Doing Pat
I'm a soon-to-be former therapist. In three weeks I will begin an ending. I will begin to peel off a 20 year-old layer that has become too tight and confining, like a lycra Superwoman uniform grown too small and nubby from repeated daily use.
Until recently, I have probably needed a skin-tight uniform like this. It held together a life that has been chopped up so often that I have become a list of roles.
When I turned 50, a well-meaning friend drew a picture of me for her gift. It was a grotesque woman-octopus, with eight tentacles holding objects emblematic of each of my so-called talents: psychologist-therapist, writer, mother, homemaker, friend, gardener,photographer, extended family member.
I shuddered when I saw the large poster she created. Maybe that was the real beginning of the end, the start of a simmering resentment that, even today, ESPECIALLY today, erupts when I'm overwhelmed. A lot of these roles felt imposed out of my conscience control. The only one I really went after--remember I was born in 1948, not 1970-- was mother and partner.
The parent role has penetrated at the cell level by now. Being a mother to my two sons is like breathing, something I cannot do without. As for wife-partner, it's a role I strongly prefer and love, like my husband. As an ardent feminist, I was determined to have a career, and so that is deep within me as well.
The hearth-keeping, caregiving jobs, arrived on my doorstep, like clever dwarfs who LOOK innocent but are mainly leeches.
Given the legacies of my various family histories, I took the squatters in, one after another, and probably gave them too much space. Have you ever met a Filipino who doesn't work hard, or who ignores family or good friends? What Southerner do you know who doesn't have a neat house and garden? As I said to my 83 year-old mother the other day, 'Even your dirt is clean.'
So, under the tight garb of Superwoman, I'm re-ordering priorities, and re-doing roles. Soon, 'therapist' will go the way of other grown-up jobs I've had: soap opera production assistant, drama teacher, and special educator. (I'm not sure where 'psychologist' will end up; it might have won a permanent place in my identity.)
Until recently, I have probably needed a skin-tight uniform like this. It held together a life that has been chopped up so often that I have become a list of roles.
When I turned 50, a well-meaning friend drew a picture of me for her gift. It was a grotesque woman-octopus, with eight tentacles holding objects emblematic of each of my so-called talents: psychologist-therapist, writer, mother, homemaker, friend, gardener,photographer, extended family member.
I shuddered when I saw the large poster she created. Maybe that was the real beginning of the end, the start of a simmering resentment that, even today, ESPECIALLY today, erupts when I'm overwhelmed. A lot of these roles felt imposed out of my conscience control. The only one I really went after--remember I was born in 1948, not 1970-- was mother and partner.
The parent role has penetrated at the cell level by now. Being a mother to my two sons is like breathing, something I cannot do without. As for wife-partner, it's a role I strongly prefer and love, like my husband. As an ardent feminist, I was determined to have a career, and so that is deep within me as well.
The hearth-keeping, caregiving jobs, arrived on my doorstep, like clever dwarfs who LOOK innocent but are mainly leeches.
Given the legacies of my various family histories, I took the squatters in, one after another, and probably gave them too much space. Have you ever met a Filipino who doesn't work hard, or who ignores family or good friends? What Southerner do you know who doesn't have a neat house and garden? As I said to my 83 year-old mother the other day, 'Even your dirt is clean.'
So, under the tight garb of Superwoman, I'm re-ordering priorities, and re-doing roles. Soon, 'therapist' will go the way of other grown-up jobs I've had: soap opera production assistant, drama teacher, and special educator. (I'm not sure where 'psychologist' will end up; it might have won a permanent place in my identity.)
posted by Patricia Pasick at 5:01 AM
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