When I was younger and I did something wrong, I wasn’t “punished” in the way one might consider typical for reprimanding a four year old. If I hit my sister or threw food at my mom in a restaurant, nobody sat me in a corner. My punishment was far worse than any lost television time or even any physical threat. When I did something my parents deemed wrong, I had to go have talks in “the office.” Sounds horrifying, right? I know. The office was like the chokey from Matilda with fewer spikes, a couch, and a lot more talking. It was the place where I was forced to chat about my “feelings” and confront my actions. To be honest, I probably would have rather taken my chances in the chokey- at least the spikes wouldn’t force me to understand myself.
At four years old, the only thing scarier than confronting your parents, is confronting yourself. 16 years later, I’ve gone through elementary school, suffered through puberty, peaked (kidding) in high school, and I’m currently still in college (thank the lord- sorry, seniors and post-grads). Even still, after growing, evolving, observing and learning for as long as I’ve been alive, I’m here to tell you that confronting yourself is one of the most terrifying things a person can do. It was my punishment at four years old, and it’s my punishment at 20 years old–only it’s worse. Because, instead of my dad forcing me to discuss my actions and take a look at myself- I’m the one who has to push myself to do what my psychiatrist father forced me to for the first 18 years of my life. The truth is, confronting yourself doesn’t get easier with age- it only seems to get more difficult. Why is that? Well, when you’re younger and you’re forced to look at yourself, you’re essentially looking at one or two pieces of the puzzle. You’re trying to understand why you bit your sibling, and there’s usually a pretty linear sequence leading to a clear-cut answer. You were mad because they called you stupid, and ultimately that comment made you upset, but instead of telling your sibling they hurt your feelings, you turned your sadness into anger directed at them, so you bit them and so on and so forth…you get the idea.
As we get older, these questions get a lot more complex, and we’re no longer looking at one or two pieces of the puzzle. We’re essentially looking at the entire 350-piece set. Four years old or twenty-four years old, being forced to look at our actions, understand why something caused us to respond a certain way, and ultimately accepting who we are as individuals becomes increasingly daunting. Did I choose the right major? Am I contributing to society? Should I have done more things? Should I have done fewer things? We could question ourselves forever, but questioning is pointless. All we can ask of ourselves, is to attempt to understand why we’ve done the things we’ve done. If we try to fathom our actions, we’re ultimately attempting to know ourselves, and even attempting to achieve self-awareness is a step that should be applauded. Knowing yourself doesn’t come easily; it’s a constant undertaking. You don’t wake up one morning and think, “Yep! I’ve got it. I’ve got me figured out,” because no one’s got themselves figured out, and if they say they do, they’re lying. We’re continuous works in progress, and the only thing we can do to continue to grow, is to persistently make the effort to understand our actions. The sad truth is life would be a lot easier if we operated without understanding, if we just went through the motions without thinking. But then everybody would suck. If we did that, the world would be full of people who “don’t get it,” and people who don’t “get it” are THE WORST. My dad knew this, and he’s taught me the importance of trying to “get it” since I was four years old.
My dad showed me the significance of confronting not only myself, but also the importance of confronting the stigma surrounding mental health. I grew up in a house that essentially de-stigmatized what the rest of society was stigmatizing, and I (now) know that this isn’t common, but until I came to college, I didn’t fully understand how exceptional my family’s acceptance and regard of psychological therapy was. Honestly, I thought everyone grew up having office talks, and until recently, I never realized how lucky I am to come from a family where mental health is a priority, rather than an afterthought; but not every kid is this lucky. Sometimes parents aren’t willing to see when there’s a problem, and people simply don’t see what they don’t want to see. My dad taught me that the mind is powerful, and it has the ability to convince us of just about anything; it has the ability to convince us not to see what might be blatantly obvious to others. So kids continue on like everything’s fine–when everything is not fine, and if a parent is unwilling to accept that their child might be struggling, then there’s no issue. There’s no issue, there’s no issue, there’s no issue, and suddenly, it’s a really big issue. My dad taught me that what the rest of society was pretending wasn’t an issue, was an issue. He indirectly showed me that the things people weren’t talking about deserved to be talked about.
My dad also taught me the importance of extreme trust. Listen, there’s doctor-patient confidentiality and then there’s psychiatrist/psychologist-patient confidentiality. These are two entirely different beasts. When I was younger, he’d come home from work and tell me, “Someone came into my office and said they know you.” Or worse, “I saw someone today who said they love you.”
“Who!?” “Who was it?” I always asked, and he always answered, “I can’t say.”
“But someone said I rock, can’t you at least grant me the compliment?” Nope. He never could. Someone could tell him they wanted to marry me–I could be missing out on my future husband, and my dad wouldn’t even grant his daughter the gift of love if it meant compromising the trust his patients had in him. I often wondered if he did this to torture me, but maybe he just wanted to show off how much people trusted him (and how much they deserved to). My dad has never so much as blinked, even if I mentioned someone who openly told me they were his patient. “No, but dad. They told me they see you! They told me I could tell you,” I’d say.
“I don’t know,” he always answered.
However, I’ll admit, these open confessions come few and far between. They most commonly occur when people are drunk, when inhibitions are diminished, and people are more apt to admit what they might not in a regular state-of-mind. People I just met, people I’ve known for 10 years, or someone completely random will come up to me plastered at a tailgate and slurr, “Youuuuurrr daddddd issssss my doctor!!! Heeeee’s theeeeee best!!!!!!!!!!!!” These confessions make me happy because I get to hear about how much my dad is helping them, but they’re also kind of sad because I’m reminded how little I hear them when people aren’t intoxicated. I wish more people walked up to me sober and told me my “dad is the best.” I wish people felt comfortable enough to tell me that my dad saved their life or that he got them through this when they were struggling with that. But, unfortunately, our society isn’t quite there yet. Hopefully someday I’ll hear, “Your dad is my doctor, he’s the best,” in broad daylight, without the influence of drugs or alcohol, when the person understands exactly what they’re telling me and is happy to be doing so, with zero remorse or embarrassment.
Above all, my dad has taught me that it always pays (not necessarily in actual dollar bills, but in moral compensation) to try to do the right thing. He has instilled within me an innate moral compass and a guilty conscious the size of a beluga whale, both of which might not always feel like they’re benefitting me in the moment, but they always end up being worth it. I always question how he does what he does, and he always jokingly tells me, “Someone has to do it,” but I know he couldn’t be happier that someone is him. He went to medical school, and he could have chosen to do anything-he chose psychiatry. He chose to be the doctor people don’t often speak about; he chose to be an undercover hero. Dad, you’re the original Clark Kent. You’re the person that not many people talk about publically, but the person that so many people need privately. For everyone who didn’t grow up in a house where psychological therapy was regarded the same as physical therapy, for everyone whose secrets you’ve kept, for everyone whose lives you’ve bettered, for those who weren’t lucky enough to start learning how to confront themselves at four years old, I’m thanking you. Thank you for being there for them, and thank you for teaching me.
Images courtesy of Giphy