Last week, Jen was supposed to read a new study about leatherback turtles, who, in their lifetimes, navigated eight thousand miles from Indonesia to California and back. How they managed it without getting lost, how scientists went about trying to locate the turtles’ biocompass to understand the connection between animals and environment, was the kind of thing that fascinated Jen.
That used to fascinate Jen. Her brain, usually reliable, had been incapable of latching on to any of the concepts. The words on her computer screen slipped eel-like out of Jen’s mind as she thought about Abe, groceries, the need to get the sidewalk shoveled, anything other than those amazing turtles.
She’d been in front of that computer screen for seven hours, and she didn’t have a single note.
Colleagues of hers who had claimed writer’s block or requested deadline extensions for reasons of vague personal strife had never elicited any sympathy from Jen. There were excuses, she had believed, and then there was just putting your butt in the chair and doing the work.
She wasn’t herself anymore. She was a leatherback turtle with a broken biocompass, swimming thousands of miles in the wrong direction.
Dr. Shapiro’s smile was kind. “May I suggest a New Year’s resolution?”
“Not if it’s going to therapy.”
One side of Dr. Shapiro’s mouth lifted.
She’d tried therapy, Jen had explained to Dr. Shapiro, more than a few times since Abe’s problems became apparent. Dr. Shapiro might not be aware of this, but there were a lot of hacks out there.
One had asked, with a disturbing enthusiasm, for details of Jen and Paul’s sex life, another had insisted on mining the pain from Jen’s parents’ divorce thirty years ago （and there was pain, but triage, folks, triage）。 A few were probably excellent, thoughtful practitioners, but they all advised the same thing: You’re too closely identified to Abe’s problems.
They weren’t wrong.
Jen knew all the clichés: put on your own oxygen mask first; help yourself before helping others; happy mom, happy baby. From a psychological standpoint, she was too wrapped up in concern for Abe, to the detriment of her own well-being.
But what was the alternative?
Abe’s well-being was Jen’s well-being. They were unhealthily tethered, which was exactly how biology wanted it. So, Jen would ask the therapists, I’m supposed to understand Abe, and read his hieroglyphics—I’m blamed if I can’t—and then skip off to work and meet friends at one of those canvas-and-cocktail nights?
It’s about balance, they would counter, try and take a holistic approach to your life. Frequently, they’d offer medication, which as far as Jen could tell would force a state of numbness.
Jen was all for people doing whatever they had to to get through the day—medication included—but if the world kept insisting her son might be a sociopath, didn’t everyone want Jen’s edges sharp and vigilant?
“I’ll gladly see,” Jen had told Dr. Shapiro, “any therapist whose own child has been diagnosed with conduct disorder.”
Who else would understand?
Dr. Shapiro now watched Jen with a delicately wrinkled forehead.
“What about hobbies?” Dr. Shapiro said. “Something fun?”
Talking to you is fun, Dr. Shapiro. Does that not count?
“Book club,” Jen said confidently. “I’m going there straight after this.”
Dr. Shapiro’s frown lines deepened. Jen couldn’t stand her pity, which disrupted the pretense that she and Dr. Shapiro were just two girlfriends talking.
“How often does your club meet?” Dr. Shapiro asked.
“Every month.”
Wrong answer. Dr. Shapiro pursed her lips in a way that told Jen she was a pathetic and isolated creature.
Paul would say: Why on earth do you care what Abe’s therapist thinks of your social life?
Because, Paul, even if we disagree with her diagnosis, we still need to show her that it’s not all our fault!
“I see people,” Jen said, “don’t worry. My grad school friend Maxine is coming from out of town to give a talk.”
Maxine Das deserved every ounce of success she’d achieved. She’d spent eighteen months living among the elephants in Mali and was very successfully milking it for as long as she could: two books, the newspaper column, and now the second documentary, for which she was currently touring.
Jen had planned to decline Maxine’s invitation, which wasn’t until next month, and not because she resented Maxine’s success—okay, maybe she did a little—but because what was the point?