by Irvin Yalom
“Hard for me to talk today,” said Tony, shaking his head. “I feel tied up, like I’m frozen solid.”
To everyone’s surprise, Philip responded, “I think I understand your bind, Tony. It’s like Julius said, you’re caught between two conflicting requirements: you’re expected to work in the group by freely expressing yourself, and at the same time you’re trying to honor your allegiance to Pam.”
“Yep, I see that,” Tony replied, “but seeing is not enough, doesn’t free me up. But still, thanks. And here’s one back to you. What you just said a minute ago—you know, supporting Julius’s point—well, that’s a first for you—I mean not challenging him—a big change, man.”
“Understanding, you say, is not enough. What else is needed?” Philip asked.
Tony shook his head. “This ain’t easy today.”
“I think I know what would help,” said Julius, turning toward Tony. “You and Pam are avoiding one another, not expressing your feelings. Maybe you’re saving it to talk about later. I know it’s awkward, but can you make a start on doing it here? Perhaps try talking to each other, not to us.”
Tony took a deep breath and turned to Pam. “I don’t feel good about this, feel off balance. I’m pissed at the way all this played out. I can’t get my mind around why not a phone call to me first, to talk it over, get me on board for today?”
“Sorry. But we both knew this had to come out sometime. We talked about that.”
“That’s it? That’s all you got to say? And what about tonight? Are we still on?”
“It would be too awkward to see you. The rules here are to talk about all relationships, and I want to honor my contract with the group. I can’t go on with this; maybe after the group ends—”
“You have a most convenient and flexible relationship to contracts,” interrupted Philip, showing uncharacteristic signs of agitation. “You honor them when it suits you. When I discuss honoring my past social contract with you, you revile me. Yet you break the rules of the group, you play secret games, you use Tony capriciously.”
“Who are you to speak of contracts?” Pam shot back loudly. “What about the contract between teacher and student?”
Philip looked at his watch, stood up, and announced, “Six o’clock. I have fulfilled my time obligations.” He left the room muttering, “Enough wallowing in muck today.”
It was the first time anyone other than Julius had ever ended a meeting.
37
* * *
Everyone who is in love will experience an extraordinary disillusionment after the pleasure is finally attained; and he will be astonished that what was desired with such longing achieves nothing more than what every other sexual satisfaction achieves, so that he does not see himself very much benefited by it.
* * *
Leaving the group room did not clear the muck from Philip’s mind. He walked down Fillmore Street assailed by anxiety. What had happened to his arsenal of self-soothing techniques? Everything that had for so long provided him structure and serenity was unraveling—his mental discipline, his cosmic perspective. Struggling for equanimity, he instructed himself: Don’t struggle, don’t resist, clear your mind; do nothing but watch the passing show of your thoughts. Just let thoughts drift into consciousness and then drift away.
Things drifted in all right, but there was no drifting out. Instead, images unpacked their bags, hung up their clothes, and set up housekeeping in his mind. Pam’s face drifted into view. He focused on her image, which, to his astonishment, transformed itself by shedding years: her features grew younger, and soon the Pam he had known so many years ago stood before him. How strange it was to descry the young in the old. He usually imagined the opposite trajectory—seeing the future in the present, the skull underlying the unblemished skin of youth.
How radiant her face! And such astonishing clarity! Of all the hordes, the hundreds, of women whose bodies he had entered and whose faces had long faded, melding into one archetypal visage, how was it possible that Pam’s face persisted in such remarkable detail?
Then, to his amazement, sharper memory snippets of the young Pam slipped into view: her beauty, her giddy excitement as he tied her wrists with his belt, her cascade of orgasms. His own sexual excitement remained as a vague body memory—a wordless, heaving sensation of pelvic thrusting and exultation. He remembered, too, lingering in her arms for much too long. It was for that precise reason he had regarded her as dangerous and had resolved on the spot not to see her again. She represented a threat to his freedom. The quarry he sought was quick sexual release—that was his license to blessed peace and solitude. He never wanted carnality. He wanted freedom; he wanted to escape from the bondage of desire in order to enter, however briefly, the true philosophers’ will-free clearing. Only after sexual release could he think elevated thoughts and join his friends—the great thinkers whose books were personal letters to him.
More fantasies came; his passion enveloped him and, with a great whoosh, sucked him from the philosophers’ distant observing grandstand. He craved; he desired; he wanted. And more than anything, he wanted to hold Pam’s face in his hands. Tight orderly connections between thoughts loosened. He imagined a sea lion surrounded by a harem of cows, then a yelping mongrel flinging himself again and again against a steel link fence separating him from a bitch in heat. He felt himself a brutish, club-wielding caveman, grunting, warning off competitors. He wanted to possess her, lick her, smell her. He thought of Tony’s muscular forearms, of Popeye gulping his spinach and chucking the empty can behind him. He saw Tony mounting her—her legs splayed, her arms encircling him. That pussy should be his, his alone. She had no right to defile it by offering it to Tony. Everything she did with Tony sullied his memory of her, impoverished his experience. He felt sick to his stomach. He was a biped.
Philip turned and walked along the marina, then through Chrissy Field to the bay and along the edge of the Pacific, where the calm surf and the timeless aroma of ocean salt soothed him. He shivered and buttoned his jacket. In the fading light of day, the cold Pacific wind streamed through the Golden Gate and rushed by him, just as the hours of his life would forever rush past without warmth or pleasure. The wind presaged the frost of endless days to come, arctic days of rising in the morning with no hope of home, love, touch, joy. His mansion of pure thought was unheated. How strange that he had never before noticed. He continued walking but with the glimmering knowledge that his house, his whole life, had been built on foundations flimsy and false.
38
* * *
We should treat with indulgence every human folly, failing, and vice, bearing in mind that what we have before us are simply our own failings, follies, and vices.
* * *
In the following meeting Philip shared neither his frightening experiences nor his reasons for abruptly leaving the previous meeting. Though he now participated more actively in the group discussions, he always did so at his own choosing and the members had learned that energy invested in prying Philip open was energy wasted. Hence they shifted their attention to Julius and inquired whether he felt usurped by Philip’s ending the meeting last week.
“Bittersweet,” he replied. “The bitter part is being replaced. Losing my influence and my role is symbolic of all impending endings and renunciations. I had a bad night after the last meeting. Everything feels bad at 3 A.M. I had a rush of sorrow at all the endings ahead of me: the ending of the group, of my therapy with all my other patients, the ending of my last good year. So, that’s the bitter. The sweet is my pride in you guys. And that includes you, Philip. Pride in your growing independence. Therapists are like parents. A good parent enables a child to gain enough autonomy to leave home and function as an adult; in the same way a good therapist’s aim is to enable patients to leave therapy.”
“Lest there be a misunderstanding, I want to clarify the record,” Philip proclaimed. “It was not my intention to usurp you last week. My actions were entirely self-protective: I felt inexp
ressibly agitated by the discussion. I forced myself to remain till the end of the meeting, and then I had to leave.”
“I understand that, Philip, but my preoccupation with endings is so strong now that I may see portents of endings and replacement in benign situations. I’m also aware that, tucked into your disclaimer, is some caring for me. For that I thank you.”
Philip bowed his head slightly.
Julius continued, “This agitation you describe sounds important. Should we explore it? There are only five meetings left; I urge you to take advantage of this group while there’s still time.”
Though Philip silently shook his head as if to indicate that exploration was not yet possible for him, he was not destined to stay silent permanently. In the following meetings Philip was inexorably drawn in.
Pam opened the next meeting by pertly addressing Gill: “Apology time! I’ve been thinking about you and think I owe you one…no, I know I owe you one.”
“Say more.” Gill was alert and curious.
“A few months ago I blasted you for never being present, for being so absent and impersonal that I could not bear to listen to you. Remember? That was pretty harsh stuff—”
“Harsh, yes,” interrupted Gill, “but necessary. It was good medicine. It got me started on my path—do you realize I haven’t had a drink since that day?”
“Thanks, but that’s not what I’m apologizing for—it’s what’s happened since. You have changed: you’ve been present; you’ve been more upfront and more straight with me than anyone else here, and yet I’ve just been too self-absorbed to acknowledge you. For that I’m sorry.”
Gill accepted the apology. “And what about the feedback I’ve given you? Was any of it helpful?”
“Well, your term chief justice shook me up for days. It hit home; it made me think. But the thing that sticks most in my mind was when you said John refused to leave his wife not because of cowardice but because he didn’t want to deal with my rage. That got to me, really got me thinking. I couldn’t get your words out of my mind. And you know what? I decided you were dead right and John was right to turn away from me. I lost him not because of his deficits but because of mine—he had had enough of me. A few days ago I picked up the phone, called him, and said these things to him.”
“How’d he take it?”
“Very well—after he picked himself off the floor. We ended up having a nice amiable talk: catching up, discussing our courses, mutual students, talking about doing some joint teaching. It was good. He told me I sounded different.”
“That’s great news, Pam,” said Julius. “Letting go of anger is major progress. I agree you’ve too much attachment to your hates. I wish we could take an internal snapshot of this letting-go process for future reference—to see exactly how you did it.”
“It was all nonvolitional. I think your maxim—strike when the iron is cold!—had something to do with it. My feelings about John have cooled enough to step back and permit rational thought.”
“And what about” asked Rebecca, “your attachment to your Philip-hatred?”
“I think you’ve never appreciated the monstrous nature of his actions to me.”
“Not true. I felt for you…I ached for you when you first described it—an awful, awful experience. But fifteen years? Usually things cool in fifteen years. What keeps this iron red-hot?”
“Last night—during a very light sleep—I was thinking about my history with Philip and had this image of reaching into my head and grabbing the entire awful cluster of thoughts about him and smashing it on the floor. Then I saw myself bending over, examining the fragments. I could see his face, his seedy apartment, my soiled youth, my disillusionment with academic life, I saw my lost friend Molly—and as I looked at this heap of wreckage I knew what had happened to me was just…just…unforgivable.”
“I remember Philip saying that unforgiving and unforgivable were two different things,” said Stuart. “Right, Philip?”
Philip nodded.
“Not sure I get that,” said Tony.
“Unforgivable,” said Philip, “keeps the responsibility outside of oneself, whereas unforgiving places the responsibility on one’s own refusal to forgive.”
Tony nodded. “The difference between taking the responsibility for what you do or blaming it on someone else?”
“Precisely,” said Philip, “and, as I’ve heard Julius say, therapy begins when blame ends and responsibility emerges.”
“Quoting Julius again, Philip, I like it,” said Tony.
“You make my words sound better than I do,” said Julius. “And again I experience you drawing closer. I like that.”
Philip smiled almost imperceptibly. When it was clear he was not planning to respond further, Julius addressed Pam: “Pam, what are you feeling?”
“To be honest, I’m floored by how hard everyone struggles to see change in Philip. He picks his nose, and everyone oohs and aahs. It’s a joke how his pompous and trite remarks arouse such reverence.” Mimicking Philip, she said in a singsong cadence, “Therapy begins when blame ends and responsibility emerges.” Then, in a raised voice: “And what about your responsibility, Philip? Not a goddamn word about it except some bullshit about all your brain cells changing and therefore it wasn’t you who did anything. No, you weren’t there.”
After an awkward silence, Rebecca said softly, “Pam, I want to point out that you are able to forgive. You’ve forgiven a lot of things. You said you forgave me for my excursion into prostitution.”
“No victim there—except you,” responded Pam quickly.
“And,” continued Rebecca, “we’ve all taken note of how you forgave Julius, instantly, for his indiscretions. You forgave him without knowing or inquiring whether some of his friends were injured by his actions.”
Pam softened her voice. “His wife had just died. He was in shock. Imagine losing someone you had loved since high school. Give him a break.”
Bonnie pitched in, “You forgave Stuart for his sexual adventure with a troubled lady and even forgave Gill for withholding his alcoholism from us for so long. You’ve done a lot of forgiving. Why not Philip?”
Pam shook her head. “It’s one thing to forgive someone for an offense to someone else—quite another thing when you’re the victim.”
The group listened sympathetically but nonetheless continued. “And, Pam,” said Rebecca, “I forgive you for trying to make John leave his two young children.”
“Me, too,” said Gill. “And I’ll eventually forgive you for what you did with Tony here. How about you? Do you forgive yourself for springing that ‘confession day’ and dumping him in public?—that was humiliating.”
“I’ve apologized publicly for not consulting with him about the confession. I was guilty there of extreme thoughtlessness.”
Gill persisted, “There’s something else, though: do you forgive yourself for using Tony?”
“Using Tony?” said Pam. “I used Tony? What are you talking about?”
“Seems like your whole relationship was one thing—and a far more important thing—to him than to you. Seems like you weren’t relating so much to Tony but to others, perhaps even to Philip, through Tony.”
“Oh, Stuart’s cockamamie idea—I’ve never bought into that,” said Pam.
“Used?” interjected Tony. “You think I was used? No complaints here about that—I’m up for being used like that any time.”
“Come on, Tony,” said Rebecca, “stop playing games. Stop thinking with your little head.”
“Little head?”
“Your cock!”
When Tony broke into a big lascivious smile, Rebecca barked, “You bastard, you knew what I meant! You just wanted to hear me talk dirty. Get serious, Tony, we don’t have much time left here. You can’t really be saying you weren’t affected by what happened with Pam.”
Tony stopped smiling, “Well, being suddenly dumped felt…you know, thrown away. But I’m still hoping.”
“Tony,” said Re
becca, “you’ve still got a lot of work to do on relating to a woman. Quit begging—it’s demeaning. I hear you saying they can use you in any goddamned way they want because there’s only one thing you want from them: to get laid. That’s belittling yourself—and them too.”
“I didn’t think I was using Tony,” said Pam. “Everything felt mutual to me. But, to be honest, at the time I didn’t reflect much. I just acted on automatic pilot.”
“As did I, long ago. Automatic pilot,” Philip said softly.
Pam was startled. She looked at Philip for a few seconds and then gazed downward.
“I have a query for you,” said Philip.
When Pam did not look up, he added, “A query for you, Pam.”
Pam raised her head and faced him. Other members exchanged glances.
“Twenty minutes ago you said ‘disillusionment with academic life.’ And yet a few weeks ago you said that when you applied to grad school, you seriously considered philosophy, even working on Schopenhauer. If that is so, then I put this question to you: could I have been that disastrous a teacher?”
“I never said you were a bad teacher,” replied Pam. “You were one of the best teachers I’ve ever had.”
Astonished, Philip stared hard at her.
“Talk about what you’re feeling, Philip,” urged Julius.
When Philip refused to answer, Julius said, “You remember everything, every word, Pam says. I think she matters a great deal to you.”
Philip remained silent.
Julius turned toward Pam. “I’m thinking about your words—that Philip was one of the best teachers you ever had. That must have compounded your sense of disappointment and betrayal.”
“Amen. Thanks, Julius, you’re always there.”
Stuart repeated her words, “One of the best teachers you ever had! I’m absolutely floored by that. I’m floored by your saying something so…so generous, to Philip. That’s a huge step.”
