Conflict in relationships: Timing is Everything

I'm always talking about time. There's a time and a place for most things (not everything), especially communication about hot button topics, things that get people hot under the collar.

Dinner isn't one of these times or places.

Conflictual couples, actually, shouldn't argue at all. (If you and your partner fight and hurt one another, you're half of a conflictual couple.)

Conflictual couples shouldn't argue at all until they have learned not to be conflictual, because someone is going to get hurt, for sure. There will be blood, internal scars perhaps.

You wouldn't let your kids hurt one another. What's with the masochism?

So you can't argue if it's going to get ugly. But arguing with a professional referee around is okay.

After an initial evaluation, a therapist like me will send a conflictual couple home with instructions NOT to problem solve, which is ironic, since therapy is all about problem solving. I tell them to talk about why they fight.

That's all. If you're one of these conflictual couples, you can talk about anything parve,* like who you've talked to lately, who is sick, who has died, lost a job, whose kid is on drugs, what can be done for world peace.

But you really should work on why it is that you fight, and not fight, if arguing is hurtful. Later you can problem solve in a petri dish, a professional's office. Get that part figured out, why the need to fight, and you can problem solve like everyone else.

First, however, it's all about getting to the bottom of that mystery, or is it misery, the Why.

This is usually a dynamic grounded in psycho-social history, occasionally no more complicated than going at it in the ring of sibling rivalry, having garnered a repertoire of verbal sniping as a child. Sometimes the sniping is a learned whisper, almost inaudible, because Mom and Dad wouldn't let you physically whack one another or tease one another. And other times, there weren't any editors at all, or gloves to soften the wreckage.

Then, history in hand, in therapy we have a go at it, real problem solving. The therapist, a person who specializes in beating on people by gently reminding them to look in the mirror, tries to stay invisible.

And since you'll surely fight, your therapist will have to break form to break up the fight, force you to review your problems and stay objective. You see yourself as we see you and hopefully can laugh at yourself, accept that you have faults. Both of you work to change. This can take a year or two or more, and includes individual therapy, as well. But it's worth it.

The devil you know. . .

This accomplishes so much, this process, as painful as it can be at times, for most us don't laugh at ourselves. But in couples therapy we figure out:

(a) why you're both so sensitive --there are roots to this, as we've indicated, usually seeded in childhood, genetics, and experiences with parents, sibs, teachers, peers

(b) why one or both of you tend to use dysfunctional, combative, inflammatory strategies instead of constructive, empathetic discussion. The reasons, beyond childhood tutelage, include but are not limited to a sense of powerlessness, frustration, alcohol and drugs,** or some combination)

and

(c) how to problem solve constructively.

I couldn't write this if I didn't know that the process works. This week I discharged three couples from therapy. Three! All giggly and silly and happy. All better.

Couples therapy is fun, it really is, can be, I should say, sometimes. Sometimes. That said, I pity Empath I, my poor colleague in the room next door who has to listen to it when the volume goes up in my office. I feel sorry for her, I really do, for the noise, but I tell her, it's GOOD noise. We're figuring junk out. And all of my lamps are nailed down now.

Anyway, one of the good things about postponing your fighting for therapy, aside from the fact that you pay for this and deserve your money's worth, is that you know that you're resolving things constructively. You get the knack of talking nice and bring it on home.

Discussion (a.k.a., arguing) in therapy should be timed, ideally, so that you can kiss and make up when it's over. While I check my email, you argue with one another, then I interrupt you and say, "Are you sure you want to say it that way? Can you say that differently, maybe start the sentence with how you feel?"

The coaching part of this job is awesome. "FOUL!" I cry, jumping to my feet and waving a flag when one or both are out of bounds.

At home a foul might mean someone slams a door or throws a dish or breaks a hand, some plaster. Here the worst that can happen is one of you storms out. Then you come back, feeling a little silly.

Happens all the time. I might send your spouse to retrieve you.***

Problem solving in therapy is all about focusing on one thing, one little piece of a problem or a slice of life, past, present or future. The goal is to understand one another differently and reach consensus about something. The agreement, sometimes is simply a temporary solution, something to try out. If it doesn't work, it's back to the drawing board, but trying something is better than doing nothing new. In time, something will work. And we time solutions.

Lately we're timing solutions for Thanksgiving, always a riot.

Timing is everything. When the system works, it works because you've timed your argument, measured your words. You've learned that rather than argue, it is more important to take care of feelings, negative emotions, physical ailments, if at all possible, at the very least try to be empathetic, sympathetic, and to give more than you take. Especially with time.

Now, I personally have worked on my timing and problem solving and am a big one for waiting until my partner is in a good mood before mentioning new shoes or the importance of a new sofa.

FD has pretty good timing, too. He tries to be sensitive to my particular personality quirks. He knows me and is fond of saying, for example, that I'm a bear when hungry. I'm conscious of it and a little embarrassed about it, but it is what it is. It's important to know yourself.

The story:

It doesn't have much to do with the introduction except that it is about the importance of timing and how to handle it when someone oversteps the rules.

We picked up some fast food from a restaurant a few days ago. Picture it. FD is driving. I'm in the passenger seat, the take-out is in a bag on my lap, and I'm starving, haven't eaten in days, an exaggeration, but okay.

FD, however, is not. He wants me to listen to a song on a tape before we leave the car to go into the house to eat. He's saying that one of our sons should use this song to try out for American Idol. No, he's not serious, but he's really pushing for me to listen to this song.

I'm hungry, okay? But I don't spleen him. I'm keeping my cool. Constructive problem solving here, obviously, is taking the tape into the house to hear it while we eat. But we haven't got a tape player in the house that works. We're working on throwing away things like cassette players that don't work and even, dare I suggest, cassettes.

So here we are in the car and I'm being patient while he's fast forwarding the tape, rewinding the tape, searching for the song. It's really getting hard to be patient. The food smells so good. I'm so grumpy. Finally he finds the song.

I listen to a minute of it and say, "Nice song. Can we go inside now?"

"But you haven't heard the whole song."

"And I don't want to, really. It's raining. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I want to change clothes. Can't I go inside?"

"Okay."

He's okay with it, me listening to only a little of the song, half-heartedly at that, and there's no violence. Falafel could have been de-bagged and utilized here, theoretically, in this situation. But no. No food fight, no battle of words.

We could say I made an effort at managing anger. Or was that hunger. Or fatigue? A long, day. See, there's a lot that goes into putting off conflict. You need anger control, impulse control. Your partner's timing can't always be perfect.

And one thing we know, it's even more of a challenge to problem solve at the end of a long day, when your emotions are virtually indistinguishable from your appetites.

It could have been worse, you know. He could have pushed me to listen to the whole album.

therapydoc

*Parve rhymes with Marv and means something that hasn't got either milk or meat products in it (vegan), so it's basically not going to upset the karma of anyone who keeps kosher. A parve person isn't a very exciting person, necessarily, but you can always tolerate having him around.

**If addiction is another variable in the equation, that has to be addressed as a problem and has to be resolved. This tends to slow down the therapy which angers the patient, another excuse for the patient to drink or use drugs. Don't buy it.

***At the Second Road I wrote a post about a woman who gets high (Dialing Back) and there's a comment by Retriever that's worth a look. Sometimes, honestly, you learn more from people who write in than you do from me.

Keeping the Pace

I don't know if it's me, or if it's being a therapist. Therapists are in tune with people, certainly the ones they treat, or they should be. They get the energy, the feelings, the intensity, that urgency for speech, and hesitation; the pause we talk about. I think, honestly, like other artists, maybe, dare I suggest actors, we're into timing.

There's a certain sensitivity to other people and what they need Right Now that defines the better therapydocs, that and a fine education.

But maybe you don't need to be a therapist at all to have that sixth sense. I'm sure you don't. I know you don't.

Anyway, this little aptitude can get in the way when there are competing bodies needing something different from us Right Now, when the Right Nows are in competition. This is very much the dilemma of family therapy when the therapist doesn't set a solid boundary, which can happen when the therapist is human and not a stone. And to be effective a family therapist wants to be one of those, a human, and can't help but become a part of the family system. The salubrious part, ideally, the one that discusses the parts, the players, and the system.

We're the conscience in some families, the ego in others. Sometimes the id. Add the community system that refers you to us to that mix and we can totally lose our personal identities. Want to feel enmeshed and dissociated all at the same time? Become a family therapist.

Feeling torn between competing bodies happens more often, really, when we deal with our own families, our children and our parents. At least it does with me. I'm pretty strict about boundaries with everyone else.

So here's the story.

FD and I got on an airplane on Friday morning, cruised airspace (I got a great deal in April) for the nearly four hours it takes to touchdown in Los Angeles. United was great, by the way. I don't know why, but we had more room to breathe it seemed, on that 757 with 38 rows, 3 seats abreast, music, a movie (terrible, I only watched a little, but still; FD never glanced up) and snacks galore if you're into that sort of thing. In the middle seat you take what you can get in terms of cheap thrills, and well, you know me.

My son picked us up at LAX, wouldn't hear of our taking the shuttle, and I popped into the backseat of his old Presario next to my granddaughter who was sound asleep in her carseat, slumped over so I couldn't even see her face. There's plenty to talk about with my son and last Friday was no different, so I forgot about her.

All of a sudden I hear, "Bubbie?!" I turn. Huge, huge smile.

I'm in. Anyway, we had a very nice chat about the bugs on the mountains and she couldn't wait to see the lime green ballet slippers I bought her. When we arrived at Empath Daught's house, my daughter had timed it perfectly (is this genetic?) and she drove up right behind us, just seconds later, with the boys.

Heaven on earth, surely, so much to catch up on, and Where are the Toys is still a fresh scene out of a Disney movie, no matter where we get the toys or what we pay for them. They need so little, kids, when it comes to help with playing.

Anyway, I don't travel as well as I used to, and didn't get my nap. The weather was beautiful, warm and sunny, dry like a desert should be, low 80's. Playing most of the day into the night is fun but I'm pretty wiped by dinner, which is so late on Friday, almost 9:00 pm. Dinner's an elegant affair, a welcome for the Sabbath bride, we're almost second to her arrival. It's unconscious the intensity of preparation, replete with the Oh, we forgot to feed you epiphany and No, we didn't want to eat lunch. Everyone's fresh and clean and dressed, and last I remember of the dinnertime conversation is my granddaughter saying, "Bubbie's sleeping," and it was true.

Some therapists are awake even while asleep, something to remember when yours dozes off, but I'm not.

I've got Rac on my right playing the most remarkable game with my granddaughter. The kid is on her lap, and I am in awe. In Stage I sleep I still hear the game, which goes something like: I love you, Mommy; no I love you, No I love you; no I love you, and they can go on like this for hours. If there's a break in the action by Rac, granddaught bursts into tears, so Rac, being an empath, doesn't allow for a break, lets the little one be the one to stop the game, for she started it, after all.

I awake next day to small hands and giggles, and since I'm not great before my second cup, suggest they stay with me for five minutes and let me wake up slowly. They are already on top of me, clawing at my flannels, so this suggestion thrills them immensely. We all fit just fine in the twin, like a glove, until one of them says, "I'm smushed," and it's over.

We roll out gradually and they take my hand, lead me to the kitchen where I pour the apple juice. (What is it with kids? Don't they ever outgrow apple juice?)

They find the mini yogurts in the fridge (horrible, horrible things), and while they eat these I have a chance to talk to FD who has found himself a comfortable spot on the sofa to drink his coffee and learn a little. He says, "You'll take them to shul (Sabbath morning services)."

Oh, I don't think so.

"No, you should. They should go to shul."

"Don't hold your breath, sweetie."

"If their parents want them to go, you should take them."

"Oh, for sure. If they're parents. . . sure. . .but. . "

I feel bad for controlling the vertical and the horizontal, because he's got to go, has to be on time, but I've never been great with strong suggestions. If he begs I can't say no, not usually, but here we are, me and the kids, just getting cozy, and stressing to get dressed up, walking to shul, having to socialize, losing them to the multitudes, well, this isn't going to happen.

I learned long ago not to even try to dress my grandsons.

But I get dressed. They want to play a game inside but there's a sunny backyard and although it's early, this seems like a good place to be. I open the sliding door to the patio and take my siddur (prayer book) with me to say a few words to the Old Mighty in the sun.

The boys are already there, of course. You know how it is when you open a screen door and the pets dash outside? This feels the same to me. My grandsons are checking under rocks for bugs and are throwing an avocado to see how far, exactly, one can throw an avocado. Can you imagine having avocados just fall onto your lawn, no grocery bag need apply?

After awhile they make it over to the new swing set, which is awesome, it's green and brown with one of those little forts on top near the slide, not as expensive as one might think, assuming you're able to install it yourself. I hear them calling me. "Bubbie, Bubbie! Push me, push me!"

I look up from the book, wave the, Just a minute index finger at them, finish my conversation, and stroll over to do the honors. The youngest needs a little coaching on how to pump, and although it's not something I feel is necessary, teaching him how to swing higher, I'm tempted to see how he'll handle suggestions and explain that trying to touch the sky with your toes on the way up, and bending them back at the knees on the way down really helps the game.

He does it, too, pumps more efficiently, but his brother makes a crack, "You're never going to get as high as me."

"Yes I can."

"No you can't."

"Yes I can."

"Not."

"And I'm faster."

"No you're not."

"Yes I am."

All this while I'm getting a bit of workout, pushing. I'm kind of getting into it, though, thinking that if need be, I can do this all day, push the kid on the swing. The sun is out. The birds are singing, the windchimes occasionally join in.

"Higher, Bubbie. Higher!"


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