PSYCHOTHERAPY AND INTIMACY in a psychotherapeutic institute (first part)
STAFF SESSION ON KINDS OF INTIMACY -- A VISIT TO NEHEMIA'S HOME
I am pleased to welcome you to join my staff and myself in a meeting behind the velvet double doors of the Bronsky Therapeutic Institute. The staff meeting was attended by Lee, Nathan, Nily, a guest therapist and myself.
Lee is a very tall, thin, angular woman in her mid-forties, unmarried. She is a modish dresser, keeping up with the latest styles. Today she is wearing tan leather pants and a tailored blouse, with the top three buttons open. She has small breasts yet the exposure of her mini-cleavage is sexy. She has a long, flat face; her eyes and full lips are carefully made up. Her long straight brown hair hangs freely to just below her neck. Her voice is high, and sometimes it gets squeaky in tone.
Nathan is a sixty-year-old social worker who is short and thin. He dresses casually, sometimes with clashing colors; occasionally there are food stains on his pants. His head is covered with a mop of wiry, steel-gray hair, and a knitted skullcap is perched on the top of his head. His nose is large and his thick glasses make his eyes seem huge. He speaks with a humorless, flat, dry voice. He is a serious person.
Nily is in her late forties, an energetic woman who projects a strong sense of independence. She dresses in a way that accentuates her full, well-shaped body. She has blue eyes, curly blond hair and a dazzling smile. She is not classically pretty but she is attractive. Nily shows her emotions directly, whether it is to cry or to happily embrace someone. She speaks loudly and clearly.
I am in my 70's, six foot two, slightly obese, bald, with a Van Dyke beard. (For more precise details of who I was and am, see "Irving" and "Itchy" on this website.)
The guest therapist is a half an hour late and I decide not to wait for her. It is a bright, sunny morning and the tree outside the window has put out new green buds. The sunlight filtering through the window is soft, the light gently radiating on the staff that are waiting for me to begin. I am musing about my institute. It has been open for a number of years; it is spacious, well decorated. I am the founder and director and I feel proud of what I have achieved. I have quite far since having grown up the first twenty years of my life in the Bronx.
I recall several intimate experiences from my childhood and I begin to talk.
'Today the subject is INTIMACY and I will share some of my experiences with it.
Before I can continue the door to my office is opened and Karin, the guest therapist is standing there looking surprised. She speaks somewhat aggressively, in a deep almost masculine voice,
Good morning. Wasn't the staff meeting supposed to be at 9:30? If not, I'm terribly embarrassed.'
I speak with a hint of annoyance, telling her that we waited almost a half an hour and then we began.
Does that mean I have to leave?'
I shake my head no and indicate an empty chair. She comes in and sits down.
I talk about my theory of INTIMACY for about ten minutes and then I speak of a recent experience in which Lee and I went with a therapy group to visit one of the member's home. (Lee is an observer in this therapy group, learning my techniques of group therapy.) I say, 'Nehemia agreed to let the group come to his home for an in-house therapy session, to meet his aged parents and to see how he lives. He is thirty-seven and a virgin; he is shy to the point that he goes into his room and closes the door when anyone other than his family comes into his home. He has a married sister who is fifteen years older than he is. He is a change of life baby. He has been unemployed for years. There are two places outside the home where he is not shy: at the Institute, and when he plays in chess tournaments. Nehemia has a BA in Political Science, but barely finished the four years of college because he became more and more socially introverted. He is tall, plain looking, has dark eyes, dark skin and thinning brown hair. He dresses with old clothes, often unpressed and sometimes dirty. The apartment was small, the living room cramped with heavy furniture and it took some time until the group, eight plus Lee and me, got adjusted. The mother and father came in and took their seats. The mother had a stroke and limped badly. She nudged her husband and he got up and brought in stale cookies for us. There was some casual conversation that included Nehemia's mother when suddenly I saw something in her, when she smiled and made a small but graceful movement with her hand. It was as if this eighty year old briefly flashed an intimate signal of what she must have been like as an adolescent. I began to ask her some simple questions about Nehemia. At first she was cautious in her replies but gradually she became more relaxed. She gave me permission to ask her about her life in Europe before she came to Israel in the thirties. She lit up the room with her radiant smile, her gentle humor and the fluidity and grace of her movements. She spoke about how she had been studying ballet, had a full social life. But then -- she was the old woman again, describing how everything fell apart with the rise of Nazi Germany. She and her family had to flee for their lives. She had not told any of this to her son and he was shocked. (We worked on this in the sessions following the home group.) During her period of animation everyone in the group, except for Nehemia and his father, became excited, and there was an intimacy in the group that was spectacular. After I finish talking everyone sits motionless but with relaxed looks on their faces. I begin talking about my intimate experiences starting with my childhood.
The Cup of Milk
I was nine years old, a city boy all my life, born and raised in the Bronx, New York. During the Depression of the '30's my father had a problem finding steady work. At one point he was out of work for months at a time; financially, things were so bad that my mother went to work as a cook in a very small hotel in the Catskill Mountains of New York State. She took the four of us children up to the country with her since there was no one in the city who could care for us. Mother worked from the first light of dawn until well after sunset, with a few hours rest in the afternoon. My oldest brother, Herby, was 15 years old and he had a job as a bellhop at a nearby hotel. That left my 13-year-old sister Nettie, my 11 year old brother Izzy, and myself, to fend for ourselves. On the way to the mountains, in the open back of a truck I saw my first cow. We had just rounded a curve and I was hanging onto the slatted side of the truck. Suddenly, not far ahead, a dream-like beautiful brown and white cow was grazing. A cow! The source of milk, au naturel: fields, farms, and other exotic things so foreign to a poor city boy. Moishe, one of my best friends, went away every summer to a house his family had in the country, not far from the hotel my mother worked. One day Moishe invited me to go with him to visit a neighboring farmer who was friendly with his family. Moishe came to the hotel and we walked to the farm, across some planted fields. I know that I was full of energy and happiness, anticipating the experience of being at a real dairy farm. He led me into the barn where it was dark and I heard a loud, rhythmic, metallic sound. Mr. Andrews was milking a cow. He grunted a greeting. The sound of the squirt-squish was pleasantly toned down by the soft darkness of the barn. There was a funny smell that I didn't like but I concentrated on looking and hearing. Suddenly the sound stopped. Mr. Andrews got up from the small, low stool he had been sitting on. He was a giant of a man and very scary. To my surprise he took a big white cup off the wall, dipped it into the pail of milk and handed the dripping cup to me. The taste was otherworldly in its warm creaminess and thickness. I gulped it down in one chugalug swallow as Moishe laughed and said something to Mr. Andrews. I handed the empty cup back to the farmer and tried to thank him but I was struck dumb. Mr. Andrews understood, grunting something and a flickered smile crossed his face. I said nothing. Now I am able to thank Mr. Andrews for his gift.'
I was nine years old, a city boy all my life, born and raised in the Bronx, New York. During the Depression of the '30's my father had a problem finding steady work. At one point he was out of work for months at a time; financially, things were so bad that my mother went to work as a cook in a very small hotel in the Catskill Mountains of New York State. She took the four of us children up to the country with her since there was no one in the city who could care for us. Mother worked from the first light of dawn until well after sunset, with a few hours rest in the afternoon. My oldest brother, Herby, was 15 years old and he had a job as a bellhop at a nearby hotel. That left my 13-year-old sister Nettie, my 11 year old brother Izzy, and myself, to fend for ourselves. On the way to the mountains, in the open back of a truck I saw my first cow. We had just rounded a curve and I was hanging onto the slatted side of the truck. Suddenly, not far ahead, a dream-like beautiful brown and white cow was grazing. A cow! The source of milk, au naturel: fields, farms, and other exotic things so foreign to a poor city boy. Moishe, one of my best friends, went away every summer to a house his family had in the country, not far from the hotel my mother worked. One day Moishe invited me to go with him to visit a neighboring farmer who was friendly with his family. Moishe came to the hotel and we walked to the farm, across some planted fields. I know that I was full of energy and happiness, anticipating the experience of being at a real dairy farm. He led me into the barn where it was dark and I heard a loud, rhythmic, metallic sound. Mr. Andrews was milking a cow. He grunted a greeting. The sound of the squirt-squish was pleasantly toned down by the soft darkness of the barn. There was a funny smell that I didn't like but I concentrated on looking and hearing. Suddenly the sound stopped. Mr. Andrews got up from the small, low stool he had been sitting on. He was a giant of a man and very scary. To my surprise he took a big white cup off the wall, dipped it into the pail of milk and handed the dripping cup to me. The taste was otherworldly in its warm creaminess and thickness. I gulped it down in one chugalug swallow as Moishe laughed and said something to Mr. Andrews. I handed the empty cup back to the farmer and tried to thank him but I was struck dumb. Mr. Andrews understood, grunting something and a flickered smile crossed his face. I said nothing. Now I am able to thank Mr. Andrews for his gift.'
I look up at the ceiling and speak in a clear, loud voice, 'Thank you, Mr. Andrews, for making my cup overflow with kindness and happiness.'
Raspberries
Over a hill facing the back of the hotel wild raspberries grew. Late in the day Nettie, Izzy and me went up and over the hill, each of us with a pot or pail; we were going to pick raspberries for supper. We knew about strawberries and sour cream with sugar sprinkled on the top, as a delicious dairy dish; we had never tasted raspberries and we were going to surprise our mother by having them for supper. There were raspberry bushes growing all over, ready for the free picking. What a thrill! We plunged into the bushes, plucked a few, ate a few. When one of us found an especially big one we shouted for the others to see, holding it up triumphantly. We didn't care about the juices staining our mouths and dripping onto our clothes. When the containers were full, and we were satisfied with the pickings, we brought our treasures into the hotel kitchen where our mother was busy dishing out the evening meal for the waiters to serve. When she saw us she stopped serving, noting our stained appearance, the full containers, and she smiled. She told us to go wash up, to clean and wash the berries; she would then serve us raspberries and sour cream, (with sugar on top), when she finished serving the guests. We waited at the little wooden table in the corner of the kitchen and when mother finished work we ate. How delicious the meal was. Even our mother had a small bowl full of the juicy fruit.
Over a hill facing the back of the hotel wild raspberries grew. Late in the day Nettie, Izzy and me went up and over the hill, each of us with a pot or pail; we were going to pick raspberries for supper. We knew about strawberries and sour cream with sugar sprinkled on the top, as a delicious dairy dish; we had never tasted raspberries and we were going to surprise our mother by having them for supper. There were raspberry bushes growing all over, ready for the free picking. What a thrill! We plunged into the bushes, plucked a few, ate a few. When one of us found an especially big one we shouted for the others to see, holding it up triumphantly. We didn't care about the juices staining our mouths and dripping onto our clothes. When the containers were full, and we were satisfied with the pickings, we brought our treasures into the hotel kitchen where our mother was busy dishing out the evening meal for the waiters to serve. When she saw us she stopped serving, noting our stained appearance, the full containers, and she smiled. She told us to go wash up, to clean and wash the berries; she would then serve us raspberries and sour cream, (with sugar on top), when she finished serving the guests. We waited at the little wooden table in the corner of the kitchen and when mother finished work we ate. How delicious the meal was. Even our mother had a small bowl full of the juicy fruit.
Swimming
Opposite the hotel entrance and across the road, there was a long down-slope that led to a little valley. Getting down to the pool required an effort, not because of the rocky, grassy, pitted decline, but because of cow droppings, some dangerously fresh. A small clear stream flowed through the valley and was partially dammed by fallen trees, making a small pool about 5 feet deep at its muddy bottom. I was not tall enough to stand in it and I didn't know how to swim. The water bugs which skimmed the surface of the water were strangely fascinating; they were also frightening. The first few days all I dared do was to dangle my feet in the water, watching my brother Izzy and the other kids swim. Then I got lucky. There was a blown up inner tube lying near me, unattended. I screwed up my courage and put the tube around me. I slid into the cool water and I was floating! Then slowly, tentatively I began to paddle, thrillingly succeeding in moving around the pool with newfound freedom. After a while I began to kick my legs and went even faster. My confidence rose and by the second day of swimming and I made my decision. I jumped into the pool with the tube securely around me, and swam furiously to the middle. I raised the tube over my head and placed it in front of me. Pushing it towards the bank I kicked my legs and found that I was moving forward. About five feet from the bank I shoved the tube forward and lunged, paddled, stroked, splashed and kicked, making it to shore. I could swim!
Opposite the hotel entrance and across the road, there was a long down-slope that led to a little valley. Getting down to the pool required an effort, not because of the rocky, grassy, pitted decline, but because of cow droppings, some dangerously fresh. A small clear stream flowed through the valley and was partially dammed by fallen trees, making a small pool about 5 feet deep at its muddy bottom. I was not tall enough to stand in it and I didn't know how to swim. The water bugs which skimmed the surface of the water were strangely fascinating; they were also frightening. The first few days all I dared do was to dangle my feet in the water, watching my brother Izzy and the other kids swim. Then I got lucky. There was a blown up inner tube lying near me, unattended. I screwed up my courage and put the tube around me. I slid into the cool water and I was floating! Then slowly, tentatively I began to paddle, thrillingly succeeding in moving around the pool with newfound freedom. After a while I began to kick my legs and went even faster. My confidence rose and by the second day of swimming and I made my decision. I jumped into the pool with the tube securely around me, and swam furiously to the middle. I raised the tube over my head and placed it in front of me. Pushing it towards the bank I kicked my legs and found that I was moving forward. About five feet from the bank I shoved the tube forward and lunged, paddled, stroked, splashed and kicked, making it to shore. I could swim!
FIRST LOVES
One day there was a new family at the hotel that included a dark-haired, beautifully dressed six year old girl; I fell in love with her the first time I saw her. I am nine years old, with this funny feeling of attraction, excitement, wonder, warmth, and bewilderment -- this had never happened to me before. I knew it was something good, but I didn't know what to do with it. I am standing in the shadows of two wooden buildings and I see this angelic girl. She is in bright morning sunlight, wearing a white dress with a pink ribbon around her waist and another one in her hair. Her patent leather shoes sparkle in the bright sunlight. I am in a state of wonderment, flooded with these new, funny feelings. I was afraid to approach her or to speak to her. I never did, because later that morning I found out that she and her family had returned to the city.
One day there was a new family at the hotel that included a dark-haired, beautifully dressed six year old girl; I fell in love with her the first time I saw her. I am nine years old, with this funny feeling of attraction, excitement, wonder, warmth, and bewilderment -- this had never happened to me before. I knew it was something good, but I didn't know what to do with it. I am standing in the shadows of two wooden buildings and I see this angelic girl. She is in bright morning sunlight, wearing a white dress with a pink ribbon around her waist and another one in her hair. Her patent leather shoes sparkle in the bright sunlight. I am in a state of wonderment, flooded with these new, funny feelings. I was afraid to approach her or to speak to her. I never did, because later that morning I found out that she and her family had returned to the city.
MRS. RACIES
Around the same period in my life, in third grade, I had a teacher that I loved and I think she loved me: Mrs. Racies. She was blonde, bosomy, short, stocky, with a pretty face and soft eyes. She moved easily and smoothly, spoke softly, never raising her voice. I enjoyed being in her class and learning and she often called on me, especially when I would frantically wave my hand. She had the habit of stopping by a pupil she liked, resting her hand on the desk; sometimes she stopped at mine. Towards the end of 3rd grade she invited me and several other children to her home in the West Bronx; that was considered the rich side of the Bronx. We lived and went to school in the East Bronx, where the poor people live. What an honor to go to her home; it was like going to the Queen's palace. We lived in tenements with twenty families to a building and on our block there were 10 buildings. She gave us milk and cookies in her huge kitchen and it was a feast. Mrs. Racies was the first adult in my life to teach me about intimacy. THE GAME: CHECKERS AND INTIMACY
Around the same period in my life, in third grade, I had a teacher that I loved and I think she loved me: Mrs. Racies. She was blonde, bosomy, short, stocky, with a pretty face and soft eyes. She moved easily and smoothly, spoke softly, never raising her voice. I enjoyed being in her class and learning and she often called on me, especially when I would frantically wave my hand. She had the habit of stopping by a pupil she liked, resting her hand on the desk; sometimes she stopped at mine. Towards the end of 3rd grade she invited me and several other children to her home in the West Bronx; that was considered the rich side of the Bronx. We lived and went to school in the East Bronx, where the poor people live. What an honor to go to her home; it was like going to the Queen's palace. We lived in tenements with twenty families to a building and on our block there were 10 buildings. She gave us milk and cookies in her huge kitchen and it was a feast. Mrs. Racies was the first adult in my life to teach me about intimacy. THE GAME: CHECKERS AND INTIMACY
The first positive relationship I had with an adult occurred when I was entering my teen-age years. I became a baby-sitter for Moe and Ceal, a young couple with one child. For three years I sat for them every Saturday night. The trip to their home in the West Bronx took me about an hour. They paid fifty cents for baby-sitting and a dime for carfare. I would give the fifty cents to my mother every Sunday morning. During the week she would give me ten cents a day for carfare to high school.
The three years were very significant for me for several reasons. I grew into adolescence, discovering sex, masturbation, and reading books I found in their apartment. In the first year I concentrated on finding the "hot parts." Then I gradually began to do some intensive reading from their big library of best sellers.
When I wasn't reading I listened to the radio or I would wander around the apartment going through drawers and closets curious about what I would find. Condoms were very interesting. One time I found a folding camera that I opened out of curiosity and when I wanted to close it by refolding the bellows, I couldn't. I returned the camera to the drawer knowing they would discover that I had tampered with it.
They never said anything about it to me.
Ceal was average in height, with a plain face and wore clothes a little large for her; I had no idea of what kind of body she had. She was very pleasant and motherly to me, telling me to make myself feel at home. I could go into the refrigerator any time I wanted to. Sometimes she would prepare a snack for me.
Moe had a broad face framed by thick curly black hair, bushy eyebrows, horn-rimmed glasses, a thick nose and heavy lips. He confidence in what he did. His hands were special: they were large and broad, his fingers thick with big, square nails. They were the hands of an artisan, a craftsman and that's what Moe was.
He was a designer of brassieres and garter belts.
Moe loved checkers. When he and Ceal came home around midnight from the movies, where they usually went, she would go to sleep and Moe and I would play checkers. He would bring down his ivory set and wooden board from a closet above the kitchen table and we'd sit opposite each other. He would take a red and a white checker, put his hands behind his back, switch the checker around and then he extended his two closed fists for me to choose. If it was white I went first.
We would play for one hour and sometimes more. On one occasion we played until 3 a.m.
Moe was an expert player and I learned how to play fairly well. The only time he spoke was to make some comment about a move or a position. His attitude was serious, respectful and pleasant. There were times when the games became very complicated and involved. All this in the quiet of the kitchen, broken only by the sharp click-click of the checkers being put down or kinged, checkers moved or removed.
I learned about setting up positions, making combinations. He taught me how to take time to think before I responded impulsively. Mostly, he helped me know the game of checkers and a winner in the game of intimacy.
The atmosphere around the table was thick with intimacy. I am sure that we were often into some kind of Positive Altered State of Awareness. We communicated and understood each other; we were together in the depth of positive emotions.
Most important of all, he never let me win any cheap victories.
I managed a few victories in the last year, and had a number of draws. He didn't give up even when he had a losing position, fighting for a draw or a victory. He had respect for me; he didn't feel sorry for me. There were no cheap victories and for that I shall be ever grateful.
(Copywritten by Irving Bronsky M.D.)
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