The Shofar

Maybe you know it as The Ram's Horn.

In the bible it's all about big announcements, calls for war, and calls for repentance. Little stuff.

Jews designate an entire month to repentance, and I suppose it's something along the lines of Lent. All I can say on that is that no matter what the similarities, when it comes to most traditions, for better or worse, we've usually started them.

The month of Elul (we're already in it a couple of weeks) is the Jewish month of consideration.

It is said that one of our holier rabbis would think about what he had done wrong the night before, before he ate breakfast.

Then before lunch, he considered what he'd done wrong between breakfast and lunch.

Then before he ate dinner, he went over what he had done between lunch and dinner. He didn't eat a morsel of food until he looked himself directly in the mirror and fixed his make-up.

He did it every day. (And they wonder why we're the most neurotic of nations, or wait, maybe that's just how we're portrayed in film. I'll have to have a chat with Woody Allen about this.)

Anyway, if you do this every day, seriously review everything you've done between meals, then you can fix things, like you can apologize to people you might have slighted. Then by the time you get to the holiest day of the year and have to really stand before the Old Mighty and beg for another year of life. . .

Oh, and by the way, don't think you're off the hook if you're not Jewish, the whole world is judged, down to the very last leaf on a tree. . .

If you really do that, think about your bloopers every day, three times a day, then by the time you get to Yom Kippur, the Day of Judgment,

which is ten days after Rosh HaShana, by the way, the Jewish New Year, coming right up the night of Sept 12, it's a Wednesday night and lasts until Friday night, Don't Call Me with Your Problems, go to your Nearest Emergency Room and try to make it to shul if you're Jewish, everyone and his brother will be there, even Barbara Streisand. . .

If you do that, examine your deeds, your thoughts, your desires then by the time you get to Yom Kippur, you can probably proverbially look the Old Mighty in the eye and say, We're good.

Of course none of us are and we're virtually in tears, begging forgiveness, humbly asking Him/Her for another year because NOBODY does this, even in the month of Elul, nobody repents properly, and NOBODY looks the Old Mighty in the eye.

Some Jewish bloggers write phenomenally descriptive posts about this month of repentance because it makes for incredible blog fodder. We have this concept that in Elul, this month only, during the entire month, not just for one week like He does during a holiday (Succos is like that), the Old Mighty comes out from where-ever it is He/She lives to give us face time.

Some link it to a king who leaves his castle or a gentleman farmer who leaves the ranch, or a president leaving Camp David (that would be me who made that association) to visit people in the villages, fields, and Starbucks.

Remember that song? What if G-d Was One of Us? He is. But he's not a slob. I hate even saying that, repeating that lyric, the whole idea. A king wears a white shirt and a black tie, like my zaideh (grandfather) EVERY DAY. Or do I have the words to the song wrong?

Anyway, FD asked me today if our youngest took his shofar with him to Israel. He just left last week for another year of learning.

No idea. Call him.

So indeed the shofar's gone! Little One took it with him. And the only shofar left is on its way to California with it's rightful owner, #1 son who visited this week and wanted it back.

You have to understand. It's not easy blowing these things. They're like trumpets. If you're good at trumpet you surely can blow shofar. Most of us are bad at trumpet and can't get a single note out of a shofar.

But FD is an all around musician and in Elul he comes home in the morning from MPWTG, (Morning Prayers with the Guys) and blows the shofar to "wake us up," us being me, to examine all the lousy things we've done over the year, that being me, and tell the Old Mighty that we'll try hard to change.

I really will, I'll do both, I'll tell Him whatever I can remember I did wrong (this is really hard if you skip meals) and then I'll try to change, like every Jew does this time of year.

FYO, my mother-in-law says that if people would just watch their basic manners, we'd all be okay going into this holiday season.

It's going around, interestingly, that the month Elul is now called, Derech Eretz Month. "Derech Eretz" is Hebrew for many things, including good manners or basic human decency.

So I guess we could start there.

Tekiah. . .

Today is the 17th day of Elul.

therapydoc

Tough Neighborhood- Fear of . . .

Once I read a book about about the fear of success. I read it and still didn't get it. I mean, how could people not want to succeed, not want to meet potential, not want to use talent? Talent isn't an everyday thing, you know?

It's special. Yet most of us have a talent for something. Latent sometimes.

The book* said that if your parents put you down, then you don't think you've got what it takes to be someone. Having a gift at something doesn't change your mind. Knowing you have certain strengths means nothing. You develop this irrational fear of exposure from the constant put downs. We've talked about the fear of exposure in relationships. Abuse is one of the germs.

If you've been abused then you might develop the fear that if you try to do something fabulous you'll be PROVEN the idiot you think you are. You're sure you'll fail and everyone will KNOW you're a loser as opposed to just guessing.

So you don't try to succeed because you think that if you do, for sure you'll fail. And that's too embarrassing for words.

Makes sense, and this dynamic makes sense, too, although it's a little different. Title the essay,

Kids Who Live in Tough Neighborhoods

(I know, I know, some of you are going to say that this can happen anywhere, that the socioeconomic bias infuriates you, and it's not necessary, and you're right. But be patient, okay? Don't spleen me I'm just trying to illustrate a point.)

Maybe you were the kid who grew up in the tough neighborhood. The windows in your home were always open and people, your parents, could be heard screaming from your house all the way down the block. Screaming about what? Anything.

Others in this neighborhood didn't care much because they had their own problems, mainly poverty or another sociological ill. Or they did care, but boy, they didn't say anything to anyone, didn't call the police, afflicted or not.

The kids in the schools in neighborhoods like these tend to be tougher and angrier than most. (See posts on angry kids, The Columbine Kid in particular). When kids are tough and angry they look for another kid to pick on. This feels good, displacing anger, giving someone else your aggravation. Misery loves company. The grown up version is dad Kicking the Dog after work or mom or anyone screaming in general.

So angry kids (and there are many and they tend to be suckers for group think) are prone to bullying other kids, usually the vulnerable kids. Why pick on a kid who will beat you up? The angry ones look for the vulnerable ones, children who may have already been beaten up at home, in one way or another, or who have other problems.

A vulnerable kid will nervously make an appearance that first day of school. He's a little overweight, a little too smart for his own good. He starts out innocently enough making good grades. The teacher shows his paper to the rest of the class, the one with the big 100% or Smiley Face in marker.

Time for recess.

Whack! Crunch go the glasses. It sounds so cliche but it's true!

You know victim profiles, right? The fat kid, the shy kid, the tall kid, the short kid. The dark kid, the light kid. The black kid the white kid.

Boy, I'm a regular Dr. Seuss.

So the LAST thing a vulnerable kid wants to do is to draw attention to himself. Attention is bad, blending in is good. Be like everyone else. Be normal. Not special. If you stick out, it'll hurt.

And the kid is fabulous, sensitive, a very normal kid at that. And he or she comes to me as an adult and I see the fabulousness but he asks, Why do I fear success? Why do I worry so much that people WON'T like me if I'm a success, if I succeed where others, basically, fail? I don't want to be the one who succeeds where others fail.

Always threw the game, lost the homework, dressed badly even when he could have looked so good.

Blend in. Someone else with less to lose will take your place, someone with more drive, more confidence.

It's not so hard to understand, really, when you think of it that way.

*It's true, I didn't read any book. But if I had, that's what it would have said. If I wrote that book, I suppose, that's what I would have said.

copyright 2007, therapydoc

Spot not Pot

I don't like to assign intentional malevolence to other bloggers, but listen to this one.

I was reading other blogs, throwing my 2 cents in here and there in Comments. When you identify yourself in Comments you can also type in your domain name to tell other people about your blog (i.e., http://everyoneneedstherapy.blogspot.com)

So the other day I mistakenly wrote: http://everyoneneedstherapy.blogpot. com on someone else's blog.

I forgot the "s" in blogSpot leading people who thought they were clicking on my domain name to the wrong blog, not to mine at all, to a religious site, but not one I'd ever visit or recommend.

And I have this one question, of course. If the blogPot writer is so religious, who-ever you are, what's with the stealing names and misrepresentation?

The blogPot domain has NOTHING to do with therapy, by the way. Mother in Israel found the sabatage. Thanks, M-i-I.

Now I happen to like religious blogs. I was just reading, in fact, about a fellow named José Luis de Jesús Miranda, a former heroin addict with a ministry in Miami. His followers believe he's the reincarnation of all sorts of people including the Old Mighty, probably. Miranda wears a 666 tattoo on his forearm. Bloggers are getting a lot of mileage writing about this fellow. He's very in.

I assume he's doing good in this world, or hope so. But maybe he's just making money.

But back to the problem of identity theft. It made me very angry, the idea that someone took almost all of the ENT trademark domain name, all but the lowly letter "s", and rerouted unsuspecting bloggers to the wrong house. It's a form of identity theft, seriously.

Not very many things really make me angry, so I feel there has to be a reason this happened. I'm thinking the reason is so that I'm supposed to warn other blogSPOT bloggers to be careful when they type in their domain names while commenting on other people's blogs. I'm hearing, sensing, feeling this vibe.

And we should write to Google and kvetch.

I imagine that blogPOT has stolen thousands and thousands of domain names. It's legitimately hosted, believe it or not, by WORDPRESS. The good people at Wordpress probably know about it and can't do a thing. Free trade, says Mother in Israel who wasn't bothered in the least.

GOOGLE and WORDPRESS probably need to communicate.

But 'nuf said.

have a blessed day, ;-)

therapydoc

Parties I've Missed

There have been lots of them. Parties I've missed.

So yesterday I was working, doing a little over-kill so that I could have 2 full WEEK-DAYS free to hang around with my grandsons and look at bugs and things. It's not everyday that I get important company.

Between patients I nervously took a peek at my new phone. I say nervously because it's a little intimidating having a phone that has a higher IQ than you. And the manual is 300 pages long and you have to read it on a file on your computer and who the h. . . has the time.

Yet we're up for the challenge, right? There was a phone number on caller ID (that I get) and it looked so familiar, but I couldn't place it. No voice mail.

I hit Call. A kid answered the phone, "K. residence."

Can you imagine? At my house they answer like this, "What? Huh?"

The clue, "K residence," helped the search function. At least I knew who it was who had called and I asked to speak my old friend N., a woman who did play group with me about 14. years ago (that's a long time). "She's not home. Would you like to speak to my father?"

Your father?

Sure.

M. got the phone and explained that he'd called but it wasn't an emergency. On my cell you get this horrible message:

If this is an emergency. . .call. . .or. . .Just please, please, please, don't kill yourself, not on my watch, OKAY?!?#@

So M. felt funny leaving a message and it was all too complicated, anyway. He tells me that he's throwing his spouse, my old friend, a 50th b-day party and could we (me and FD) please come?

Wow. I'm flattered. I really would have liked to have made it, too, which is a little unusual. And I missed their son's wedding only a few weeks before (it was overseas, as in Australia overseas, and you just can't make all of the out of town weddings, you know?). But I had this IMPORTANT COMPANY and once again, couldn't make the party.

And it made me think of so many other parties that I've missed over the years for so many reasons, usually work related. I work on Sundays, and most wedding showers are on Sundays. I've also missed parties because I skip town to visit my kids whenever I can, whenever airfares aren't over the top.

FD is much more the party animal. But I've convinced him that the party is not about us, and that nobody really minds spending a hundred dollars less if we don't make it to their daughter-in-law's shower, kid's bar mitzvah or wedding.

And that's true to a degree, but there are a lot of people who really do want us there to dance with them, and we probably should do our best to trip over our toes to join friends in their happiness. Happiness isn't an every day thing, as you know, and it has nothing to do with knowing how to dance. We should grab the gusto. We really, really should.

Once my own kids planned a party for us, for me and FD, a surprise party. They had invited 20 plus couples before we found out and put the kabosh on the whole thing. We were going through something or another, some huge crisis, and both of us were on empty emotionally. We couldn't handle the mental work it would take to smile that whole evening. We made them cancel the party and they were devastated.

They argued, too. Probably our worst control issue with adult children, and of course, we won. (Structural family therapy axiom #1: Parents Rule). The party was canceled and #2 son (the second of the twins to be yanked out of this ol' bod') said to me, Never again. You don't get another. No more parties for you. He really was hurt, so much wanted to give us a party, and I'm sure it was full of wonderful thoughts, ideas.

So I regret life's emotionality, regret canceling that party. And kids, I apologize.

But sometimes you just can't make it to the party, even if it's your own. (It gives you something to talk about, right? The whole surprise idea. Is it like tickling? Some like it, some don't? Is there research on tickling?)

Anyway, dear friend who is going to be (finally) Over Fifty: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MANY MORE, and let's party together another time, for sure. It is an amazing thing, looking back and remembering, which is what you'll be doing, looking back and remembering, looking forward and wondering.

Wish we could be there. But you know how it goes. As it is I'll miss most of a Bar Mitzvah tomorrow.

What can you do?

therapydoc

No Reservations: How NOT to talk to your kid

Don't read on if you think it might spoil the movie for you. I'll spoil it from the top, but no more than any advertisement or other review you've seen. Maybe.

No Reservations

Catherine Zeta-Jones is the perfect Kate, an egotistical chef in a psychotherapy that her boss (Patricia Clarkson, wonderful) has insisted on. This happens more often than you'd think in real life, usually for anger management.

Aaron Eckhart is Nick, the perfect guy, you can look at him all day and you do. He has perfect timing, is believable through and through, loves opera, food, and is slow to go in relationships. Abigail Breslin, Zoe, is Kate's niece, the very same child star you saw in Little Miss Sunshine. She doesn't disappoint here, either.

Such a feel good/feel bad/feel good movie, what a surprise. Add an extra feel bad if you're me and just HATE matricide or reminders that mothers die and leave small children. I can deal with it any day of the week in the office and do, but when I'm off, would rather not. Not at the movies. (But CZJ, food, no contest)

It's one of those films that didn't know where to end, so we get a third act (thanks #1 son for pointing that out to me) to make it even longer. It's like a good read. We like 'em long, more pages, please. With lower back issues you're fine without Act Three, but like many second endings, the real second end is better, so you might as well sit back and enjoy it. Oh, and finally, finally, finally, a little conflict.

There are all kinds of ways to do reviews, and my way is to take a look at the scenes that make me want to stand up and scream, "NO, NO, NO! It's just WRONG to say that! Or, WHY OH WHY would you say that in THAT WAY!" Either the content or the process is lame and I'm always wanting to correct errors in either/or.

For your edification.

The script is just fine. The cringe is that dysfunction is bound to happen, something WILL go wrong when people deliver bad news badly. In this case because Kate's character is vulnerable yet altogether tactless, when she delivers poorly, it's unintentional, but painful to watch. She has this, I-really-don't-get-it-ness, a pathetic lack of social sensitivity.

Examples, just two.

Kate's at work and gets a phone call in the kitchen. Her face drops and she dashes off to the hospital to see her niece Zoe, who is still alive, but all bandaged up, attached to machines with tubes. The doctor tells Kate that her sister, Zoe's mom, didn't make it in the car accident. It's going to be Kate who has to tell Zoe.

Kate is in a chair by the hospital bed. The kid wakes up. Her eyes well up with tears. Kate looks at her. Hi Zoe.

I want my mom. I want my mom. Where is my mom???@@!!! (tears stream)

Kate's silent.

IS MY MOM DEAD?

From the chair: Yes. She's dead.

She doesn't move in close, doesn't take Zoe's hand, doesn't soften the impact (as if you really can but you have to try).

She's dead from three feet away.

Wooden human wake up call here. I know, I know, how hard it can be to make that moving in close move, but there are so many times, so many times you have to move in, maybe touch someone.

I tell students: There are times to move in. There are times I move my chair closer. I don't take anyone's hand, but I move in.

Okay, the next scene I hated, and I'll stop. Seriously, I loved the movie and would totally rent it with the girls.

Kate drops Zoe off at school but the school principal (Stephanie Berry, great) calls her over to talk. Zoe's been nodding off in class, according to her teacher, and when asked, has mentioned working at the restaurant and going to bed really late.

There are laws against that sort of thing. We'll have custody revoked if it continues. Great.

So how does Kate tell Zoe? Does she say, Honey, let's talk about working at the restaurant, I know you love it, but you're falling asleep at school, and that's not good, and I have this fantastic babysitter who will watch movies with you, or maybe even cook with you, tell you a bedtime story. . .

No. She says, Zoe, you can't work at the restaurant or they'll take you away. I don't want them to take you away. Now Zoe's most catastrophic fears are realized, You don't want me. I want my MOMMY@!@!

Enough said. A therapist that only sees individuals is going to look at Kate's personality and think. . .borderline. . .narcissism. . .A family therapist looks at it and says, tweak here, tweak there. She can do it.

Best parts of the movie are the therapy scenes, not too many, just enough. All I can tell you is that it's not good form to eat food that your patient has prepared for you, not usually, not really. Unless, of course. . .

Copyright 2007, therapydoc

The Rabbi and the Second Shift

As long as we're grousing about the past and talking about parenting . . .

When I talk to people of my generation, doesn't matter if they're Irish, Jewish, Italian, Polish, German, or Japanese (I could go on with that but I think you get the idea), they talk about their parents and their traditional roles.

Sure, they complain about old school parenting, whipping out the belt for effect, silent but deadly looks. But at least the food was on the table, the laundry clean, and the kids got to bed by 10:00. (Yes, I'm way over-generalizing, I know, I know).

But when I talk to people a generation or two younger, they talk about their role confusion, and how between the two of them working, nothing gets done since nobody particularly wants to claim this job, or that job. Sometimes one of the two will try ALL the second shift jobs, burn out, and need me to fill out forms for family leave. So burnt out.

The kids are on the Internet until the next morning, don't understand about alarm clocks, think that gang-banging could be a concept (so bored).

What to do, what to do.

Don't ask me, I just thought I'd rant a little.

I'll pass this one along, a story I've repeated about 2 zillion times, maybe even on this blog.

The story goes about a young man who sat in Kollel and learned Torah (the Holy Books) for a living. Orthodox Jews respect Torah learning so much, that they set up groups of men to learn professionally just to make sure the world continues to spin properly. The ones who are paid to do this are married, and it's generally expected that wives will earn a living somehow, too, as well as bear children and see to it that they're well-groomed.

So this young fellow, Yankel, was expected to be on time for morning prayers at the synagogue; that's one of the expectations if you take a place in the Kollel, you make it to the meetings for prayer 3 times a day on time. And he was forever late for the morning prayers, in fact he often didn't make it to them at all.

One day the head of the Kollel took him aside and said to him, "Yankel, what's going on? You never make it to shacharit (morning prayers). What is your excuse, anyway? It's not right, you know."

Yankel looked embarrassed, but he answered the rabbi.

"Rebbe," he said, "I have this problem. I want to go, I really do. But there's this woman, and she has many children, and the mornings are impossible for her. She has to feed them all and get them dressed and off to school, and they go to different schools. It's very hard. So I feel it's important that I help her."

The rabbi, incredulous, raised his hands to Heaven and shouted, "Yankel! Who is this woman? We can help her! I can find someone who will come to her house in the morning to help her!"

Yankel shrugged his shoulders. "That woman, Rebbe, is my wife."

So you see, friends, at some point you just have to figure it out.

thoughtfully yours,

therapydoc

You're not the boss of me: Playing defense

Not the Boss of Me is the theme song of a television show, Malcomb in the Middle. The show is about kids and the song is performed by They Might Be Giants. Here are some lyrics:

Yes, no, maybe
I don't know
Can you repeat the question?

You're not the boss of me now
You're not the boss of me now
You're not the boss of me now, and you're not so big.

I was riding my bike to work when another biker cut me off on the street and said, "When you turn the corner you should really be sure to look to see that nobody's coming. Just be careful, okay?"

Excuse me?

It was the When you . . . something. . . you should . . . something. . . that got me. It wouldn't get to everyone, but it got to me.

What, like I didn't look? Here's some 20-something kid telling me to look. HE was going too fast on his bike, obviously. Like I need his advice on how to ride a bike?

I'm not going to bore you with the details. It turns out that although I had looked for cars I hadn't looked for bicycles. He came up on me fast, but he had the right of way.

And all he said was, Just be careful, okay?

Outside of my blog I don't tell patients much about me. I don't even tell new patients about the blog any more to tell you the truth (the anonymity feels so good). But there are times when a therapist has a personal life example that packs that perfect punch.

So here's a story I've told over in therapy a hundred times. More or less.

My father is a wonderful guy and he did a great job as a parent and we did what he said we had to do. He said, Shovel snow? We shoveled snow. He said Weed the garden? We weeded the garden until there wasn't a weed in the yard. That sort of thing. In my house you didn't say, When this t.v. show is over I'll get to it. You did it immediately.

Encouraging assertiveness wasn't exactly his bag. He was old school, as many of the people who are still vertical in his age group tend to be. He and my mom have a traditional marriage to this day, except my father does a lot more cooking and quite a bit of work around the house.

When I think back on it I'm sure he really did leave room for us to ask questions about why we had to do certain things his way when he wanted, but we didn't feel comfortable doing that. And to his credit, at every age we were given plenty of room to explore our world, to become independent, confident people.

Anyway, like I said, what he said ruled. My mother didn't usually contradict, although she softened things up. If you've read my posts on structural family therapy then you know that parents should rule. And yet there are different kingdoms, different countries.

Being the boss of your kids can have interesting consequences. We think it better to encourage the kind of dialog that encourages a kid to do the right thing for himself, not for his parents. A kid who isn't bossed tends to be less sensitive to criticism.

It works like this. If you take orders you feel small. If you feel small you feel powerless. If you feel powerless you feel vulnerable. If you feel vulnerable you feel defensive. If you feel defensive you reflexively assert your boundaries at some point, set your limits. You're less open to even innocuous suggestions

as in When you. . .something. . .you should. . .something.

So the story goes that when FD and I had been married about a week the telephone rang. He said, "Get the phone."

Not Would you get the phone, please? Or even, Can you get the phone?

Get the phone.

I think I said the following, loudly. I remember it word for word.

DON'T YOU EVER TELL ME WHAT TO DO. I HAD ENOUGH OF THAT AS A KID.

And I probably said a few more things, but I can't remember them.

Well okay then, he probably replied.

I'm not a yeller, either, but I felt like I'd been hit from behind, attacked. And all he said was, Get the phone.

And I got all defensive. And I knew why. Then today, this kid cuts me off, and in a very sweet, concerned way tells me, Be more careful, and I get all weird like that again.

But I didn't go off on him. I followed him to the light and I asked him to explain to me what happened, and he did and I apologized.

Scary, isn't it? That more than thirty years later, a simple suggestion can still trigger a person like that?

Off the defense,

TherapyDoc