Creatures of a Day: And Other Tales of Psychotherapy by Irvin D. Yalom Page B
Authors: Irvin D. Yalom
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country that I love
Don’t fence me in
Let me be by myself in the evenin’ breeze
And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees
Send me off forever, but I ask you please
Don’t fence me in
“Great, Rick. Thanks. Lot of heart in your singing. Those lyrics—‘Don’t fence me in’—really do speak to your life predicament. And I get a kick out of thinking of you having a phone ring tone with that melody. I wonder if it would help.”
“It sure would keep my predicament front and center. No hints about the solution, though.”
“Let’s turn to the other dream—the mirror that you kept cleaning? And the spray bottle’s last spurts? Any hunches?”
Rick flashed a big smile. “You’re making me do all the work.”
“It’s your dream. You’re the guy, the only one who can do it.”
“Well, my image in the mirror is blurred. I know what you’re going to say.”
“What?” I raised my chin.
“You’re going to say that I don’t know myself, that my own image is blurred to myself.”
“Yep, probably what I would say. And the last spurts?”
“No mystery there. I’m seventy-seven.”
“Exactly, you’re trying to get yourself into focus but can’t do it, can’t make the image sharper, and it’s getting late. I’m impressed by your effort in the dream and your effort in coming all this distance to see me. Seems as though there is a powerful desire within you to know yourself, to sharpen your focus. I admire that.”
Rick looked up and finally caught my gaze.
“How did that feel?” I asked.
“How did what feel?”
“What you just did. Looking at me. Looking into my eyes.”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“It seems to me that this was the first time you really looked at me, the first time we really touched.”
“Never thought of therapy consultation as a social hour. Where’s this coming from?”
“It was that statement you made earlier, ‘I was too damned lonely.’ I was wondering how lonely you’ve been feeling in this room with me.”
“I don’t think about that. But I admit you’ve got a point. There are people all around me, but I just don’t connect.”
“It would help me understand more if you’d take me through a twenty-four-hour day. Pick a typical day last week.”
“Well, I have breakfast . . . ”
“What time do you wake up?”
“About six.”
“And your typical night’s sleep?”
“Probably six to seven hours. I go to bed around eleven and read myself to sleep around eleven thirty or eleven forty-five. Get up to take a leak about two or three times.”
“And you mentioned you don’t dream often.”
“I rarely remember dreams. My therapist’s been on my case about that. Tells me that everyone dreams every night.”
“And breakfast?”
“I get to the dining room early. I like that because I can sit alone and read the paper with breakfast. The rest of the day you already know about. I torment myself about going or not going to activities. If the weather’s good, I take a walk alone for at least an hour. And I often take lunch in my room alone. But then at dinner you can’t sit alone. They seat you with others, so I put on a good act of socializing.”
“Evenings?”
“TV, or sometimes a film at Fairlawn. Most of the evenings alone.”
“Tell me about the main people in your life right now.”
“I spend a lot more time avoiding people than meeting people. A lot of single women there, but it’s awkward. If I get too friendly with one, then she’ll be looking for me at every meal and every activity. If you get involved with one, there’s no chance you can date another without hell to pay.”
“How about people you knew before you went into the retirement community?”
“I have a son. He’s a banker living in London, and he phones or, lately, Skypes every Sunday morning. Good kid. Two grandchildren—a boy and a girl. And that’s about it. Lost touch with everyone else from my former life. My
Don’t fence me in
Let me be by myself in the evenin’ breeze
And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees
Send me off forever, but I ask you please
Don’t fence me in
“Great, Rick. Thanks. Lot of heart in your singing. Those lyrics—‘Don’t fence me in’—really do speak to your life predicament. And I get a kick out of thinking of you having a phone ring tone with that melody. I wonder if it would help.”
“It sure would keep my predicament front and center. No hints about the solution, though.”
“Let’s turn to the other dream—the mirror that you kept cleaning? And the spray bottle’s last spurts? Any hunches?”
Rick flashed a big smile. “You’re making me do all the work.”
“It’s your dream. You’re the guy, the only one who can do it.”
“Well, my image in the mirror is blurred. I know what you’re going to say.”
“What?” I raised my chin.
“You’re going to say that I don’t know myself, that my own image is blurred to myself.”
“Yep, probably what I would say. And the last spurts?”
“No mystery there. I’m seventy-seven.”
“Exactly, you’re trying to get yourself into focus but can’t do it, can’t make the image sharper, and it’s getting late. I’m impressed by your effort in the dream and your effort in coming all this distance to see me. Seems as though there is a powerful desire within you to know yourself, to sharpen your focus. I admire that.”
Rick looked up and finally caught my gaze.
“How did that feel?” I asked.
“How did what feel?”
“What you just did. Looking at me. Looking into my eyes.”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“It seems to me that this was the first time you really looked at me, the first time we really touched.”
“Never thought of therapy consultation as a social hour. Where’s this coming from?”
“It was that statement you made earlier, ‘I was too damned lonely.’ I was wondering how lonely you’ve been feeling in this room with me.”
“I don’t think about that. But I admit you’ve got a point. There are people all around me, but I just don’t connect.”
“It would help me understand more if you’d take me through a twenty-four-hour day. Pick a typical day last week.”
“Well, I have breakfast . . . ”
“What time do you wake up?”
“About six.”
“And your typical night’s sleep?”
“Probably six to seven hours. I go to bed around eleven and read myself to sleep around eleven thirty or eleven forty-five. Get up to take a leak about two or three times.”
“And you mentioned you don’t dream often.”
“I rarely remember dreams. My therapist’s been on my case about that. Tells me that everyone dreams every night.”
“And breakfast?”
“I get to the dining room early. I like that because I can sit alone and read the paper with breakfast. The rest of the day you already know about. I torment myself about going or not going to activities. If the weather’s good, I take a walk alone for at least an hour. And I often take lunch in my room alone. But then at dinner you can’t sit alone. They seat you with others, so I put on a good act of socializing.”
“Evenings?”
“TV, or sometimes a film at Fairlawn. Most of the evenings alone.”
“Tell me about the main people in your life right now.”
“I spend a lot more time avoiding people than meeting people. A lot of single women there, but it’s awkward. If I get too friendly with one, then she’ll be looking for me at every meal and every activity. If you get involved with one, there’s no chance you can date another without hell to pay.”
“How about people you knew before you went into the retirement community?”
“I have a son. He’s a banker living in London, and he phones or, lately, Skypes every Sunday morning. Good kid. Two grandchildren—a boy and a girl. And that’s about it. Lost touch with everyone else from my former life. My
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