At the beginning of summer 2019, on Friday, June 21st, two weekend days and nights were planned to feature dinners and an Adirondack bike ride with my best friend from high school and his wife. Hard to beat friendship and conversation, good food and drink, and an afternoon of exercise exploring a historical site.
The plan was to drive to Bill and Sara’s in Saratoga Springs, New York, on Friday, hang out, have dinner, and spend the night. Saturday, following my 9 a.m. phone appointment, the three of us would go for a bike ride and picnic lunch at the Saratoga National Historic Park, and then back to their place for dinner. Early Sunday I’d return to Vermont in time for choir rehearsal at 8:45 a.m.—a three-hour plus drive—all good except now I’m writing this from home on Saturday. Friday’s dinner started out with laughs but ended in tears—both my doing, especially the disaster that induced Sara’s sobbing.
William Faulkner wrote: “The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself.” And that’s me right now. I knew better, but still screwed up, and didn’t listen to my soul’s whisperings or take in the effect my words were having on a couple I love. I just didn’t see it. That’s all on me, I own it, apologized for it, but nonetheless feel guilt and shame that I did this.
It hurts and remains troubling, a painful experience, but a story that’s been unfolding for some time, one I want to both write about and run from.
In my love relationships with women I’ve discovered that I loved the romance and chase, the caring and embrace, the longing and anticipation of being together more than I have the beloved or “object” of my affection; I love and value them for who they are less than I love the romance and chase.
The male friends with whom I have loving relationships have no romance or chase attached, and their value seems to be based on who they are. My relationship with Bill has been an exception to that. Our long history has at its core the fact that he reminds me of my conservative and opinionated “I’m- always-right” father, a mix of shared love and wariness, open expressions of closeness coupled with tiptoeing caution fearing disapproval and rejection. He also taps into the father in me, the traits I come by well and deplore in myself: righteousness, uncurbed advice-giving and unsolicited instruction, a “my way is the right way” stance to life.
Whew, that’s tough to see on the page.
For several years now, when I visit Bill and Sara, the self-absorption in their lives, the conservative diatribes against politicians and negative views on public education and the state of the world—turn me off. He’s a longtime friend I love, but I have less and less interest in spending time with him, or them, yet I arrange to do so. And as I write this, I recognize how self-absorbed I am in my own crazy life, how tediously cerebral and nauseatingly pedantic I can be about spiritual issues and the broken state of my marriage.
I’m a mess, and a greater one in the making, which includes a struggle to let people be who they are—that is unless they’re patients, and then I’m accepting unconditionally—even when their flaws tap into my inner world and transference and countertransference arise!
Back to the weekend prompting this writing. This gets difficult because in the telling of the story there now appears the preachy, pontificating person I deplore in myself, and want to disinherit!
Dinner of steak and baked potato, and salad was excellent, so too were the two IPA beers I drank beforehand, and the wine for dinner. Perhaps the slight buzz clouded my otherwise perceptive antenna. As the meal ended, I asked how their nieces and nephews were doing. They both responded that the eldest, Jacob, had enlisted in the Navy but washed-out after a few days. Bill had prepped him on what training would be like—self subjugation to the Navy-way—but apparently Jacob couldn’t or wouldn’t take it. They volunteered that he’d had issues growing up and continued to have them at 19. Though they loved him, their visits were tense and stressful because he became contentious and surly, difficult, and alienating.
I sensed a troubled teen and affirmed the closeness and love they all felt for each other. Though I didn’t immediately mention it, I could identify with a son alienated from one or both parents, and this may have driven what followed.
They hadn’t asked for my opinion, but without thinking it through I began expounding on their importance in his life—hello, I don’t know this kid!—suggesting their involvement might be what he needed to get himself on track—something I said or declared with [over the top] fervor. Sara looked like a deer in headlights, but I kept barreling ahead.
She said, “I’d do anything for him.”
To which I replied, “No, not anything.” And continued, “Can you let him be who he is?” A rhetorical question because though she and Bill are loving folks, they tend to impose their rules and ways to the exclusion of individual differences and lifestyles. This was reminiscent of my childhood experience, stifling and anger-inducing in the suffocation of self I felt.
By now I was lost in the self-absorbing projection of my rage into the monologue with Bill and Sara as my tone and demeanor declared you’re missing it, don’t get it, and need to step-up! At this point Sara was crying and Bill comforting with soft words and a loving protective touch. I saw this but didn’t pay attention, and when he smiled at me suggesting we talk about the Yankees I responded with an emphatic “no,” and disregarding the obvious unfolding catastrophe continued my diatribe.
Sara said, between sobs, “Can’t we have an easy conversation filled with laughter and joy?”
I stared at her across the table.
Sara sobbed and said, “You don’t know me.”
I paused only long enough to say that I knew what it must be like to be Jacob, unaccepted for who he is, and only loved if he meets the other’s expectations. I blurted out shit about my clinical skills, my identification with their nephew, and all with a self-righteous fervor. My behavior wasn’t just unwarranted, thoughts unsolicited, but all in all I was disrespectful and attacking, behavior so unbecoming that when I later calmed down and reflected on the evening I cringed and cried myself to sleep.
At this point, already well into the abyss of self-involvement and [my] abhorrent, dad-like behavior, I stopped. Sara said she needed to walk, and when she left Bill asked me: “Didn’t you see her crying?” And then he followed her outside. I cleaned up some of the dishes, went outside in the dark and mounted my bike on my Volvo having decided that I’d leave at daybreak the following morning—too much Roger-damage.
Guilt and shame became oppressive companions as I attached the bike to the rack—a tear rolled down my cheek as I realized the pain I’d caused and the revulsion I felt toward the dark side of me. When Bill returned to the kitchen, Sara may have gone to bed, he thanked me for cleaning-up. I asked where to put a clean bowl then gathered a few books and my reading glasses to head upstairs to the guest bedroom. He approached the staircase as I was ascending and said he and Sara would like me to leave before 8:30 in the morning, but I didn’t want to hear him, cut him off and said I’d be leaving early in the morning. No goodnight from me—I was drowning in the awfulness of my actions. I lay in bed fighting tears, and when I awoke at 4 a.m., stripped the bed, packed-up and quietly left the house. Before doing so I wrote the following note and left it by the coffeemaker: “I’m sorry for what occurred at dinner last night. It was never my intention to hurt you, Sara, and you as well, Bill, but I did. I’m leaving, love, Roger.”
There were few cars on the road. Plenty of time to piece together what went down, mostly my role in bringing chaos to what had been planned as an enjoyable time together over food and drink and a bike ride.
In the midst of my sadness, isolation from God and civil behavior, and castigations for what I’d wrought, I drove up to a toll booth to pay a single dollar only to have the attendant smile and say that the pick-up truck ahead of me had paid my toll.
I cried at the show of grace.
Bill’s and my relationship may be over, and if they never want me back in their home, I’d understand that. I also know that if we are to move forward and “grow” this fifty-five-year friendship, I must, yes must, be able to accept and love him as he is—which includes what he stirs up inside me that is reminiscent of my father.
I have little faith that I can do my part, and absolutely no idea(s) of what will happen next and it grieves me terribly.
Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855), Danish poet, theologian, and philosopher would champion the idea that catastrophe can be a means of grace. If only he’d been seated to my right at dinner, touched my arm and whispered in my ear.
But…would I have listened?
by 
Roger
As I read your story I was taken back in time to several almost identical emotional involvements in my life. In each, I remember feeling justified out of a sense of wanting to be helpful. As I look back, I am bedeviled with a smorgasbord of conflicting feelings not the least of which is a deep sense of embarrassment and loss. I have come to accept that it is possible for everyone involved in an emotionally upending episode to be right. The difference lies in our perception of their perception. If I accept that it is possible to for both sides to be right but our words and approaches differ, then who am I to argue I was wrong. Is there a better time to speak truth to power? I think timing is in the eye of beholder and is no respecter of timeliness. I own the full trust of my background, training and experience to express what needs expressing no matter the reception. Time will tell.
Larry
Larry,
Timing is in the eye of the beholder, I agree with you and your statement that the view “is no respecter of timeliness.” What a dicey road we travel, but a glorious one as well. Thanks for reading and commenting, your thoughts always appreciated.
Roger
Came across this interesting tidbit
“Whether we realize it or not, most of us define ourselves by opposing rather than by favoring something or someone. To put it another way, it is easier to react than to act. Nothing arouses a passion for dogma more than a good antagonist. And the more unlikely, the better. … It’s difficult to hate an idea. … It’s much easier to hate someone with a recognizable face whom we can blame for everything that makes us feel uncomfortable. It doesn’t have to be an individual character. It could be a nation, a race, a group … anything.”
Author: Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Roger
Some time ago at the men’s breakfast I shared some quotes from one of my favorite authors, Og Mandino. The pasted link will take you to The God Memorandum. Simple, eloquent and profound. Let me know what you think.
Larry
https://youtu.be/0KDhsPiYmuk
Larry,
I listened and enjoyed hearing his thoughts on life and living fully. Thank you for reading and commenting as well.
Roger
Larry,
Ralph Greenson wrote a series of monographs posthumously compiled in On Loving, Hating, and Living Well–excellent. He and Zafon have much in common. Thank you,
Roger
Wow. Brutal!
It’s tough being human, huh?
Sue,
Yes, at times tough, but grace and forgiveness make the brutal less hurtful. Thanks for spending time with me, and others through your comments.
Roger
By far the most honest and tormented post I have read. It takes courage to expose the demon that prods us to take a disastrous course. I know I can identify with thinking I am “helping” when in fact I am digging a hole. Good for you for recognizing insanity and owing it. All of us have experienced a similar awfulness and some of us even admit it.
Giny,
Thank you for your encouraging words, and I appreciate the companionship -“All of us have experienced a similar awfulness and some of us even admit it.” Here’s to us ‘hole-diggers,’ and the grace we need, don’t deserve by virtue of anything we are, but receive anyway–in a comment, a read, or even at a tollbooth.
Roger
Roger
Thank you for sharing such an intimate and painful experience for you and your friends. Thank you also for showing me how to embrace the brutal honesty of self examination.
Please know how much you are loved by me and, no doubt, so many of your other friends. I’m with you on that bike ride in spirit and look forward to a (much more leisurely) walk together next time at the Rose Bowl or wherever the path leads.
Rich,
Thank you for your loving friendship, and look forward to that leisurely stroll around the Rose Bow!
Roger
What jumped out to me from your painful story was the driver up ahead paying your toll and the smile the attendant gave you. Such divine timing. I felt it was God’s grace, saying it’s alright, my son, I loved you before this night and I love you now and will always love you no matter what. Your story made me think of my closest friend who has more grace then the day is long, and thank God for that, otherwise we would not have survived our 45 year beautiful friendship that I am so grateful for. Thank you for sharing.
Jo Anne,
Thank you for reading and commenting, especially noting the pick-up driver who paid my toll. I tried to catch up with the truck but was also aware of wanting it to be the random act of kindness it was without attaching anything else to it, and therefore ‘let it go.’ Glad you and your friend of 45 years share grace-filled years and experience–priceless!
Roger
Dear Roger, wonderful writing…such honesty and emotional turmoil always grabs me. One of the things that is so compelling here is that the story reminds each of us of those cringe-worthy moments we all have. And, of course, they usually come with self-righteousness and a momentary “I know it all” attitude that is so obnoxious in retrospect. I hope that all three of you are motivated to heal the relationship. Lessons learned with gratitude for God’s tap on the shoulder…you’re ok and so are they. Thanks for the reminder that a spiritual path and psychological growth have many painful moments as we grow, sometimes despite ourselves.
Kathy,
Writing is self-indulgent, but [for me] in addition it is a wonderful means to connect with others, and your thoughtful comments illustrate that, thank you. It is good we have, all of us, to remind each other and ourselves that when cringe-moments occur, we’re not alone.
Roger
Whew! That is intense! It is not easy being human. Thanks for sharing. Hugs, Dona
Dona,
Yes, intense but as times [inexorably] goes by the value of those awful moments seep into and through my soul–we all have them, and when we do being human hurts–hugs, however, help, and thanks for sending them.
Roger
Dearest Roger.
All I can say is welcome to the human race. And I am sure that is nothing new to you. One of my greatest moments in my growth journey was when I could throw away my halo and accept my self, flawed as I am.
You have been such a great instrument in my doing so.
Thank you for your brave honesty. Know that you are loved.
Carmen
Carmen,
My ‘halo’ disappeared decades ago, but that didn’t stop me from pretending I still had one that glowed in it’s flawlessness. Silly me, and the reminders of same are welcome. Here’s to tarnished halos!
Roger
Doc
Thanks for the story. I am sure you feel like hell and maybe your friendship with them is finished but maybe it can be a wake up call for you. You have always known that your Father is a big influence on some of your actions maybe this will help you come to better terms with that part of your life. I am sure your intent was to help them and be supportive of their view of their nephew but that emotion was very painful for you so you projected your pain into the situation. I have no doubt you love them, hope you can work out some kind of relationship. Again thanks for sharing such an emotional event that in its self is a step in the direction that will lead you to find a way to know yourself. I love you Roger. Gary
Gary,
Thank you for reading, taking the time to comment, and offering encouraging words. A college friend and I had lunch yesterday. He recalled that his father never apologized to him, said he was sorry, and now as he fathers his son he is quick to catch mistakes he makes, as we all do, and offers apologies. The brokenness of our childhood years never disappears, but we can mute the impact it has in our current lives.
Roger
Imagine as Gary suggests the weight lifted should you forgive. It is a fundamental tenet of Christian faith. “Father forgive them…” You can do this. You have carried this cross too long.
Mary,
You’re correct about forgiveness. Bishop Tutu knew this as well, and lived it. Though my soul is buoyed by “things unseen,” and offering forgiveness and being forgiven pursued, both are challenging. Thank you for this encouraging reminder.
Roger
Roger, I had a very disturbing experience with an individual many year ago when I was in Germany. I should have known better but my mouth just wouldn’t stop. I was very embarrassed and felt like I should crawl under something but there was nothing to crawl under. We did become good friends eventually but I still remember that incident like it was yesterday.
Bud,
I did know before, but now I’m more assured that I’m in good company! Thank you for sharing this story, and the hope realized that “stuff gone bad” can have a “good friend” ending. My guess is you both worked to make it real–once you were found in your crawl-space!
Roger
Primum non nocere…first do no harm. Sure it must still hang on your office wall. Your practice is an art and as an artist I’m here to tell you there are many works in my studio not worthy of a frame. I get out the white gesso and paint over the used canvas and hope for something better next time.
Sounds like you brought a lot to the table that night with history, resentment and a few pushed buttons on your plate. Sara and Bill will get over it, or maybe not, and you can “pay it forward” at the next drive through with just a little egg on your face.
Love, Bette
Bette,
Thanks for an “artists” view–now I’ll find the therapist’s equivalent of ‘white gesso’ and get to work, to include laying-in a few extra bucks for ‘paying it forward.’
Roger
Roger,
Thanks for the honest sharing of something that you did and regretted. Reading the many comments makes me think that you touched upon feelings and regrets that many of us share.
I think people of good will can screw up. If I can be honest and humble, take off my imaginary halo, I can look to God for grace and forgiveness.
Ned,
Thanks for reading and commenting, Ned. Though we don’t commit screwups with the idea of being redeemed, it is comforting to know that redemption is available both next door and above–the former too difficult sometimes, and the latter inconceivable given the ease with which it is offered.
Roger.
Your honest and soul searching sharing of this painful incident with friends is doing your part to take a cold hard look at yourself, while accepting responsibility for your part of the interaction. We all are flawed human beings who sometimes trample on the feelings of others while we are lost in our own reactions, triggered by something, sometimes realized and understood. I admire your ability to write so openly about your own failings, and allow us into your on-going struggle to accept yourself with forgiveness and compassion. As I read this piece, I kept seeing and feeling the yin and yang of all of our lives and experiences. Thank you for the gift of helping us, your readers, to see, feel, and accept our own humanity.
Write on, mom ami.
Colette,
Merci!
Writing is the most difficult task I’ve undertaken, and when a reader like you, reflects on the words I write and responds as you and others have, the difficult “blood, sweat, and tears” are worth it.
Roger
Being compassionate and kind and truthful with oneself and with others is just so very hard. I suppose these sorts of experiences are the “refiner’s fire,” and this thought is a hopeful one for me, but it burns nonetheless.
Cindy,
Yes, I agree. Being shaped by the “refiner’s fire” is not in everyone’s life experience, but those of us for whom it is–yes, it does burn, and in the burning provide light.
Roger