The Schopenhauer Cure(13)

The worst thing is, he’s right. He owes me nothing. I crow about psychotherapy being a life of service. Service lovingly given. I have no lien on him. Why expect something from him? And, anyway, whatever it is I crave, he does not have it to give.

“He does not have it to give”—how many times have I said that to how many patients—about husbands or wives or fathers. Yet I can’t let Philip go, this unrelenting, callous, ungiving man. Shall I write an ode about the obligation patients owe in later years to their therapists?

And why does it matter so much? And why, of all my patients, choose to contact him? I still don’t know. I found a clue in my case notes—the feeling that I was talking to a young phantasm of myself. Perhaps there’s more than a trace of Philip in me, in the me who in my teens and twenties and thirties was whipped around by hormones. I thought I knew what he was going through, I thought that I had an inside track to healing him. Is that why I tried so hard? Why he got more attention and energy from me than most of my other patients combined? In every therapist’s practice, there is always some patient who consumes a disproportionate amount of the therapist’s energy and attention—Philip was that person for me for three years.



Julius returned home that evening to a cold dark house. His son, Larry, had spent the last three days with him but that morning had returned to Baltimore, where he did neurobiological research at Johns Hopkins. Julius was almost relieved that Larry had left—the anguished look on his face and his loving but clumsy efforts to comfort his father had brought more sorrow than serenity. He started to phone Marty, one of his colleagues in his support group, but felt too despondent, hung up the phone, and instead turned on his computer to enter the notes scribbled on the crumpled Starbucks paper bag. “You have e-mail,” greeted him, and, to his surprise, there was a message from Philip. He read it eagerly:

At the end of our discussion today you asked about Schopenhauer and how I was helped by his philosophy. You also indicated that you might want to learn more about him. It occurs to me that you might be interested in my lecture at Coastal College next Monday evening at 7 P.M. (Toyon Hall, 340 Fulton St.). I am teaching a survey course on European philosophy, and on Monday I will give a brief overview of Schopenhauer (I must cover two thousand years in twelve weeks). Perhaps we can chat a bit after the lecture. Philip Slate



Without hesitation Julius e-mailed Philip: Thanks. I’ll be there. He opened his appointment book to the following Monday and penciled in “Toyon Hall, 340 Fulton 7 P.M.”

On Mondays Julius led a therapy group from four-thirty till six. Earlier in the day he had pondered whether to tell the group about his diagnosis. Though he had decided to postpone telling his individual patients until he regained his equilibrium, the group posed a different problem: group members often focused upon him, and the chances of someone spotting some change in his mood and commenting upon it were much greater.

But his concerns were unfounded. The members had readily accepted his excuse of the flu for having canceled the two previous meetings and then moved on to catch up on the last two weeks of each other’s lives. Stuart, a short, pudgy pediatrician who perpetually seemed distracted, as though he were in a rush to get to his next patient, seemed pressured and asked for time from the group. This was a most unusual occurrence; in Stuart’s year in the group he had rarely asked for help. He had originally entered the group under duress: his wife informed him by e-mail that unless he entered therapy and made some significant changes she was going to leave him. She added that she had conveyed this via e-mail because he paid more attention to electronic communication than anything said to him directly. During the past week his wife had upped the ante by moving out of their bedroom, and much of the meeting was spent on helping Stuart explore his feelings about her withdrawal.

Julius loved this group. Often the courage of the members took his breath away as they regularly broke new ground and took great risks. Today’s meeting was no exception. Everyone supported Stuart for his willingness to show his vulnerability, and the time whizzed by. By the end of the meeting Julius felt much better. So caught up was he by the drama of the meeting that for an hour and a half he forgot his own despair. That was not unusual. All group therapists know about the wonderfully healing qualities inherent in the atmosphere of the working group. Time and again Julius had entered a meeting disquieted and left considerably better even though he had not, of course, explicitly addressed any of his personal issues.

He had barely time for a quick dinner at We Be Sushi a short distance from his office. He was a regular there and was greeted loudly by Mark, the sushi chef, as he took his seat. When alone, he always preferred sitting at the counter—like all of his patients, he was uncomfortable eating by himself at a restaurant table.

Julius ordered his usual: California rolls, broiled eel, and a variety of vegetarian maki. He loved sushi but carefully avoided raw fish because of his fear of parasites. That whole battle against outside marauders—now, what a joke it seemed! How ironic that, in the end, it would be an inside job. To hell with it; Julius threw caution to the wind and ordered some ahi sushi from the astonished chef. He ate with great relish before rushing out to Toyon Hall and to his first meeting with Arthur Schopenhauer.





6


Mom and Pop Schopenhauer— Zu Hause




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The solid foundations of our view of the world and thus its depth or shallowness are formed in the years of childhood. Such a view is subsequently elaborated and perfected, yet essentially it is not altered.