Ирвин Ялом - The Schopenhauer Cure

chutzpah. The three Jewish high school fraternities vied for him; he was perceived as

having both guts and that ever so elusive holy grail of adolescence, «personality.» Soon

he was surrounded by kids at lunch in the cafeteria and was often spotted walking hand in

hand after school with the lovely Miriam Kaye, the editor of the school newspaper and

the one student smart enough to challenge Catherine Schumann for valedictorian. He and

Miriam were soon inseparable. She introduced him to art and aesthetic sensibility; he was

never to make her appreciate the high drama of bowling or baseball.

Yes, chutzpah had taken him a long way. He cultivated it, took great pride in it,

and, in later life, beamed when he heard himself referred to as an original, a maverick, the

therapist who had the guts to take on the cases that had defeated others. But chutzpah had

its dark side—grandiosity. More than once Julius had erred by attempting to do more

than could be done, by asking patients to make more change than was constitutionally

possible for them, by putting patients through a long and, ultimately, unrewarding course

of therapy.

So was it compassion or sheer clinical tenacity that led Julius to think he could yet

reclaim Philip? Or was it grandiose chutzpah? He truly did not know. As he led Philip to

the group therapy room, Julius took a long look at his reluctant patient. With his straight

light brown hair combed straight back without a part, his skin stretched tight across his

high cheekbones, his eyes wary, his step heavy, Philip looked as though he were being

led to his execution.

Julius felt a wave of compassion and, in his softest, most comforting voice, offered

solace. «You know, Philip, therapy groups are infinitely complex, but they possess one

absolutely predictable feature.»

If Julius expected the natural curious inquiry about the «one absolutely predictable

feature,” he gave no sign of disappointment at Philip`s silence. Instead he merely

continued speaking as though Philip had expressed appropriate curiosity. «And that

feature is that the first meeting of a therapy group is invariably less uncomfortable and

more engaging than the new member expects.»

«I have no discomfort, Julius.»

«Well then, simply file what I said. Just in case you run across some.»

Philip stopped in the hallway at the door to the office in which they had met a few

days before, but Julius touched his elbow and guided him down the hall to the next door,

which opened into a room lined on three sides with ceiling–to–floor bookshelves. Three

windows of wood–lined panes on the fourth wall looked out into a Japanese garden

graced by several dwarf five–needle pines, two clusters of tiny boulders, and a narrow

eight–foot–long pond in which golden carp glided. The furniture in the room was simple

and functional, consisting only of a small table next to the door, seven comfortable Rattan

chairs arranged in a circle, and two others stored in corners.

«Here we are. This is my library and group room. While we`re waiting for the

other members, let me give you the nuts–and–bolts housekeeping drill. On Mondays, I

unlock the front door about ten minutes before the time of the group, and the members

just enter on their own into this room. When I come in at four–thirty, we start pretty

promptly, and we end at six. To ease my billing and bookkeeping task, everyone pays at

the end of each session—just leave a check on the table by the door. Questions?»

Philip shook his head no and looked around the room, inhaling deeply. He walked

directly to the shelves, put his nose closely to the rows of leather–bound volumes, and

inhaled again, evincing great pleasure. He remained standing and industriously began

perusing book titles.

In the next few minutes five group members filed in, each glancing at Philip`s

back, before taking seats. Despite the bustle of their entrance, Philip did not turn his head

or in any way interrupt his task of examining Julius`s library.

Over his thirty–five years of leading groups, Julius had seen a lot of folks enter

therapy groups. The pattern was predictable: the new member enters heavy with

apprehension, behaving in a deferential manner to the other members, who welcome the

neophyte and introduce themselves. Occasionally, a newly formed group, which

mistakenly believes that benefits are directly proportional to the amount of attention each

receives from the therapist, may resent newcomers, but established groups welcome

them: they appreciate that a full roster adds to, rather than detracts from, the effectiveness

of the therapy.

Once in a while newcomers jump right into the discussion, but generally they are

silent for much of the first meeting as they try to figure out the rules and wait until

someone invites them to participate. But a new member so indifferent that he turns his

back and ignores the others in the group? Never before had Julius seenthat. Not even in

groups of psychotic patients on the psychiatric ward.

Surely, Julius thought, he had made a blunder by inviting Philip into the group.

Having to tell the group about his cancer was more than enough on his plate for the day.

And he felt burdened by having to worry about Philip.

What was going on with Philip? Was it possible that he was simply overcome by

apprehension or shyness? Unlikely. No, he`s probably pissed at my insisting on his

entering a group, and, in his passive–aggressive way, he`s giving me and the group the

finger. God, Julius thought, I`d just like to hang him out to dry. Just do nothing. Let him

sink or swim. It would be a pleasure to sit back and enjoy the blistering group attack that

will surely come.

Julius did not often remember joke punch lines, but one that he had heard years ago

returned to him now. One morning a son said to his mother, «I don`t want to go to school

today.»

«Why not?» asked his mother.

«Two reasons: I hate the students, and they hate me.»

Mother responds, «There are two reasons you have to go to school: first, you`re

forty–five years old and, second, you`re the principal.»

Yes, he was all grown up. And he was the therapist of the group. And it was his job

to integrate new members, to protect them from others and from themselves. Though he

almost never started a meeting himself, preferring to encourage the members to take

charge of running the group, today he had no choice.

«Four–thirty. Time to get started. Philip, why don`t you grab a seat.» Philip turned

to face him but made no movement toward a chair. Is he deaf? Julius thought. A social

imbecile? Only after Julius vigorously gestured with his eyeballs to one of the empty

chairs did Philip seat himself.

To Philip he said, «Here`s our group. There`s one member who won`t be here

tonight, Pam, who`s on a two–month trip.» Then, turning to the group, «I mentioned a few

meetings ago that I might be introducing a new member. I met with Philip last week, and

he`s beginning today.» Of course he`s beginning today, Julius thought. Stupid, shithead

comment. That`s it. No more handholding. Sink or swim.

Just at that moment Stuart, rushing in from the pediatric clinic at the hospital and

still wearing a white clinical coat, charged into the room and plunked himself down,

muttering an apology for being late. All members then turned to Philip, and four of them

introduced themselves and welcomed him: «I`m Rebecca, Tony, Bonnie, Stuart. Hello.

Great to see you. Welcome. Glad to have you. We need some new blood—I mean new

input.»

The remaining member, an attractive man with a prematurely bald pate flanked by

a rim of light brown hair and the hefty body of a football linesman somewhat gone to

seed, said, in a surprisingly soft voice, «Hi, I`m Gill. And, Philip, I hope you won`t feel

I`m ignoring you, but I absolutely, urgently need some time in the group today. I`ve

never needed the group as much as today.»

No response from Philip.

«Okay, Philip?» Gill repeated.

Startled, Philip opened his eyes widely and nodded.

Gill turned toward the familiar faces in the group and began. «A lot has happened,

and it all came to a head this morning following a session with my wife`s shrink. I`ve

been telling you guys over the past few weeks about how the therapist gave Rose a book

about child abuse that convinces her that she was abused as a child. It`s like a fixed

idea—what do you call it...an idea feexed?» Gill turned to Julius.

«An idГ©e fixe,” Philip instantaneously interjected with perfect accent.

«Right. Thanks,” said Gill, who shot a quick look at Philip and added, sotto voce,

«Whoa, that was fast,” and then returned to his narrative. «Well, Rose has an idГ©e fixe

that her father sexually molested her when she was young. She can`t let it go. Does she

remember any sexual event happening? No. Witnesses? No. But her therapist believes

that if she`s depressed, fearful about sex, has stuff like lapses in attention and

uncontrollable emotions, especially rage at men, then shemust have been molested. That`s

the message of that goddamned book. And her therapist swears by it. So, for months, as

I`ve told you ad nauseam, we`ve been talking about little else. My wife`s therapy is our

life. No time for anything else. No other topic of conversation. Our sex life is defunct.

Nothing. Forget it. A couple of weeks ago she asked me to phone her father—she won`t

talk to him herself—and invite him to come to her therapy session. She wanted me to

attend, too—for ‘protection,` she said.

«So I phoned him. He agreed immediately. Yesterday he took a bus down from

Portland and appeared at the therapy session this morning carrying his beat–up suitcase

because he was going to head right back to the bus station after we met. The session was

a disaster. Absolute mayhem. Rose just unloaded on him and kept on unloading. Without

limits, without letup, without a word of acknowledgment that her old man had come

several hundred miles for her—for her ninety–minute therapy session. Accusing him of

everything, even of inviting his neighbors, his poker chums, his coworkers at the fire

department—he was a fireman back then—to have sex with her when she was a child.»

«What did the father do?» asked Rebecca, a tall, slender, forty–year–old woman of

exceptional beauty who had been leaning forward, listening intently to Gill.

«He behaved like a mensch. He`s a nice old man, about seventy years old, kindly,

sweet. This is the first time I met him. He was amazing—God, I wish I had a father like

that. Just sat there and took it and told Rose that, if she had all that anger, it was probably

best to let it out. He just kept gently denying all her crazy charges and took a guess—a

good one, I think—that what she is really angry about is his walking out on the family

when she was twelve. He said her anger was fertilized—his word, he`s a farmer—by her

mother, who had been poisoning her mind against him since she was a child. He told her

he had had to leave, that he had been depressed out of his gourd living with her mother

and would be dead now if he had stayed. And let me tell you, I know Rose`s mother, and