The shrink in my dream told me that a little piece of “something” is who I am. He showed me a tiny, hairlike splinter on his pinky finger, to demonstrate just how small this “something” may be. He asked me to consider that this minuscule fragment of “something” has been the real me, the only real part of me, since it formed during the earliest days of my life. And that before that time, I did not exist as an identity of any kind, but only as a formless blob of competing needs, fears, perceptions, and instincts. One day, the shrink explained, a tiny part of the blob solidified around something, such as an unfulfilled, infantile need or childish wish, and this hardened piece created a wall around itself and separated from the rest of the blob, becoming me.
The shrink said, “Everything you fear, desire, say, and do is related to serving this small, ancient splinter of self that is YOU. Every circumstance in your life is drawn to this little piece of YOU, just like ants on a kitchen floor are attracted to a fallen crumb. You endlessly defend and attempt to nurture this tiny morsel of you, which is so infantile and so beyond your earliest memories, that it’s not worth our time to investigate it any further.”
I asked, “What about all that I’ve struggled with in my past? What about the bullying that I survived with dignity, making sure to always keep my head held high? What about the many heartbreaks, failures, and disappointments that I’ve endured with the hope for a better tomorrow? What about my efforts to help people with all the knowledge and wisdom I’ve painfully acquired over a lifetime?”
The shrink remained quiet, sitting back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other, looking quite comfortable as he studied my face.
“Mr. Shrink, have I spent the past 65+ years of my life suffering and improving myself for the sole purpose of undoing a deprivation that occurred before I could walk or talk? What kind of deprivation could this be? Was I turned away when I attempted to suckle my mother’s breast? Has this been my unconscious motivation for everything that I’ve aspired to and worked towards – to finally obtain the long sought after nourishment from that metaphoric, maternal breast? Has my life been this shallow?”
“I’m sorry my boy, but there is nothing more to you. Please think of many molecules of water having condensed around a single particle of dust, to form what looks like a raindrop of water. You see the pretty, glistening raindrop, but not the many water molecules that form it, and never the tiny, microscopic sliver of dust at the center that has pulled it all together. You are no more significant than that particle of dust. All of the circumstances of your life are like those molecules of water, having been drawn and held together by a tiny sliver of “something” infantile that you still unconsciously desire, but keep disguised out of shame as something better or more noble.”
The shrink leaned back on his chair, stared at me morosely like a doctor telling me that I had one month to live, and then took a puff of his cigar. He was a formally attired man who looked like a hybrid of Sigmund Freud and my high school chemistry teacher, who once told me that I did not have the intelligence to make it through college.
He continued, “As we age, we try to build the dust particles of our childhoods into complex, dramatic stories that are full of adventure, romance, and triumph, yet this is nothing more than ‘the great human delusion,’ albeit maybe a necessary one to preserve our sanity and help us function from birth to death. We have a need to believe that our lives are about more, but the truth does not always conform to our cherished beliefs.”
“Then why be a psychotherapist?” I asked, as I folded my arms tightly. I could feel the muscles around my eye sockets tensing up. I felt humiliated by his insinuation that I’ve been an infant playing an adult all these years. I could feel the rage and sense of indignity showing through my eyes.
He began to utter something, but I cut him off and said, “I’m here because I wanted to find some reason to go on, some purpose in my life, some reason to feel good about my past, present, and future. But here you are, telling me that my life has the significance of a piece of dust, or a crumb, or the splinter on your little finger. That the purpose of my life is nothing more than an attempted compensation for an infantile need or wish that never came true. How is this supposed to help me? You are supposed to make me feel better you horrid excuse for a therapist! You sadist! This is malpractice!”
“This is your nightmare Isaac, so don’t blame me, since it will just make you feel worse about yourself, as I am really you in disguise. Although, this seems to be what you really want, to feel bad about yourself. I’m the therapist that you hired for this nightmare, to remind you that knowing your insignificance or base motive in life is good for something, and so I’m just doing my job by playing the brutally honest therapist.”
“You are right Mr. Shrink. You are always right in these dreams, since you are me, or someone whose voice I internalized long ago, which is now me as well. I should have used one of my other voices or so called inner healers for this dream. I don’t like brutal honesty…because, well, it is too honest.”
“You are a storyteller Isaac. You rewrite the truth or disguise it so it is more palatable for you and others. That is your job. So, do your job, and I will do mine.”
I stood up from the therapy couch and handed the shrink a piece of paper. He remained seated and I stood in front of him and said, “Mr. Shrink, this is my phone number and email address. If you know of a more suitable therapist for my next nightmare, maybe one with a smile, compassionate eyes, and something positive to say about me, then please forward her my information.”
After a brief pause, I added, “A Yiddish speaking therapist with a sexy cleavage would be a nice touch as well,” and then I smirked at him. “Just kidding Mr. Shrink.”
“Maybe that is what you really want Isaac, to fulfill that old, unfulfilled suckling need under the guise of respectability? A Jewish woman with satisfactory breasts would fill that role, huh Isaac? Your conservative Jewish family would go for that, the Jewish part, right? They always wanted you to marry a nice Jewish girl. And you were not breastfed, right? Does this not make sense to you?”
I laughed vigorously, and then with a tone of sarcasm said, “Oh wouldn’t life be so much simpler if that were the case – the old man hiding his shameful, maternal boob fetish from his late parents while trying to gain their approval at the same time. This is typical Freudian bullshit!”
“Jokes are often disguised revelations of the truth Isaac. We both know that. You chose to continue this dream with your joke about a Jewish woman with an attractive cleavage. Why not a Catholic woman with great legs?” He then paused, looking for something in my eyes or facial expressions, before continuing. “This is your dream, and you’ve chosen to discuss breastfeeding and your desire for a “compassionate” female therapist, who happens to be both Jewish and well endowed on top. Everything in a dream means something. Nothing exists in a dream for decorative or humorous purposes only.”
“So, let me see if I’m understanding this. According to you Mr. Shrink, that tiny splinter or particle of dust that defines me, has now magically transformed itself into a Jewish woman with a nice rack, whom I plan to use for my infantile breastfeeding needs and to regain my parent’s love?” I nodded my head in disbelief and laughed sarcastically. “You are forgetting that I’m a 75 year old man with no family remaining on this earth to impress. Also, I’ve enjoyed my share of pretty, well proportioned women in the past, none being Jewish by the way. So, why the fuck would I obsess over a Jewish therapist with big boobs? It was just a joke. Sometimes a joke is just a joke, just like ‘a cigar is sometimes just a cigar,’ right? Freud said that by the way, the cigar part.”
“But what was the joke Isaac? What is so funny about a Yiddish speaking therapist with an attractive cleavage?”
“It just sounded funny to me. I really don’t know why I said it. It just slipped out. You are now going to suggest the old Freudian slip routine, huh? You’ve heard of that Mr. Shrink, right? Of course you have, since you’ve led me to it.”
“Aha Isaac! Now we are making progress. Consider that an unconscious part of you, the shrink in you, understands the motivation behind the joke. Clearly, you wanted to let me know, maybe let yourself know, that Jewishness and early nurturing, or the lack thereof, are somehow associated together in your unconscious.”
“Well, that doesn’t make much sense Shrink man. I doubt that I had a Jewish theme in mind while thirsting for some breast milk at age 3 or whenever. Please pass my contact information to another therapist – male, female, Jew, Catholic, Hindu, Muslim, gay, straight, big boobs, no boobs, a big schlong…or anything else, I really don’t care!”
“Jewishness and breasts are possible metaphors for that “something” we are searching for. Remember that tiny splinter, crumb, or particle of dust we referred to earlier? Don’t be so literal all the time Isaac…have some fun with this. You are a writer. Use your imagination and approach the truth with it.” The shrink winked at me.
“How about a new therapist for me?”
“No new therapist for you. You know why? Because you are choosing brutal honesty for this nightmare. You could have disposed of me any time and chose someone else, but I’m still here, because you want me to be here. This is how you write your stories, which are really your story. You write about what you want but feel you can’t have. You write about a world that is full of divine purpose while fearing that it is not that way at all. This is why I’m the perfect shrink for this nightmare, a recurring one if you choose. I’m helping to shrink your life story to its most primitive, brutal essence. Minimalist writing at its best. Thus, consider me to be both your therapist and life editor. Let’s find that splinter!”
“Our time is up Isaac, for now anyway. Get some sleep.”
Note: This story is entirely fictional. All events, situations, circumstances, and characters depicted in this story are the products of my creative imagination. Any similarities between story characters and specific people in the real world are purely coincidental and unintentional. My characters are composites of “possible” personality types, behaviors, and quirks that interest me.
© 2017 David M. Rubin. All rights reserved.
Notes from David 