Copyright, Ruth Lampert, May, 2011
Since my retirement as a psychotherapist, I no longer write “professional” articles or books. However, there is a topic much in the current popular press which I would like to address; that is, the updating of the DSM (“Diagnostic and Statistical Manual”) which is the “Bible” for diagnosing mental disorders. It has been revised several times, and the latest version – DSM-V-TR is due for publication in May 2013.
So here are my suggestions/comments for nomenclature of mental disturbances which, in spite of their increasing prevalence, will probably continue to be omitted in new versions.
FOD – “Fear of Deletion.”
This disorder is characterized by an unreasonable panic which overwhelms the sufferer at the last moment before permanently deleting an e-mail from the file. Typically, the person is first aware of an annoying anxiety when the delete button is pushed for the first time, and the item goes to the “delete” file, where it remains until the e-mailer decides (or seriously considers) permanent deletion. After hitting “X” at this point, a small but ominous warning appears on the screen:
“Are you sure you want to delete this item?
This is the moment of truth, which triggers anxiety symptoms including rapid heartbeat, sweaty palms, dry mouth, etc. I personally experience this situation almost every day. I mean, I’m pretty sure I want to delete this old ad from Amazon, .but absolutely, positively forever? True, the time frame for the advertised special has already expired, but they might offer it again, and I might miss the second offer…
And that political controversy…even if the election is over, there will be more, or I might need to defend my choice to someone…you never know. And those confirmations of lunch dates – maybe I’ll need to look them up for tax purposes, and demonstrate that they were indeed business related and maybe I won’t be able to find the actual receipts, who knows? Anything can happen….
This syndrome is more likely to be seen in the elderly (I’ll let you define what that is) and sometimes results in so much stored material that the health of the computer, let alone of the computeree, may be threatened. There is no DSM for that that I know of.
Another disorder not officially noted is the OAO (“On-and-On”) syndrome. An example of this is the above description of FOD, which could have been covered in a sentence or two. This is also seem frequently, but not exclusively, in older patients, which is understandable because older people have more accumulated memories and opinions to draw on as they try to explain or describe something to someone. So far the most effective intervention is attendance at Onandonanonymous meetings. Although each person’s story tends to be interminable, it beats driving a friend or relative nuts. (This condition is not severe enough to warrant an entry in DSM.)
It should be noted that if OAO sufferers are undergoing psychotherapy, the treatment itself will probably go on and on, which some therapists think is a good idea as far as their financial welfare goes. You know who you are.
SCR, or “Sudden Cooking Resistance” is common in women who have been married 20 or more years, (not necessarily to the same man) though it may occur in those who have experienced fewer years of matrimony. While the appearance of symptoms is sudden, the condition may have been festering (simmering? More about puns later.) for many years. Typically, the first symptom is a slamming of kitchen cupboard doors, and a loud, explosive, shout of “I’VE COOKED ENOUGH! THAT’S IT! FROM NOW ON WE EAT OUT OR ORDER IN!” In advanced cases, “YOU LIKE HOMECOOKED FOOD SO MUCH? THEN YOU CAN COOK IT!” may be included.)
There is no cure for this condition, although in some mild cases the patient may find herself able to cook a light meal now and then, as long as someone else does the shopping and the cleaning up.
The CRS! Syndrome,” Can’t Remember S---!” is actually not a disorder, but rather a colorful way of describing the normal memory loss that occurs with aging. It may actually be beneficial in that it allows a healthy release of tension, and is often accompanied by laughter and many “Yeah, me too!” comments from contemporaries.
On the other hand – uh, what was I going to say here? Something about the damage that can be caused by forgetting a close relative’s birthday…Who was that now….. Damn, CRS.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
Always in Demand
Changing interests, lifestyles, and technologies create the need for new skills and talents, but always and forever in demand are the services of a dedicated and creative nag. I am fortunate to have one in my employ. Sue’s official title is “Assistant”. She is here only two hours a week, and in that short time she accomplishes technological tasks, repairs and innovations that span – well, just about everything I ever need. And recently, as my tendency to procrastinate increases, so does her talent for nagging.
For example, some of the services she does not provide, but recognizes my need for, falls in the category of “more household help.” Comments such as “Your leg will heal faster if you hire more household help so you can delegate more of that stupid cleaning you really know you hate” (more, that is, than I can dump onto Tony) inspired me to move in that direction.
More important for readers of this blog (you know who you are) or at least for me, the writer of it, are tactful prods such as “when are you going to put your butt in that chair and write?” or words to that effect. E-mails that inquire, “so nu?”, are very useful. And she is getting better all the time at the use of praise/guilt as motivators. “You have so much talent! What a shame to let it go to waste while you clean the silverware drawer which you know no one will ever notice whereas, your Blog! Well! The world awaits!”
Let me digress – or segue- for a moment to the topic of procrastination. I know everyone does it to some degree, but some of us are clearly masters of the art. I count myself among that group. The only thing I never procrastinate is taking a nap. I mean, if that is scheduled for 3:00, by God I will do it then no matter how great the temptation to clean the silverware drawer!
One of my favorite aphorisms is “always put off until tomorrow what you could do today because tomorrow someone else may have done it for you”. Variations on the theme: …”because maybe it doesn’t really need to be done”…. “because, tomorrow may be an important religious holiday and you must postpone doing the task for the sake of your immortal soul” or, in a somber key, “tomorrow you may be dead and then it won’t matter either way,” but I prefer to avoid that idea.
Sometimes it helps to make a list of all the things you put off doing which turn out to be of no consequence such as: 1) hemming those slacks which eventually went completely out of fashion and you would never wear them 2) calling a friend to say thank you for a favor because in the meantime that same friend did you a disfavor, and don’t try to tell me that if I had said “thanks” in a timely manner she would not have done the disfavor. And please, spare me from having to hear that if I not taken the time to write the list, I could have done the procrastinated task several times over. I don’t like listening to that kind of junk.
Anyway, back to nagging…. oh well, I’ll put off writing more about that until later, it is now 3:00 p.m. and some things can’t wait. If Sue calls I’ll call her later……
zzzzzzz
For example, some of the services she does not provide, but recognizes my need for, falls in the category of “more household help.” Comments such as “Your leg will heal faster if you hire more household help so you can delegate more of that stupid cleaning you really know you hate” (more, that is, than I can dump onto Tony) inspired me to move in that direction.
More important for readers of this blog (you know who you are) or at least for me, the writer of it, are tactful prods such as “when are you going to put your butt in that chair and write?” or words to that effect. E-mails that inquire, “so nu?”, are very useful. And she is getting better all the time at the use of praise/guilt as motivators. “You have so much talent! What a shame to let it go to waste while you clean the silverware drawer which you know no one will ever notice whereas, your Blog! Well! The world awaits!”
Let me digress – or segue- for a moment to the topic of procrastination. I know everyone does it to some degree, but some of us are clearly masters of the art. I count myself among that group. The only thing I never procrastinate is taking a nap. I mean, if that is scheduled for 3:00, by God I will do it then no matter how great the temptation to clean the silverware drawer!
One of my favorite aphorisms is “always put off until tomorrow what you could do today because tomorrow someone else may have done it for you”. Variations on the theme: …”because maybe it doesn’t really need to be done”…. “because, tomorrow may be an important religious holiday and you must postpone doing the task for the sake of your immortal soul” or, in a somber key, “tomorrow you may be dead and then it won’t matter either way,” but I prefer to avoid that idea.
Sometimes it helps to make a list of all the things you put off doing which turn out to be of no consequence such as: 1) hemming those slacks which eventually went completely out of fashion and you would never wear them 2) calling a friend to say thank you for a favor because in the meantime that same friend did you a disfavor, and don’t try to tell me that if I had said “thanks” in a timely manner she would not have done the disfavor. And please, spare me from having to hear that if I not taken the time to write the list, I could have done the procrastinated task several times over. I don’t like listening to that kind of junk.
Anyway, back to nagging…. oh well, I’ll put off writing more about that until later, it is now 3:00 p.m. and some things can’t wait. If Sue calls I’ll call her later……
zzzzzzz
Friday, November 5, 2010
Where it Went and How it Got There
Copyright November 2010 by Ruth Lampert
I have attended a lot of professional seminars on topics such as “New Research on the Brain,” “ Latest Findings on Memory,” and so forth, which explained,with charts and diagrams and scientific terminology, the vagaries of memory including the kinds of exasperating experiences expressed in “Where the blankety blank did I put that blankety blank cup of coffee? (The use of “blankety blank instead of shorter, more pungent jargon is a clue to the age of the forgetter.)
Impressive though these scholarly theories are, I suggest a simpler explanation, one which tandems with my understanding of the loss of energy that accompanies aging. Here, then is “Lampert’s Law of Disappearing Objects.”
In order for inanimate objects (e.g. the check you just wrote for a bill due two weeks ago, or the cup of coffee you put down to answer the phone which is not where it is supposed to be, etc) to accomplish their mischief of quickly moving from where they were last placed to some highly unlikely location, extra energy is required. Where do they (the things) get this extra energy? Answer: They drain it from the very victims they are tormenting! Thus, elders are constantly looking for things we just put down this second. And we’re always tired.
In other words, forget (no pun intended) all that stuff about synapses and bundles and stuff. If my hypothesis seems simplistic, remember Ignaz Semmelweis who maintained, in the face of the medical establishment’s scorn, that childbed fever was caused by invisible organisms that doctors carried on their hands from the dissecting room to the delivery room. “Wash your hands! Wash your hands!“ he kept hollering, but to no avail. . His theory was deemed unscientific, and they laughed at him just as you may even now be laughing at my advice regarding disappearing objects.
Try it. Play a little game. Instead of standing there moaning “But I just had it in my hand a second ago!” adopt a relaxed posture, gently close your eyes, and call out pleasantly but firmly, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!’ Then pretend to forget about it and go do something else while you wait for the magic to happen, and the missing item travels to the refrigerator, where you will find it hours later while looking all over the blankety blank place for the blankety blank jar of peanut butter, which you just this second put down when the phone rang (where is that stupid phone?)
There is an alternative remedy, which has a special appeal to me as a Gestalt therapist emeritus. I sit quietly, with awareness, and fold my legs (no, not in the lotus position, haven’t I already acknowledged I am getting long in the tooth and stiff in the knees?) and imagine that I am the missing object.
“I am Ruth’s hairbrush (or stapler, or magnifying lens, or mascara tube, or whatever)” . I murmur softly. “ I wish to avoid being engaged by another person , but my defenses are quite primitive. . So, in order to achieve isolation, I am hiding…. (in the toilet brush holder, stack of papers to be recycled, or wherever )”
Scoff if you like, but it’s worth a try. Just don’t tell your therapist.
Or anyone.
I have attended a lot of professional seminars on topics such as “New Research on the Brain,” “ Latest Findings on Memory,” and so forth, which explained,with charts and diagrams and scientific terminology, the vagaries of memory including the kinds of exasperating experiences expressed in “Where the blankety blank did I put that blankety blank cup of coffee? (The use of “blankety blank instead of shorter, more pungent jargon is a clue to the age of the forgetter.)
Impressive though these scholarly theories are, I suggest a simpler explanation, one which tandems with my understanding of the loss of energy that accompanies aging. Here, then is “Lampert’s Law of Disappearing Objects.”
In order for inanimate objects (e.g. the check you just wrote for a bill due two weeks ago, or the cup of coffee you put down to answer the phone which is not where it is supposed to be, etc) to accomplish their mischief of quickly moving from where they were last placed to some highly unlikely location, extra energy is required. Where do they (the things) get this extra energy? Answer: They drain it from the very victims they are tormenting! Thus, elders are constantly looking for things we just put down this second. And we’re always tired.
In other words, forget (no pun intended) all that stuff about synapses and bundles and stuff. If my hypothesis seems simplistic, remember Ignaz Semmelweis who maintained, in the face of the medical establishment’s scorn, that childbed fever was caused by invisible organisms that doctors carried on their hands from the dissecting room to the delivery room. “Wash your hands! Wash your hands!“ he kept hollering, but to no avail. . His theory was deemed unscientific, and they laughed at him just as you may even now be laughing at my advice regarding disappearing objects.
Try it. Play a little game. Instead of standing there moaning “But I just had it in my hand a second ago!” adopt a relaxed posture, gently close your eyes, and call out pleasantly but firmly, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!’ Then pretend to forget about it and go do something else while you wait for the magic to happen, and the missing item travels to the refrigerator, where you will find it hours later while looking all over the blankety blank place for the blankety blank jar of peanut butter, which you just this second put down when the phone rang (where is that stupid phone?)
There is an alternative remedy, which has a special appeal to me as a Gestalt therapist emeritus. I sit quietly, with awareness, and fold my legs (no, not in the lotus position, haven’t I already acknowledged I am getting long in the tooth and stiff in the knees?) and imagine that I am the missing object.
“I am Ruth’s hairbrush (or stapler, or magnifying lens, or mascara tube, or whatever)” . I murmur softly. “ I wish to avoid being engaged by another person , but my defenses are quite primitive. . So, in order to achieve isolation, I am hiding…. (in the toilet brush holder, stack of papers to be recycled, or wherever )”
Scoff if you like, but it’s worth a try. Just don’t tell your therapist.
Or anyone.
Friday, October 29, 2010
OTTER GUILT
OTTER GUILT
Copyright Ruth Lampert January 2011 (rev)
In the fourth grade of Darwin Elementary School in Chicago, Ill, two movies (on reels; VCRs were in the distant future) played a significant role in my life. The first had something to do with weather – specifically, cold weather, a topic Chicagoans know about. There was a still shot of a bush, or maybe a small tree, its round shape with irregular protuberances completely covered with pristine snow. After the film the teacher, a slim young woman with wavy dark hair and smiling eyes, and the school principal, a tall, dignified young man dressed always in blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie who visited the class frequently, discussed the movie with us. The principal commented on the beauty of the snow-covered bush and asked, “Did that remind anyone of anything else?”
My hand shot up – I was so happy he had asked!
“Yes! It looks just like a kellyflower!”
The grownups smiled at each other, in the way of loving parents whose dear child has just made an especially adorable comment. “Isn’t she just the limit!” they seemed to be saying.
They are in love! I thought. They are going to get married and have a family of their own, just like in the movies! (the ones shown in the theaters, not the educational ones shown in school.)
“You mean ‘cauliflower,’ Ruth,” my hero said in his deep soft voice. (If Teacher wasn’t in love with him, I was.) “Yes, that is exactly what it looked like to me too!”
I had assumed the resemblance was obvious to everyone, just as
everyone I knew said “kellyflower.” But apparently he and I shared an imagination unmatched by the other students or even by Teacher.
Heady stuff for a smitten fourth grader…
The second movie that proved to be significant in my life was about otters.
I was enchanted by the sleek, darling, playful creatures. I wanted to join them in the ocean (which I too have loved all my life) and frolic and duck and dive and be warmed by the sun and the company of my playmates.
The principal wasn’t there that day, so I was unable to impress him. Teacher instructed us to write something about what we had seen, and I wrote a piece titled, straightforwardly, “The Otter.” I reported what I had seen on the screen and heard from the relentlessly cheerful narrator. I made no mention of the feeling of joyful kinship the film evoked; I was romantic but not entirely unrealistic, and understood that personal reactions were not what fourth grade essays were about.
Again, my writing talent was “reinforced,” as we say nowadays. Teacher smiled her lovely smile at me (I think I was a little in love with her, too) as she announced that my report was so good she was sending it to the school newspaper.
When the paper came out and I saw, in print, what all my world could see:
The Otter
By
Ruth Tauber
I was hooked. My words and my name in print! It was my first by-line, although I didn’t know that’s what it was called.
The only fly in this syrup of self-importance was a vague, nagging sense of guilt. After all, I had done nothing more than repeat what I had seen and heard, and that didn’t measure up to the kinds of stories I loved to read. Only later did I learn about journalism, and reviewing; at the time I felt vaguely that the story wasn’t really mine, that I hadn’t truly earned the credit. I wondered uneasily if I might be some kind of a fraud.
Since that time I’ve been on both sides of the therapy couch, where guilt is a juicy, ubiquitous topic. Freud considered its roots to be in sexual soil; maybe. My friend and colleague Cara Garcia once noted: “there are those childhood fantasies of wreaking wonderful, ghastly horrible revenge on enemies, including but not limited to younger siblings.”
Maybe it’s all true. Maybe my fourth grade guilt was just a manifestation of one or another or all of the guilt brought forward from early childhood.
And maybe there is another, existential guilt, one that is somehow linked to the creative impulse, a self-questioning that walks with the need to transform, as when I earned the principal’s praise by perceiving a snow-covered bush as a “kellyflower.” Just as these days, when I travel down Overland Avenue on my way to the neighborhood library, the carefully trimmed trees lining the street look to me so exactly like broccoli stalks that in my mind it is Broccoli Boulevard.
Another time I will explore the subject of The Foodie as Writer. For now, let’s fast-forward to high school where I am in the Journalism class (still secretly considering it inferior to “creative” writing) and working on the staff of the Von Steuben Journal, my sole extra-curricular activity. Also on staff is Albert Rosenthal, bright, funny, audacious, and, I assume, next in line to be Editor-in-Chief.
“Little Moron” jokes were all the rage at the time. (This genre of “stupidity is hilarious” was followed not so long ago by Polish and Blond jokes.) It was quite acceptable then to be funny about retardation, but not about anything having to do with body parts, functions, or desires.
Standing guard over this journalistic purity is the English teacher and Journal advisor, Miss Cummings: small, round, grey-hair-in-a-bun, a nice lady, a good teacher, whose small sharp eyes could catch any hint of impropriety before it got into print.
Except for this joke which Albert manages to sneak in:
“Did you hear about the depressed little moron who got his face slapped for feeling low?”
Miss Cumming is furious. Albert is in her office for a long time, and emerges looking chastened until he is out of her range and gives a big wink to his followers.
I understand that it was because of this incident that Albert is passed over as Editor-in-Chief. That position goes to me, an honor tarnished by the old otter-guilt: of course I had been chosen by default and not by true merit.
Flash forward again. I have traveled from California to Chicago to attend the 50-year class reunion. Some people are total strangers to me, but I recognize Albert at once by his impish expression. We do the reunion things (laugh, hug, do you have kids? grandkids?) and I tell him I’ve always felt a little guilty about becoming Journal Editor when he really deserved it and was passed over because of the prevailing puritanical standards.
He gives me a puzzled look.
“What are you talking about? Everyone knew you were going to be the next Editor. You were the obvious and best choice. I was funny, but I wasn’t Editor material. You were. ”
I was?
Shades of deMaupassant’s “The Necklace.”
Writing has helped me to work it all through, and I am ready now for that shining moment when some prestigious prize is bestowed upon me. Poised and gracious, I will deliver an acceptance speech of rare brevity and honesty. I’ll simply say,
“I worked hard for this and I deserve it. Thank you for noticing.”
Copyright Ruth Lampert January 2011 (rev)
In the fourth grade of Darwin Elementary School in Chicago, Ill, two movies (on reels; VCRs were in the distant future) played a significant role in my life. The first had something to do with weather – specifically, cold weather, a topic Chicagoans know about. There was a still shot of a bush, or maybe a small tree, its round shape with irregular protuberances completely covered with pristine snow. After the film the teacher, a slim young woman with wavy dark hair and smiling eyes, and the school principal, a tall, dignified young man dressed always in blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie who visited the class frequently, discussed the movie with us. The principal commented on the beauty of the snow-covered bush and asked, “Did that remind anyone of anything else?”
My hand shot up – I was so happy he had asked!
“Yes! It looks just like a kellyflower!”
The grownups smiled at each other, in the way of loving parents whose dear child has just made an especially adorable comment. “Isn’t she just the limit!” they seemed to be saying.
They are in love! I thought. They are going to get married and have a family of their own, just like in the movies! (the ones shown in the theaters, not the educational ones shown in school.)
“You mean ‘cauliflower,’ Ruth,” my hero said in his deep soft voice. (If Teacher wasn’t in love with him, I was.) “Yes, that is exactly what it looked like to me too!”
I had assumed the resemblance was obvious to everyone, just as
everyone I knew said “kellyflower.” But apparently he and I shared an imagination unmatched by the other students or even by Teacher.
Heady stuff for a smitten fourth grader…
The second movie that proved to be significant in my life was about otters.
I was enchanted by the sleek, darling, playful creatures. I wanted to join them in the ocean (which I too have loved all my life) and frolic and duck and dive and be warmed by the sun and the company of my playmates.
The principal wasn’t there that day, so I was unable to impress him. Teacher instructed us to write something about what we had seen, and I wrote a piece titled, straightforwardly, “The Otter.” I reported what I had seen on the screen and heard from the relentlessly cheerful narrator. I made no mention of the feeling of joyful kinship the film evoked; I was romantic but not entirely unrealistic, and understood that personal reactions were not what fourth grade essays were about.
Again, my writing talent was “reinforced,” as we say nowadays. Teacher smiled her lovely smile at me (I think I was a little in love with her, too) as she announced that my report was so good she was sending it to the school newspaper.
When the paper came out and I saw, in print, what all my world could see:
The Otter
By
Ruth Tauber
I was hooked. My words and my name in print! It was my first by-line, although I didn’t know that’s what it was called.
The only fly in this syrup of self-importance was a vague, nagging sense of guilt. After all, I had done nothing more than repeat what I had seen and heard, and that didn’t measure up to the kinds of stories I loved to read. Only later did I learn about journalism, and reviewing; at the time I felt vaguely that the story wasn’t really mine, that I hadn’t truly earned the credit. I wondered uneasily if I might be some kind of a fraud.
Since that time I’ve been on both sides of the therapy couch, where guilt is a juicy, ubiquitous topic. Freud considered its roots to be in sexual soil; maybe. My friend and colleague Cara Garcia once noted: “there are those childhood fantasies of wreaking wonderful, ghastly horrible revenge on enemies, including but not limited to younger siblings.”
Maybe it’s all true. Maybe my fourth grade guilt was just a manifestation of one or another or all of the guilt brought forward from early childhood.
And maybe there is another, existential guilt, one that is somehow linked to the creative impulse, a self-questioning that walks with the need to transform, as when I earned the principal’s praise by perceiving a snow-covered bush as a “kellyflower.” Just as these days, when I travel down Overland Avenue on my way to the neighborhood library, the carefully trimmed trees lining the street look to me so exactly like broccoli stalks that in my mind it is Broccoli Boulevard.
Another time I will explore the subject of The Foodie as Writer. For now, let’s fast-forward to high school where I am in the Journalism class (still secretly considering it inferior to “creative” writing) and working on the staff of the Von Steuben Journal, my sole extra-curricular activity. Also on staff is Albert Rosenthal, bright, funny, audacious, and, I assume, next in line to be Editor-in-Chief.
“Little Moron” jokes were all the rage at the time. (This genre of “stupidity is hilarious” was followed not so long ago by Polish and Blond jokes.) It was quite acceptable then to be funny about retardation, but not about anything having to do with body parts, functions, or desires.
Standing guard over this journalistic purity is the English teacher and Journal advisor, Miss Cummings: small, round, grey-hair-in-a-bun, a nice lady, a good teacher, whose small sharp eyes could catch any hint of impropriety before it got into print.
Except for this joke which Albert manages to sneak in:
“Did you hear about the depressed little moron who got his face slapped for feeling low?”
Miss Cumming is furious. Albert is in her office for a long time, and emerges looking chastened until he is out of her range and gives a big wink to his followers.
I understand that it was because of this incident that Albert is passed over as Editor-in-Chief. That position goes to me, an honor tarnished by the old otter-guilt: of course I had been chosen by default and not by true merit.
Flash forward again. I have traveled from California to Chicago to attend the 50-year class reunion. Some people are total strangers to me, but I recognize Albert at once by his impish expression. We do the reunion things (laugh, hug, do you have kids? grandkids?) and I tell him I’ve always felt a little guilty about becoming Journal Editor when he really deserved it and was passed over because of the prevailing puritanical standards.
He gives me a puzzled look.
“What are you talking about? Everyone knew you were going to be the next Editor. You were the obvious and best choice. I was funny, but I wasn’t Editor material. You were. ”
I was?
Shades of deMaupassant’s “The Necklace.”
Writing has helped me to work it all through, and I am ready now for that shining moment when some prestigious prize is bestowed upon me. Poised and gracious, I will deliver an acceptance speech of rare brevity and honesty. I’ll simply say,
“I worked hard for this and I deserve it. Thank you for noticing.”
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