daughters unprotected, just as I felt unprotected by my mother in relation to my explosive father. I tread lightly. “I wonder what message you give your girls when you don’t stick up for them.”

“But I thought I’m supposed to give up hope of ever changing her,” she says plaintively.

“This could just be me, Christine, but I think there’s a difference between accepting there’s no way you’re ever going to change your mother and still giving your girls the message that it’s not okay with you for her to attack them, or you for that matter.”

“That’s confusing.”

“It’s like saying, you know you’re not going to change her behavior but you’re still going to let her – and your girls – know her behavior isn’t acceptable.”

“It scares me.”

“What scares you?”

“I guess her anger.”

“I get that. And perhaps your anger as well.”

“I don’t like all this talk about my anger.”

“I believe you.”

We’re Pregnant

“I feel like such an idiot being here,” Harvey says. “Elise, my wife, has been in therapy forever and I’ve always made fun of her, never believed in it, thought you should be able to solve your own problems. But I throw in the towel. I can’t handle it. My wife is pregnant or, as she insists, we’re pregnant. That weirds me out in itself. I’m not pregnant. I get what she means, but it’s bad enough watching her body change. I sure wouldn’t want those kinds of changes happening to my body.”

Well, I think to myself, that’s an interesting beginning. Body issues for sure, but sounds like there’s a lot more going on.

“Elise’s therapist recommended you. Said you were the best. So I guess you know each other. Does that mean you’d talk to each other about us?”

“No, Harvey, what you say here is confidential. I wouldn’t share it with Elise’s therapist or anyone else.” With some paranoia thrown in, I suspect this man has pretty deep seeded problems.

“We wanted to get pregnant. We’ve been trying for a while. But now that it’s here, I have lots of second thoughts. But it’s not something you can change your mind about.”

“What’s freaking you out about the pregnancy?”

“Well, I worry whether I’ll be a good father, how much a baby will change our lives. We have a pretty good life. I make good money. I’m a financial planner. We travel a lot. We like to play. We…we have great sex. Or we used to.”

“You used to?”

“Yeah. I haven’t touched my wife for a while. Like pretty much as soon as we knew she was pregnant and she’s going on six months. First I was afraid I’d hurt the baby, although my wife and the doctor said that wasn’t possible. And now, now I don’t know… I feel bad saying this, but I guess I find her rather grotesque. You’re sure you won’t say anything to anyone, right?”

“Sounds like it’s hard for you to trust, Harvey.”

“Now that’s true. Hasn’t seemed to me there’s ever a reason to trust people. In my business people lie all the time. Out for the buck. Ready to say anything, stab anyone in the back.”

“And before you were in the business?”

“Yeah, I know, you want to know about my childhood. I could never understand how that’s relevant, but no question my childhood was awful. My mother was schizophrenic, in and out of hospitals. She died in one of those hospitals. My father, he was a sadistic bastard. I was the middle of three boys. It was called equal opportunity abuse. Probably worse for me and my younger brother. We were bed wetters. My father would beat us senseless. And then he devised this great humiliation technique. He’d make us sit on the stoop of our house, take out our penis and sit with a ribbon tied around it. Didn’t help the bedwetting.”

“That’s horrible, Harvey. What tremendous shame to inflict on a child.”

“Can’t argue with you there. By 17 I was gone. Never looked back. Didn’t do badly for myself. Until now.”

“How much younger than you is your younger brother?”

“Five, six years. We haven’t stayed in touch either. Probably don’t want to remind each other of what it was like.”

“Do you remember your mother’s pregnancy?”

“No. I don’t remember much of my mother. Probably wanted to put that away too.”

“Do you remember what any of her breaks were like?”

“I remember she’d be out of control, scared, screaming. She’d tear at her face, like she wanted it to be gone. Maybe like she wanted to be gone, but I just thought of that now. So can you help me, doc?”

“I think so. But I don’t think this is going to be an easy road for you. I’d say you have long standing issues about your body and lots of fears of bringing a child into a world you see as scary and unforgiving. And you might be scared of the child as well.”

“Of the child?”

“Not wanting to bring another person like either of your parents into the world.”

“I worried about that schizophrenic thing. But my wife said it was worth the risk.”

“So maybe it feels to you that your wife will bring another being like one of your parents into the world and maybe that makes your wife scary and untrustworthy as well.”

“That’s too deep for me.”

“That’s okay. We have lots of time.”

“No, we don’t. The baby’s not waiting for anyone.”

“That’s true. But you can’t put too much pressure on yourself. You can only do what you can do.”      

The Election

“I came here to gloat,” Diane says, grinning ear to ear.

I feel as though I’ve been slapped, rendered immediately shocked and speechless. I know exactly what Diane is referring to, the election.

“It was worth it for me to pay you for the session, just to say, ‘You see, I told you so.’ You were entirely out of touch. Thought you understood the little people, but the little people never wanted your elite Obama. Now you’ll see what they want.”

Finding it difficult to regain my composure, I struggle to remind myself that I am the therapist here, that although I haven’t seen Diane for over two years, we had a lengthy therapeutic relationship. It is my responsibility to understand the intensity of her anger. Although it is not my usual practice to discuss my politics with patients, Diane made it impossible to avoid. She scoured the internet looking for information about me and soon knew my political leanings, taking great pleasure in baiting me into arguments. She was definitely capable of raising my ire, like the time she said, “When was the last time you were hired by a poor person?” I experienced most of those interactions as Diane’s attempt to maintain distance between us, emphasizing our differences, rather than our shared connection. But this feels like unadulterated rage.   

“Diane, if you feel you won, which you obviously do, why are you so angry? And why are you so angry at me in particular.”

“’Anger Trumps Love,’ to rephrase an expression being thrown around these days.”

I remain silent.

“All your goody, goody peace, love and compassion. It’s bullshit. It’s about anger. It’s about taking what you want. It’s about being able to win, regardless.”

As with the rise of hate crimes across our country, I hear Diane saying that Trump has given her permission to express the rage she has long bottled up. Is she suggesting that I didn’t allow her access to that rage? Perhaps that’s true. Is she angry with me about that? Perhaps.

“Do you hate me, Diane?”

Now she looks startled. “No, why would I hate you? As you said, my side won.”

“You feel to me as though you hate me. You come here to gloat, as you said, very angry and clearly wanting to say, take this, bitch, suffer, I won, you get to crawl. Yes, that’s how it feels to me, it feels as though you’re wanting to dominate over me and have me submit.” As I say this, I think that perhaps all our arguments over the years were about this issue, that it wasn’t about maintaining distance, but rather trying to attain dominance. Only one person could win and she was determined that it would be her.

“I definitely feel I finally won over you. But I don’t hate you. I’m just enjoying my victory and I want you to admit defeat.”

In my mind I say, no way. I definitely admit losing this battle and suffering the sadness and grief that comes with it. But admit defeat, no way. “So what would my admitting defeat mean for you?”

“I’d have won.”

“I understand that, but what would that mean for you?”

“That I was right.”

“And what does being right get you?”  

“You can’t dismiss me and look down on me and see me as stupid.”

“Diane, are you sure that it’s me you’re reacting to now or is it more your feelings about your family, your parents and elder brothers who you experienced as dismissive and contemptuous of your opinions and intellect.”

“But they all agree with me politically.”

“I understand that. And I understand that it may feel when you and I disagree that I am being dismissive of you and your ideas. But from my perspective, you and I have very different world views. That doesn’t mean I question your right to your opinion or that I think less of you.”

“Are you sure about that?” she asks, challengingly.

That stops me. “That’s a very difficult question, Diane. I certainly don’t think less of your intelligence. But as I’m sure you very well know, we live in an extremely polarized society where people spend more and more time with people they agree with, they read material that supports the positions they already hold. So may I think less of the people who disagree with me, perhaps, perhaps it’s sometimes hard for me to understand how you or whoever holds the position you do. But, and this is a very big but, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. My caring does – eh - override your politics.”

“You thought it didn’t you? You thought to say, ‘Love trumps hate,’ but decided against it.”

“Yes, I thought it, but decided against it. You see, you’re smart and insightful, as always.”

Alone Again

Cynthia collapses heavily in the chair across from me, as if she doesn’t have the strength to hold herself up. Sadness exudes from her every pore.

“My son told me yesterday he’s not coming for Thanksgiving,” she says, barely holding back tears.

Although I’m not surprised - Cynthia has been disappointed by her son many times before – I do feel badfor her. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “What happened?”

“He said it’s too expensive to bring the whole family.” Pause. “I know it is expensive to travel during the holidays. I wish I could help him, but I’m just not in a position to do so.” Pause. “I wonder if he was waiting for me to offer. But he should know my circumstances. He knows his father left me next to nothing. I’m not even 65. I have to be sure I have money to last my whole life.” Tears run down her cheeks. “I don’t want to spend Thanksgiving alone. It’s supposed to be a family holiday.”

I can feel myself wanting to go into “helper” mode – making suggestions, asking why she has to be

alone. It’s a place I have been many times before with Cynthia, usually ending in frustration for both of us. Her helplessness is hard for me. I want her to do something. She wants someone to do it for her, to take care of her.

“It is hard to be alone for the holidays,” I say, empathically.

“But what should I do?” she asks, crying harder. “What alternative do I have?”

Feeling as though she is unconsciously setting a trap for me I say, “It sounds, Cynthia, that you’re asking me for suggestions, but usually when I make suggestions you reject them, always finding a reason they’re undoable.”

“But there isn’t anything I can do. Paul isn’t coming. I can’t change that. I have no other family here. So I’m alone.”

“Sounds like you’re feeling angry at Paul.”

“Okay, so I’m angry. What does that get me?”

“Sounds like you’re angry with me too.”

“I just don’t see where this is getting me anyplace.”

I hear that almost as a positive statement, a desire for movement. “Where would you like to get, Cynthia?”

“Not alone again.”

“So what might you do to not be alone again?”

“You think I have control over this, don’t you?”

“You know, Cynthia, you feel more angry than sad to me right at this moment and I wonder if that’s
helpful to you. Maybe it can give you the push to figure out what you might do to not be alone again.”

“You sit there so smug. You’re probably surrounded by family – kids, grandkids – all getting together and having a great time. You don’t care that I’m alone,” she says crossing her arms in front of her.

Although this is definitely not my reality, it is clearly Cynthia’s fantasy about me. “So you’re envious of the life you see me as having.”

“Yes!” she practically spits at me, with venom. “You’re just like all of them. You have it all. You gloat while I suffer!”

“All of whom, Cynthia?”

“My sisters, my mother. They were prettier, smarter, able to get it all, while I was the shmuck who
married an even bigger schmuck who left me in the position I’m in today.”

“So you felt lousy about yourself, felt you couldn’t compete, couldn’t do as well. You gave up. Also, and I’d really like you to think about what I’m going to say, I think you now unconsciously punish them – and me – but remaining the “schmuck,” as you say. It’s as though you’re getting back at them by saying, see what you did to me, I’m miserable and it’s all your fault.”

“So what do you think I should I do?”

“You could fight back. You could do things that would make you feel better, make your life more fulfilling.”

“A little late, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so. You said yourself you’re not yet 65. You still have a lot of living to do. And I’m not
talking about become a millionaire or discovering a cure for cancer, I’m talking about not needing to
keep yourself in a one down position.”

“What about Thanksgiving?” she asks.

“What about Thanksgiving?” I reply. “You still want me to make suggestions. But I know you can come up with your own suggestions, you could thrive, if you could allow yourself not to punish yourself as a way of getting back at the people who have hurt you.”

She shrugs. “We’ll see.”

“Yes,” I reply, “we’ll see.”

Blocked

“I feel like such a loser. A loser and a whiner. I should be able to get over myself already. I’m reading Gloria Steinem’s “On the Road.” She’s 82 years old and still going strong. She’s made a huge contribution to women, to society. And her childhood was certainly no picnic.”

I’ve been seeing almost 60 year old Carol for several months now. She came into treatment because she was no longer able to paint, a creative outlet that had been important to her for many years. She said she was probably depressed, but could think of no particular reason to be depressed except that she was soon going to turn 60. “Old, old, old,” she said. “The big six zero.” 

“And me?” she continues. “My life has been a big nothing. Yes, I got married. I guess my marriage is okay, sort of so-so, maybe like all marriages. I have two children. They’ve had their own struggles but they’re decent people. And I used to paint. I’ve been wondering lately if I stopped painting because I really was never particularly good at it. How do I know if I’m good? Exhibiting every so often doesn’t mean you’re a good painter.” 

I’m aware of having conflicting feelings as I listen to Carol, vacillating between wanting to protect her from her own self-criticism to finding myself agreeing with her that she’s complaining about much of nothing. It’s as if I go from being the comforting parent to the critical parent and back again. I suspect Carol carries this critical parent inside her head, always ready to attack her.  

“You’re certainly very critical of yourself, Carol,” I say.

“That’s for sure. Always have been. I guess I figured if I was critical of myself I could make sure I did everything right and that way I’d ward off my father’s criticism. Never worked. He could always find something to be mad about, from not making my bed perfectly to having friends he, for some reason, didn’t like. It was impossible to please him.”  

“So now you carry your father around with you in your head.”

“Yup! You’d never know he was dead. It’s ironic you know. I thought I couldn’t wait for my father to die and now here I am keeping him alive inside my mind.”

“That’s a great insight.”

Silence.

“My father used to paint too. Representational stuff. He was pretty good. Of course he hated what I painted. Said it looked like something a kindergartener would do. But that was the one place he couldn’t get at me. I painted what I wanted to paint. I would have liked his approval, but in my painting I accepted that I’d never get it.”

“And you felt how about that?”

“Sad, defeated.” Pause. “You know, I’m not sure that’s true. I feel sad and defeated when I talk about it now, but I’m not sure that’s how I used to feel. I think I felt a sense of pride that I could paint how and what I wanted to paint.”

“That’s interesting. I wonder if when you were able to give up seeking your father’s approval – at least as far as your painting went – you could paint. But now when you feel sad and defeated about not having his approval, you’re blocked, unable to paint.”

“That’s true.” 

“Any thoughts about what changed?”

“First thing that popped into my head is that I’m approaching 60.”

I remain silent, waiting to see where Carol’s thoughts will take her.

“My father had a heart attack at 60. Two years later his second heart attack killed him. I felt a lot worse about his death than I expected. Actually, I got depressed. I couldn’t paint then either.”

“When your father died you lost the chance of ever winning his approval.”

“Yup.”

“So you felt helpless and defeated, like you feel now when you’re about to turn 60, the year he had his first heart attack.”

“So does turning 60 myself remind me of his mortality and therefore my mortality?”

“I’d say that’s a piece of it. But I wonder if it also brings you back to the time that you were so acutely aware that you had forever lost the chance of getting your father’s approval.”

“Makes sense.”

“And, when you were able to paint and not need your father’s approval, that was a victory for you. Now I wonder if you feel guilty about reclaiming that feeling of victory, of celebrating your being alive to still be able to paint and to paint as you wish. Perhaps it even feels as though you’re killing him off.”

“Wow! That’s pretty deep. I’ll have to give that some thought.”