At a certain point in my life, a young woman named ‘Judy Schwartz’ moved to a house down the street from my family. Really. I am telling you the absolute truth! We had different middle names. But we had the same first and last name. Her house was literally half a block away from mine. When I got over the obvious irony of that, and we dealt with the mistakes that the mailman made with our mail, it was still an interesting situation for me. You see, Judy was everything I thought I was not. She had everything that I wanted and did not have. She was pretty. She was smart and talented. I remember her being popular. And of course, her family was ‘normal’. SHE didn’t have a crazy mother running around the neighborhood telling everybody who would listen that her Dad is ‘queer’. There was no big picture framed set of windows that allowed anybody walking along the sidewalk to see how filthy her house was. I assumed that it wasn’t filthy. Her house was private, with no windows that I remember facing the street. If there were, I don’t remember them…and they probably weren’t all that big. I didn’t see much of her parents. I don’t even remember what her Dad looked like. But they looked normal. They looked prosperous, (They had nice clothes.) I doubted that the other Judy had very many problems at all. (Even though I knew intellectually that people could look good and still have problems.)
What I want you to understand from this is that I didn’t KNOW a thing about Judy. Or her family. Or her life. Or her experiences. I didn’t really know her, other than in the most superficial manner. We weren’t buddies. And my only actual contact with her was at school or in the neighborhood if we happened to be out at the same time. So, what about those assumptions? They really were a ’story’ that I was making up. In that story I was ‘different’. And other people didn’t suffer. And they couldn’t possibly love or care for me because my Mom was mentally ill. Seriously. That’s how I thought. If you had asked me about it, I would have denied it.
The rest of my life has sometimes seemed to be an exercise in figuring out how wrong my story is. In therapy, working, dealing with the lives of my friends, and in Landmark Education. I have learned about how I take situations and create stories from them. When I was first in therapy to deal with my life, a wise therapist used information about how children of alcoholics seem to have certain traits to work with me. As an intelligent woman with knowledge about psychology from my education, that made a whole lot of sense. And I could pick out the family roles in my family. But as a woman who had this ‘story’ about how I was so different, I was skeptical. I have had this drum-beat in my head, forever it seems, that I am different. My life is different. And YOU don’t get or like me. (So there!)
Now, when I look back at it, I can see how little I knew about ‘Judy’. (You can interpret that any way you like.) The Judy in my neighborhood was quiet. If she made any attempt to share with me, I don’t remember it. Her parents were also quiet. I didn’t know about that family or their lives. I didn’t even know whether they were open with people that they had relationships with…or whether they were that quiet generally. Today, I know that it is arrogant to assume. I have no idea where Judy is now. The last news I had about her is that her Dad had died. (My memory is sometimes not reliable. At least, that is what I remember hearing.) But now I recognize that I don’t know what is going on in someone’s life unless they are allowing me to know. Or unless there are visible clues. Or unless I have access to records that indicate what is going on. (Ex: An arrest record) I can usually tell when people are using substances abusively if I see them enough. And when someone is psychotic, it is also pretty obvious.
Sometimes I do get “feelings” about people and what is going on with them. I had to do that as a professional case manager because people don’t always honestly tell you what is going on. In addition, I had to rely on my instincts to keep me safe in working with clients. But my approach is different now. I may try to “read” you, but I don’t arrogantly believe that I have your truth. I used to look at nice homes and think about how wonderful the lives of the people living in them were. I don’t do that so much anymore. Now, I get it. And I am comforted by knowing that I’m really not all that different.
What I want you to understand from this is that I didn’t KNOW a thing about Judy. Or her family. Or her life. Or her experiences. I didn’t really know her, other than in the most superficial manner. We weren’t buddies. And my only actual contact with her was at school or in the neighborhood if we happened to be out at the same time. So, what about those assumptions? They really were a ’story’ that I was making up. In that story I was ‘different’. And other people didn’t suffer. And they couldn’t possibly love or care for me because my Mom was mentally ill. Seriously. That’s how I thought. If you had asked me about it, I would have denied it.
The rest of my life has sometimes seemed to be an exercise in figuring out how wrong my story is. In therapy, working, dealing with the lives of my friends, and in Landmark Education. I have learned about how I take situations and create stories from them. When I was first in therapy to deal with my life, a wise therapist used information about how children of alcoholics seem to have certain traits to work with me. As an intelligent woman with knowledge about psychology from my education, that made a whole lot of sense. And I could pick out the family roles in my family. But as a woman who had this ‘story’ about how I was so different, I was skeptical. I have had this drum-beat in my head, forever it seems, that I am different. My life is different. And YOU don’t get or like me. (So there!)
Now, when I look back at it, I can see how little I knew about ‘Judy’. (You can interpret that any way you like.) The Judy in my neighborhood was quiet. If she made any attempt to share with me, I don’t remember it. Her parents were also quiet. I didn’t know about that family or their lives. I didn’t even know whether they were open with people that they had relationships with…or whether they were that quiet generally. Today, I know that it is arrogant to assume. I have no idea where Judy is now. The last news I had about her is that her Dad had died. (My memory is sometimes not reliable. At least, that is what I remember hearing.) But now I recognize that I don’t know what is going on in someone’s life unless they are allowing me to know. Or unless there are visible clues. Or unless I have access to records that indicate what is going on. (Ex: An arrest record) I can usually tell when people are using substances abusively if I see them enough. And when someone is psychotic, it is also pretty obvious.
Sometimes I do get “feelings” about people and what is going on with them. I had to do that as a professional case manager because people don’t always honestly tell you what is going on. In addition, I had to rely on my instincts to keep me safe in working with clients. But my approach is different now. I may try to “read” you, but I don’t arrogantly believe that I have your truth. I used to look at nice homes and think about how wonderful the lives of the people living in them were. I don’t do that so much anymore. Now, I get it. And I am comforted by knowing that I’m really not all that different.
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