Removable feast
During that one summer, when I was six, and we were vacationing in Western Ukraine on the Azov (the one when I got really sick with tushenka), something happened that I think set the tone for basically the rest of my life. Of course, when I tell this story, sobbing, wringing my hands, and asking, "Why!! Why!!" my mother groans and rolls her eyes, calls me alternately Sigmund or Freud, and starts reminding me of all the times that I witnessed grandpa tearing wings off flies and how that's made me a sexual deviant. "Yes," she says, "It's all about your mother. That's why you're such a fuck up, DOCTOR."
(Of course, I'd never met Grandpa, he died 10 years before I was born, I've yet to see a true definition of sexual deviancy, and for those who are slow to respond to sarcasm, that last statement implies that because I am a doctor, I am not at all a fuck up, therefore, the mother is not to be blamed.)
But the story is such. As I said before, we stayed at this rent-a-box shanty town, along with 50 or so other vacationers, many of whom had children. Out of proximity and necessity, the children ended up making friends, and the adults ended up making drinking buddies, so at night, after the beach and the haymarket, and the cultural trip to the local opera (The Barber of Seville in Ukrainian? Why not?), the adults would gather round driking and smoking, and the kids would gather round doing whatever kids do. Playing spin the bottle, or building sandcastles, I'm not sure. I was 6. So, this one day, I was behaving badly. I don't remember what I did, but I know me, and I know that even at the tender age of six, I had the absolute power to make my mother's hair stand on end with frustration.
[what should I wear?
jeans.
I don't like jeans.
skirt.
I don't like skirt.
Wear whatever you want.
I want you to tell me.
Jeans.
I don't like jeans.
You're wearing jeans.
I don't wanna wear jeans!!
Then wear whatever you want.
I want you to tell me.
Whatever you want!!!
Why are you mad at me???
and on and on and on]
So, I was behaving badly, and she grabbed my arm, pulled me into our little cubby, and said, "You are being bad! Now, all the other children are going to go read books, play and have fun, and you are going to stay here in this room for the rest of the night, punished!"
GASP!
So... ALL the other children are going to be over there where I can see them, having FUN, and I will be forced to watch them from this boring cubby, and I'll be missing the fun??
What followed, according to my mother, was a most unbelievable display of dramatic theatrics: "NO! anything but that! I cannot handle it!!" She says, to this day, her heart bleeds a little when she thinks about it, but she was firm and off to my room I went while ALL the other children had the fun that I couldn't have. Apparently, this type of theatrics was not unusual, and "NO! Anything but that!" was a phrase I would use often.
Where am I going with this?
Oh yes.
Ever since then, I have had a very pronounced 'outsider' complex. I constantly feel like I'm over here, and I'm missing something over THERE. Then, when I get over THERE, I miss what was in the original place. Also, I feel like I'm outside looking in.
Those are the basics of the complex, but it extends to cover so much more. For example, I am under the distinct impression that everyone and everything are headed forward while I'm staying in one place or regressing. I feel I haven't really changed since I was that six year old.
Another example is that I am absolutely unable to handle any sort of change - especially when it comes to giving something up. I cried when I moved from Boston to Philly, then I cried when I changed apartments in Philly, then I cried and felt tortured leaving Philly back to Boston, and don't get me started on what happened when I was forced to leave my Brighton apartment and move to the burbs. Definitely don't get my onto the topic of leaving residency and starting fellowship. All of this because I knew that once I left, I would be missing something.
When residency was ending, I knew deep inside that as close as we were as a class, once the bond of residency was over, we'd scatter and forget about each other. In the last six months, though, there was a lot of bonding going on, and a lot of social life and gatherings - and I became totally paranoid that someone somewhere might be doing something without me. It got to a point of ridiculousness, where being on call, for example, became torture not for the fact of being on call, but because everyone else was having steak at the drug dinner down the street.
When I was teenager, and if I happened to be home on a weekend evening, I would be in emotional distress and often in tears because I wasn't out - like everyone else must be. I would complain that my life sucks because I'm not having any fun while surely, everyone else is. That's when my mother dubbed me as forever looking for the moveable feast. (Now I know that's Hemingway, but before, I thought she was just very smart)
It's a terrible feeling to live with; the feeling that somewhere something is happening that could be awesome but I cannot partake.
Did I mention, I tried to get in her book, and was completely refused access? I didn't want much. I mean, a chapter about me would have been great, but I would have been ok with just a dedication... but she said no way.
It's definitely all my mom's fault.
As to what's made me a sexual deviant - the jury is still out on that one.
(Of course, I'd never met Grandpa, he died 10 years before I was born, I've yet to see a true definition of sexual deviancy, and for those who are slow to respond to sarcasm, that last statement implies that because I am a doctor, I am not at all a fuck up, therefore, the mother is not to be blamed.)
But the story is such. As I said before, we stayed at this rent-a-box shanty town, along with 50 or so other vacationers, many of whom had children. Out of proximity and necessity, the children ended up making friends, and the adults ended up making drinking buddies, so at night, after the beach and the haymarket, and the cultural trip to the local opera (The Barber of Seville in Ukrainian? Why not?), the adults would gather round driking and smoking, and the kids would gather round doing whatever kids do. Playing spin the bottle, or building sandcastles, I'm not sure. I was 6. So, this one day, I was behaving badly. I don't remember what I did, but I know me, and I know that even at the tender age of six, I had the absolute power to make my mother's hair stand on end with frustration.
[what should I wear?
jeans.
I don't like jeans.
skirt.
I don't like skirt.
Wear whatever you want.
I want you to tell me.
Jeans.
I don't like jeans.
You're wearing jeans.
I don't wanna wear jeans!!
Then wear whatever you want.
I want you to tell me.
Whatever you want!!!
Why are you mad at me???
and on and on and on]
So, I was behaving badly, and she grabbed my arm, pulled me into our little cubby, and said, "You are being bad! Now, all the other children are going to go read books, play and have fun, and you are going to stay here in this room for the rest of the night, punished!"
GASP!
So... ALL the other children are going to be over there where I can see them, having FUN, and I will be forced to watch them from this boring cubby, and I'll be missing the fun??
What followed, according to my mother, was a most unbelievable display of dramatic theatrics: "NO! anything but that! I cannot handle it!!" She says, to this day, her heart bleeds a little when she thinks about it, but she was firm and off to my room I went while ALL the other children had the fun that I couldn't have. Apparently, this type of theatrics was not unusual, and "NO! Anything but that!" was a phrase I would use often.
Where am I going with this?
Oh yes.
Ever since then, I have had a very pronounced 'outsider' complex. I constantly feel like I'm over here, and I'm missing something over THERE. Then, when I get over THERE, I miss what was in the original place. Also, I feel like I'm outside looking in.
Those are the basics of the complex, but it extends to cover so much more. For example, I am under the distinct impression that everyone and everything are headed forward while I'm staying in one place or regressing. I feel I haven't really changed since I was that six year old.
Another example is that I am absolutely unable to handle any sort of change - especially when it comes to giving something up. I cried when I moved from Boston to Philly, then I cried when I changed apartments in Philly, then I cried and felt tortured leaving Philly back to Boston, and don't get me started on what happened when I was forced to leave my Brighton apartment and move to the burbs. Definitely don't get my onto the topic of leaving residency and starting fellowship. All of this because I knew that once I left, I would be missing something.
When residency was ending, I knew deep inside that as close as we were as a class, once the bond of residency was over, we'd scatter and forget about each other. In the last six months, though, there was a lot of bonding going on, and a lot of social life and gatherings - and I became totally paranoid that someone somewhere might be doing something without me. It got to a point of ridiculousness, where being on call, for example, became torture not for the fact of being on call, but because everyone else was having steak at the drug dinner down the street.
When I was teenager, and if I happened to be home on a weekend evening, I would be in emotional distress and often in tears because I wasn't out - like everyone else must be. I would complain that my life sucks because I'm not having any fun while surely, everyone else is. That's when my mother dubbed me as forever looking for the moveable feast. (Now I know that's Hemingway, but before, I thought she was just very smart)
It's a terrible feeling to live with; the feeling that somewhere something is happening that could be awesome but I cannot partake.
Did I mention, I tried to get in her book, and was completely refused access? I didn't want much. I mean, a chapter about me would have been great, but I would have been ok with just a dedication... but she said no way.
It's definitely all my mom's fault.
As to what's made me a sexual deviant - the jury is still out on that one.
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