Lives Between Walls

As a psychologist, I had been exposed to many different kinds of people who came in and out of my office. This gave me the opportunity to see life from various perspectives, and in a sense, I felt blessed to ‘live’ so many lives in one. It also allowed me to escape the monotony and drab of my own life. Once you’ve hit 45 and had kids, you can start to feel as though you are trapped in routine. Sure, once in a while you and your husband can go on those get away trips in an attempt to rekindle the spark that once burned brightly, but it doesn’t make your responsibilities disappear.

I smiled at the young man seated across the room from me, on that bright yellow couch. I had personally found that bright colors permitted patients to relax, as opposed to the institutional office-like furniture. I wanted my office to feel more like a home and less like a hospital. “So why are you here Isaac?” I asked, as I had done with many patients before him that day. At times, my job proved to be tiresome, as it involved listening to someone, learning their story from scratch before I could begin to help them. “Well, I would say, I have come to the realization that I am in need of help mam,” the young man replied. I was slightly taken aback at how well spoken this young lad was, considering that he was black. Not that there’s anything odd about that, I guess I just didn’t expect it, moreover, it was not everyday that anyone referred to me as ‘Mam.’ I smiled, “Oh? And what kind of help would you like sir?” Isaac shuffled with his fingers for a while, looking around the room. “Well,” he stammered, “I’ve realized that I struggle with my relationships, specifically with forming and maintaining long term relationships.” I noted down in my notepad the word, ‘relationships.’ “And what do you think is the cause of that Isaac?” I asked him. “It all boils down to the way I was raised I guess,” he replied, his eyes meeting mine, now and again. I could tell he was a bit shy. ‘Family,’ I jotted down again on my yellow page.

“Mmm,” I softly mused, while crossing my legs and gently yanking my skirt toward my knees. My pencil skirt was turning out to be a bad choice for today. It was getting a bit too short for sitting on the couch. My husband, Dave had said this morning, “Darling, dont you think your clients will be distracted by your legs to listen to what you have to say.” However Isaac, a seemingly nice young man, didn’t look like the type who’d let his mind wander that far. He deliberately turned his gaze elsewhere. I must admit, I felt a bit disappointed though. I guess a part of me was hoping that he would have stolen a quick glance at my legs, if only for a moment, just so I could be assured that I still had it. “Get a grip Vanessa!” I quietly chastised my thoughts. “So, how would you describe your relationship with your family Isaac?” I asked him with a hint of concern in my voice, thoroughly applying all that we had been taught in Psychology school. Always maintain eye contact, smile, then cock your eyebrows and act concerned. “Good, I guess, just my dad…” He paused. I was secretly hoping that this session wouldn’t be too hectic, I really didn’t feel like I had the energy to deal with deep drama this late in the afternoon. I should strongly consider taking on less patients each day, but then again, less patients equals less pay. “He emotionally abused me,” Isaac continued, interrupting my thoughts, “totally destroyed my self esteem, you know?” I nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that, Isaac. One would usually not expect that from a father, rather he is the one who is supposed to help you become a well-balanced man in society,” I reassured him. “You know, it has been said that there are a shortage of good men as a result of bad fatherhood. In fact, a lot of wrong in this society can be traced back to the negative role of fathers,” I could feel myself getting worked up as I thought of my own father having abandoned me and my mother. “Yeah that’s true,” Isaac replied, slightly unsettled by my outburst.

We carried on conversing, and I discovered that Isaac’s father was a Pastor. “It was very difficult because as a Pastor, he had an image to uphold to the community,” Isaac continued, “I never got to be a child, had no room to make mistakes at all. I had to be perfect because that’s what my dad expected. That’s also what society expected of a Pastors’ kid.” Jotting down the word, ‘mistakes,’ I probed him further, “Tell me more about ‘not being allowed to be a child or make mistakes,’ what do you mean?” By this time, Isaac had begun to relax, even his posture on the couch seeming more comfortable, his eyes darting less around the room and more connected to mine.

“Well, I could never tell how my dad would respond. For instance, he would lose it over the most stupid stuff, like for dropping a glass on the floor and he would beat me as if I had killed someone!”

“Oh my, that couldn’t have been easy to go through, but maybe he was having a bad day and took his frustrations out on you that day. Parents are not perfect, you know?”

“No Mam, this didn’t just happen on one occasion. Another time, he beat me up for looking at him in the eye, saying that children should never look their elders in the eye. It boggled my mind as to why he wouldn’t sit me down and teach me those things one on one.”

“Mmm I see. Your dad sounds like someone who is easily given to aggression. And I can imagine, it must have been hard for you to accept any kind of religious affiliation because of what you experienced with your dad being a man of God?”

“My dad literally has no soul. He has like, zero understanding of human emotions. One minute he is beating you up, then the next, literally cracking jokes with you like nothing happened.”

“Quite a harsh thing to say that he has no soul, Issac. Please elaborate on that.”

“I don’t know how else to explain it. He is just like… an adult child.”

“An adult child?”

“Yah, I really believe he doesn’t have the capacity to love or to feel genuinely. Everything just revolves around him! That’s how it’s always been!”

I could see that Isaac was struggling to articulate his feelings. I found it funny how, this man who was so well versed in English a little while ago, struggled when it came to expressing his feelings. I figured it was because he had numbed his feelings for a long time, probably as a protective measure while living with his father – so as to avoid getting hurt by his verbal attacks. That’s probably where the relational disabilities originated from. After all, ‘what relationship could survive without communication?’ I reasoned with myself while nodding at him, listening.

“Isaac, it sounds like there’s alot of trauma you experienced with your dad, some of which is too horrible that your mind has erased, to avoid the pain of constantly thinking about it. So let’s talk about some coping mechanisms. What kept you together as you went through that abuse? What did you turn to?”

“Well… I… I can say God was my escape. I developed a very unhealthy relationship with God, one that estranged me from all forms of social contact. I believed God spoke to me personally about where I should go, who I should marry and what I should wear. I would lock myself in my room and pray for 8 hours straight. This was also made worse by the teachings I received from certain churches I went to. I basically used religion as a way to fill the void of belonging and affirmation that my dad created in me.”

“You are referring to afterwards, when you left home right? But how did you cope while in the situation.”

“I shut down mam. I stopped communicating, became a very quiet boy. I would ask myself, ‘what is the point of saying anything if my ideas were all going to be shot down?’ I didn’t trust my own decision making skills or think I was wise enough to make decisions. I just saw my emotions as invalid, even when I felt uncomfortable about something, I would go along with it anyway because I was used to always being wrong.”

“What do you mean your ideas were shot down? Could you give me an example of that?”

“Umm… Like, my dad always wanted to make the decisions for me. And I couldn’t disagree. Eish…I can’t really think of a proper example at the moment. It’s like if I did something and it went wrong, I would always be chastised, belittled and at fault. My dad would even blame me for big things, even those I had no control over. It was never his fault, it was always me. And so because I didn’t want to cause anymore trouble, I stopped taking initiative. Because I was too afraid to be wrong, too afraid to be punished.”

“Alright so if I understand you correctly, you saying you grew up believing that you had to be punished for making mistakes?” Isaac nodded.

I admired this young man. How many men were out there dealing with the repercussions of bad fathering, unwilling to admit that they needed help. Instead they were taking out their frustrations on the helpless of society, the woman and the children – a vicious cycle perpetrating a new generation of abusers.

We continued talking and I found out that Isaac had just completed his bachelors and was now working as an accountant at a nearby firm. “Wow that is great Isaac, the fact that even with odds stacked against you, you managed to accomplish a great feat,” I reassured him, “that tells me that you possess great strength.” He cracked a toothy grin. I continued, “See it’s easy to run, but it takes even more strength to run carrying buckets of water. So don’t be discouraged, you may be behind your peers at the moment but you are stronger.” I felt that my words did get through to him that afternoon and though I know change was not going to be easy, the words of someone who believed in you do go a long way. I smiled at him and he returned a smile back. I scolded myself for having held his gaze too long, when I saw is eyes dart away after a few seconds. I hope I didn’t make him uncomfortable.

“We were talking about defense mechanisms, Isaac,” I said quickly. He looked up at me,”oh what do you mean?”

“You wanted me to help you in terms of your relationships. So I’m saying, because you went through all that emotional trauma, you built certain ways of protecting yourself from the pain. Which was not necessarily a bad thing, I mean it was one way you could survive through it. However, you need to realize that you are a grown man now, and that you are no longer in that environment where you need to defend yourself. You need to take down the defense mechanisms you formed because you cannot hope to have meaningful relationships from within a cage – you understand?”

I also found out from Issac that pornography and masturbation were other mechanisms he had used to escape the pain. “And look, there’s nothing wrong with masturbation Isaac, I mean I sometimes do it as well – ” I started to say, but then I quickly stopped myself when I noticed him getting slightly uncomfortable. “Argh, Vanessa! Why did you have to go there?” I silently berated myself, though I was just trying to make him feel comfortable. “Isaac the point is, if you are using it those methods to numb the pain, then it means you are not dealing with your issues and hence you’re not growing either. And that is what defense mechanisms do Isaac, they stunt your growth.” Isaac rubbed his eye, initially I thought he was crying but he might have just had something in his eye. “I totally hear you mam,” he replied. I chuckled, “Look Isaac I’m flattered but you don’t have to keep calling me ‘mam.’ Call me Vanny.” ‘Mam’ just made me feel old and unsexy.

Isaac also revealed to me that he was not the only victim of his father’s abuse, but also his mother, his little brother, and every domestic worker that used to stay in their house. In fact, they would have to keep replacing domestic workers as most of them left because they could not take the abuse. “And get this,” Isaac explained, “My dad would say that the workers were the ones with the problem! He was such a pathological liar, always twisting the story to make himself seem like the good guy everytime! How do you even begin to talk to such a person?” We also spoke about the relationship between his father and his mother. “Ai, that man was incapable of love. Never once have I seen him kissing, hugging or even touching my mother, I swear I am not lying to you,” Isaac was getting a bit worked up. “So what did your mum do while your dad was emotionally abusing you?” I asked as I jotted down the word ‘mother.’

“Well,” he replied, “I think I learnt my defense mechanisms from her. She was quite passive. At times she would speak her mind but at other times she would tell us not to take the things he said to heart because we ‘know how he is.’ She actually defended him a lot all in the name of keeping the peace, which eventually took its toll on her.”

“What do you mean ‘took its toll on her?’”

“Umm, after she retired and got sick, her condition worsened because she was home most of the time – which meant she had to endure more of his abuse. She would call me from time to time, often crying, telling me how she had held it together all those years for our sake, but now she had had it. I honestly think that toxic environment exacerbated her sickness and ultimately lead to her passing away. “

“Oh I’m really sorry to hear that Isaac,” I really felt like giving him a hug or something but the rules of psychology forbade us from have any physical contact with one’s patients. “It’s okay mam, I mean Vanny,” he managed a weak smile. “My dad would bawl out at my mother for being sick, saying that if she died it would make him look bad,” Isaac said in a defeated tone. I was shocked. “Are you serious???” I wanted to exclaim, but I had to maintain composure – this wasn’t about me so I kept my emotions at bay. However listening to him speak, I understood better why he was this way and how he had gotten there. “I was too numb to do anything about it. I couldn’t defend my mom against my dad… so my little brother did,” Isaac said as he faced the floor, he face awash with regret.

“And how did your dad respond to your brother?” I asked as I jotted down the word ’emotionally numbed.’ “He acted shocked but backed off for a time, later heard he started spreading a false story saying my brother verbally abused him and swore at him for no reason. The nerve!”

I used to always think verbal abuse was worse than physical abuse. I mean, the latter is easier to address because its repercussions are visible, but the other is almost like sowing invisible seeds that will eventually sprout when one grows older. These are not easy to identify at the initial stages, only once they are fully grown and difficult to uproot. I glanced at the watch on the wall and realized that our session was drawing to a close. “So Isaac, I think we can conclude our session for today, we can pick this up next time we meet,” I said to him closing my notepad. “Do you have any other questions for me?” He shook his head. We both stood up, shook hands, he thanked me once again and walked out of the room.

Healing is a long and difficult road to travel on, moreover it is only found by a few. I’ve learnt that the root of most issues begin with fatherhood or the lack thereof. Someone once said, ‘Tell me about your relationship with your father, and I will tell you what your problem is.’ After Isaac closed the door behind him, I took a few steps and slumped face down onto the yellow couch where he had been sitting – exhausted. Moments later, Dr. Arnold came through the door, carrying his clipboard against his broad chest. “Hey Vanessa,” he greeted me cheerfully, “ready for our session?” I nodded managing a weak smile as I sat up on the couch. He sat down on the seat I had sat on before, stroked his grey mustache with his gold pen, as he would usually do just before he started talking, “So Vanessa, tell me about your relationship with your father.”