My father, when he wanted to talk with me, told me “I don’t understand. I’m not a psychiatrist.”
I didn’t like the idea that the only person he thinks could understand me was a psychiatrist. I must be very sick, eh?
My sister dismissed the comment as a turn of phrase. “He’s not saying that he thinks that you are so sick only a psychiatrist could help you, he’s just saying that he doesn’t understand.”
I’m not sure that’s true.
I agree, of course, that he’s saying he doesn’t understand the way I think, and that means communications between us are frustrating and techy for him.
But I tend to believe he does think I am sick. Why else would he have bought into the crap that my sister’s “friend” send about mental disease, printing it out and confronting me with it?
He has tried to use Dr. Phil’s wisdom to show me where I am sick. Since I understand it more than he does, I can usually show counter examples from Mr. McGraw’s litany to counter, but that doesn’t really mollify him, just shows him I am smart, well defended and sick.
I know he loves me, and I know he wants the best.
He just can’t imagine that the best would be incomprehensible to his understanding, that it would be so deviant that only a psychiatrist would understand.
As you might guess it’s not a good day, and things don’t show any sign of getting better until well after his surgery next Monday (July 9.)
And boy, could I use some healing before that trial.