Chapter 3: Alchemy

Peter had returned to work the day after our session and had taken a plane straight to Singapore to meet with an important customer. Now ten days after I last saw him, I couldn’t help but wonder how he had coped with such a stressful journey, and whether he had been able to withstand all the temptations and cravings that come with business travel.

His employer had shown exceptional patience and understanding for almost two years, supporting him through four stints of rehab. But, now recently, they made it crystal clear that they wanted their golden boy back on the job, to attend to their burgeoning business in Asia. That, of course, was a tall order for Peter, with abstinence not yet fully anchored down. To get back in the rat race too soon could derail him on the road to recovery.

In short, I was anxious to find out how he was doing.

When he entered my therapy room, Peter looked jet-lagged, yet strangely upbeat at the same time. Sharply dressed in business casual, he told me he'd come straight from the airport. He seemed combative and higher on the assertiveness scale than I remembered. Settled in his usual seat, he confirmed in a matter-of-fact way that he was still sober. He gave off an aura of being in control, but I had a strong sense that this was only skin-deep.

Drinking as such did not seem foremost in his mind right now, and I did not want to trigger him on the topic unnecessarily. No doubt we would get there in due time. 

It was clear that Peter was eager to talk about his business trip, but I wanted to loop back first to our last session before he could set the agenda for today. When he was all-business, such as now, he could be most charming, but also quite domineering. No doubt, this combination was a redeeming quality in his world of high-pressure salesmanship. But in this office, I need to set the stage.

“Peter, I am happy to see you back here, and in such high spirits at that. First of all, I must say, your story Lovesick, was so much more than I had bargained for. The pure and simple way in which you described the feelings of awe and rejection through the eyes of the younger you, was masterful. And that last line was a killer."

He smiled and I continued: "It is so true that the emotional impact of a first crush often seems to outshine the romantic episodes that come later, in adult life. I’m sure your endearing love tragedy - if I can call it that - would strike a chord with most people, as teenage infatuation and rejection are about as universal as human experience can get.”

Peter seemed happy with my praise: “Thanks, Doc, I had a feeling you would like it.” No lack of confidence there.

“But tell me, Peter, did the writing bring you a feeling of release, a sense of liberation?”

He cleared his throat and said: “It took me a while, to bring myself to write up what had been weighing me down, about Connie. I tried hard to put myself back in my shoes when I was sixteen and replayed the scene from that vantage point. And all the while, I tried not to take myself too seriously.”

 

He chuckled for a minute, and then said, in a more serious voice: “To my surprise, the writing enabled me to reach well below the surface of my mind, into a pool of intuitive inspiration, you could say."

"Can you elaborate?"

"Well, I did not have to think about what to write, it was as if the words came spiraling up from my subconscious. When I finally read back what I had put on paper, it was like all new to me, like someone else had written it. Someone who had been observing me all this time, without my knowing it."

He pondered for a minute and said: “Let me put it like this. The writing just happened, by letting a part of me take a step back and be a lucid witness to my thoughts and feelings.”

I was astounded by Peter’s words. They reminded me of Eckhart Tolle’s concept of watching the thinker. But I doubted that Peter was familiar with Tolle’s work. I scribbled down the words lucid witness for future reference. As I did not want to interrupt Peter’s stream of thought, I made a mental note to come back to it later.

Unaware of my inner narrative on his uncanny ability to put deep truths into words, Peter continued: “I now know that that first flame has had a bittersweet hold over me. I never really understood the symbolism of that first rejection, until now. It hurt so badly because what it really meant was: I only have this one life, and now it is clear that I will never be with her.”

He took a moment and concluded: “Anyway, I think I am ready now to stop hoping for a better past with Connie. Does that make sense, Doc?”

“Perfect sense, Peter. Stop hoping for a better past. Accept what is and live in the present moment. Do not waste time regretting what is not.”

I saw that Peter needed another minute to mentally align with his own conclusions. He was gazing out of the window with a blank expression as if trying to convince himself of his own words. I hoped, for his sake, that he could finally say goodbye to a precious but unhelpful fantasy.

Privately, I was amused to see yet again how a first love, even a one-way infatuation, could cast a spell over the span of a lifetime. I've seen many other cases, men, and women, alike. Near-fatal casualties of lovesickness. I could not help but smile with this universal pitfall, which makes us so very human.

I felt it was time to move on, though: “I have been thinking about what you said last time, Peter, on your struggles with the absurdity of it all, the apparent lack of meaning to life. As we did last week with your early strife with love, I would like to do the same now with this basic feeling of incongruity in you, I would like to go back to the origins of your existential fears.”

Peter flinched at my words. It seemed I had back his full attention.

“Doc, that’s a big one, so much larger than a princess who did not want to date me thirty years ago. Maximizing the output of our hour together, are we?”

It was clear that Peter was trying to cover up his insecurity on this topic with a display of aggressive bravura.

I kept quiet.

As he seemed to realize he'd been out of line, he laughed nervously and continued: 

“You know, it literally takes my breath away, trying to grasp the enormity of life’s groundlessness, the complete lack of certainty and security. It is exactly why I kept on drinking, to drown out these thoughts on all the dreadful things that could happen.”

I still kept my silence, better to let him work through this on his own, first.

He let out a deep sigh as if to surrender to a higher power: “Ok, Doc, let me give it a try. I’ve never said these things out loud, so I do not know how they will come out. It may sound over the top.”

“I understand this is not a trivial matter, Peter. I think that, all along, these fundamental life concerns have been fueling the fire of your addiction. That is why we need to address them now. You have tried to cover them up, with layer upon layer of defense mechanism, one of which was alcohol abuse, another your demanding job and relentless travel. Until it all came crashing down and you had to get yourself hospitalized multiple times, in order to survive."

He looked at me with wide eyes. I continued: "I do not underestimate what you went through and the obvious fact that you are still hurting. Now is the time to start the healing.”

I knew we had come to a tipping point in therapy, so I powered on: “We need to face your core pain head on. We can transform the suffering into relevant insights, into deep knowledge about your real self."

I wanted to use imagery to make my point clearer: "You've heard of the legendary alchemists in the Middle Ages who knew how to turn base metals into gold. Well, I find that many patients consider that a useful analogy to help turn their pain into something positive. ”

He was looking at me skeptically, so I said: “Peter, I know this feels like a huge risk to you, but you can trust me. Please take your time to arrange your thoughts.”

Peter looked me straight in the eyes, took several deep breaths, and then the words came out in rapid succession: “I am anxious about the notion that each and every one of us is really separate and alone on this Earth, which is spinning around its axis in eternal nothingness. It simply blows my mind to realize that the universe is completely indifferent to what happens to me. The idea of such brutal randomness drives me crazy, it feels like I want to put a bullet in my head right now, get it over with."

He sounded enraged while he said: "And what about the fact that I have unlimited freedom to make that kind of decision about my life, whether to end it or not, without any apparent external guideline or intervention? Is nobody watching out for me? Am I really unobserved?”

Peter had turned pale in the face. He was straining himself to finish his troublesome list: “And let us not forget death as the grand apotheosis. It is a killer to know that I will eventually lose everything, including my life. I want so very much to live, but what is the point if death can come at any moment?”

He said softly, his tone apologetic now: “Sorry Doc, I warned you, these are pretty dark thoughts.” He turned away, facing the window, but not before I had seen the tears in his eyes.

“No need for apologies, Peter. This is exactly what we're here for, to address these worries in a fearless way. And as I have come to expect by now, you have articulated these universal fears in a way that most people are not able to.”

I refilled his empty glass with water and said: “Now before we dig deeper, what is your earliest recollection of becoming aware of this dread of life and death?”

“Hmm, let me think, Doc. I must have been five when I lost my grandmother. It was an absolute shock to come to the harsh realization that people die. I simply could not believe it. At five, I had just been getting comfortable with being me, when this breaking news disrupted my reverie. This meant I could also lose my mother, whom I was extremely close to. Up to that moment, it had not dawned on me that we could ever be separated.”

He stood up and walked towards the window and said, with his back to me: “From then on, a constant fear of abandonment accompanied me everywhere I went. It was the end of innocence as I knew it. Gone was the carefree exploration of my world, everything had become dangerously fragile and impermanent. Death was everywhere I looked.”

“Peter, are you aware that every human being wakes up to this truth at some point? It could be that you were very sensitive as a child, but by no means is what you felt abnormal or strange. You were in full discovery of yourself and the world, and you were giving symbolic meaning to all things that mattered to you. Juxtaposed with that feeling of growth comes all of a sudden this awareness of mortality. This very conflict makes the human condition..., well human."

My words seemed to bring him off balance. He hesitated and said: “I always thought other people somehow had the answers which I could not find. Or they had discovered a way to live without asking the questions. How…?”

He was at a real loss for words, so I picked it up from there: “You are definitely not alone in this, Peter. In fact, let me read you something from one of my favorite books on this topic: The denial of death by Ernest Becker. Do you know his work?”

He shook his head no. I stood up to take the well-used book from my shelf, and started reading out loud: “What does it mean to be a self-conscious animal? The idea is ludicrous if it is not monstrous. It means to know that one is food for worms. This is the terror: to have emerged from nothing, to have a name, consciousness of self, deep inner feelings, an excruciating inner yearning for life and self-expression and with all this yet to die. It seems like a hoax, which is why one type of cultural man rebels openly against the idea of God. What kind of deity would create such a complex and fancy worm food?”

Taking another book from the shelf, I looked for the right quote, and said: “And other existential philosophers such as Erich Fromm wondered Why most people did not become insane in the face of the existential contradiction between a symbolic self, that seems to give man infinite worth in a timeless scheme of things, and a body that decays and dies”.

Peter was silent. And, understandably so, this is heavy stuff. It had taken all of his energy, after a twelve-hour flight, to unearth and confront his deepest fears. I wondered whether I had not abused his fighting spirit here today, in order to make him dive into the deep end. 

I brushed away my doubts because I had followed my instinct and that was usually close to the mark.

“Peter, are you all right? I know this is a lot to digest. This may have been the first time in your life that you addressed these issues so openly?’

“I’m ok Doc, just a bit tired. But, what you just read, did strike a chord. Can I borrow the books?”

I could see he was drained: “Sure. Listen, I know you have another travel coming up before we see each other again. May I suggest something?”

“I have a feeling you again are going to ask me to write something?

“We’re getting into the swing of things here, Peter. What worked last time, might work again. I believe that writing for you is a formidable way to channel what is hidden deep inside and to bring it out into the open. Anyway, this is what I have in mind. You said you were very close to your mother and you were afraid of losing her as soon as you found out about mortality, is that correct?”

“Yes, thinking about her brings tears to my eyes, even now. My mother passed away five years ago this coming December.”

“I am sorry to hear that Peter. That must have been difficult for you, in the midst of your powerlessness with alcohol. I believe there may be a great deal of mourning that simply could not take place when you were still drinking. Could you imagine yourself writing about your mother?”

Catharsis by Peter Baer

December 2008. I am at the Crown Plaza Wuzhou in Beijing. This massive hotel overlooks the Birds’ Nest stadium where the Summer Olympics have taken place just a couple of months earlier. I have been in the Forbidden City for a week now to try to close a deal with the Chinese government. The lack of progress has stressed me out to no end.

It is 5:20 am and something brutally pulls me away from sleep. I am instantly hit by a killer hangover caused by last night’s dinner negotiations with the Chinese customer. It is still dark outside, befitting the black mood which instantly settles over me like a cruel contraption. I feel the familiar longing for a drink, even this early.

I realize that the phone in my hotel room has woken me up. I can sense it has been ringing for a while but I am not sure how long.

The noise seems thunderous. The rude awakening has made my heart palpitate. The muscles in my chest contract and I cannot breathe. A familiar anxiety takes hold, worsened by the dark blue feeling of being very far from home.

When I finally get myself to pick up the phone and speak, nothing comes out. My throat is very dry. I hear my sister call out my name in an alarming voice. She sounds very nearby and for a moment, I think she is here in China, rather than back at home in Europe. 

My aorta pulsates down to my stomach. I have a metallic taste in my mouth as if I have been drinking mercury or lead last night. Maybe I have.

My sister tells me our mother is dead.

I go to pieces. The voice of my sister trails off, and like in a nuclear meltdown, my stress chemicals reach boiling point. I have the very real sensation of accelerating with no brakes down a slope, leading into an unforgiving wall. Raw panic rolls in and deepens until suddenly, my mind seems to reach escape velocity and it goes out of orbit.

My consciousness shifts to a lower stratum and my deeper instincts take over to preserve the self. No fight or flight, but freeze. Like an animal that stands still so that its predator will not see them, I go into a state of stupor in order not to lose my mind.

I no longer participate in the process of thinking and feeling. I become a detached observer.

Lying still on the bed in the pitch dark hotel room, breathing shallow, I see myself at the age of five, walking hand in hand with my mother in the freezing cold of a winter wonderland. Our feet make crispy noises on the snow. Everything around us is silent, honoring this moment. I feel enveloped in my mother’s mystery and secure in her blessing. A precocious child, I am eager to learn, and my mother readily answers all my questions. My world is centered on her, I conform to her. There is no visible cause for concern, yet I am terrified of losing her. Separation anxiety has me overwhelmed and, in fact, so has existential fear. 

They say that by the age of five, you very much understand the human condition. Well, I did.

I emerged from the age of innocence with a hard and fast grasp of the concept of death. The terror of the realization that I was mortal, literally took my breath away. Deep down, I did not feel at all that I could die. I had just learned about the world, full of symbolic meaning, and my place in it. I was a unique creature with cosmic significance. I had a contribution to make. I was good at being me and getting better every day. Surely it would be a cruel joke for me to have to die. This tragic destiny would befall lesser souls, but surely not me?

My mother had me at forty-two. It had been an unplanned pregnancy after a very dark episode when my parents lost a son with the same name. Even today I still cannot believe that simple fact. My parents gave me my dead brother's name. No pressure.

As a replacement child, I carried the burden of my parent’s unresolved sorrow. I had difficulty finding my real self, as my primary function presented itself to be the container for the soul of my dead brother.

Very early on, it was imprinted on me that I was an unexpected gift of life, my parents' last-born, precious and treasured. I was the improbable late offspring. Whether spoken out loud or not, I remember the words: What are the odds of conceiving at the age of forty-two and having a healthy and gifted baby son? We need to protect him with our life.

I later realized that this over-shielding prevented me from accessing my own powers, of finding my center. I started in life by walking on air, not on solid ground. A charmed beginning for sure, because I had escaped from the dangers of my mother’s late pregnancy. It seemed to me that I had used up all my luck by just getting born, and going forward, the odds were severely against me. Whatever happened next, I should not get separated from my mother.

The very same mother that is dead now.

I am a grown man in a Beijing hotel room, but I feel like I am that five-year-old boy again, walking at the hand of his mother, holding on to her for dear life. For dear life, the irony of that is not lost on me.

The fact that she is gone hurts like nothing has hurt before. I am now forced to think the unthinkable. The thing that I feared most my whole life has now happened. This means that I too can and will die, the end of a myth that only I still believed in.

I am alone while the sun comes up over another day in Beijing. I will take the long flight back home. And I will bury my mother. And I will talk to my father and my siblings, really talk, and I will feel better. Because we are alive.

I can still love my mother, even now she’s gone. That I was given the same name as my dead brother, I now consider a gift of devotion, highly unsettling as it has been on my journey to this day.

I feel like a lifelong spell has been lifted. I am still here even though my mother is not. Through all the pain, I feel restoration and new possibilities. This purgation of childish emotions has set me on a new path forward. 

I am my own man now.

 

 

Author's Note

Version 4 uploaded.

Reviews

[Serge Wlodarski]

You have set the bar high for me, I will do my best to keep up.

"Stop hoping for a better past." This reminds me of several people I know, in their 60s and seemingly successful. But every time we have a conversation, they bring up their childhood or that girlfriend that got away in college.

"Dive into the deep end." Mostly I just keep falling into the deep end. To answer your question to Bear, you are dealing with a heavy topic, and making me want to keep reading. I'll get to chapter 4 soon.

[Philip Muls]

Thanks Serge, glad you like it. Regards Philip

[Ruth]

You always stay focused throughout and I admire your story telling, the depths are poignant and profound and I always leave thinking about your story for a while :) Superb writing...

[transentience]

Hey this had a good sense of verisimilitude and a flow that made the content easier to understand, good job. Honestly, I haven't read any other chapters but I'm always drawn to alchemy and existentialist thought loops. My only critique would be that Peter is somewhat cliche about his existential dread and maybe overdoes the "lack of meaning to life", but maybe that's just his character. Anyway, thought-provoking stuff with very relatable and real characters/circumstances

[richieb]

Your story, Philip, is deep and intense. You have dealt with some complex issues of life and offered sound and mature understanding. Using your creative gifts your story is interesting and not just drab medical language. Your description of your characters make-up and personality along with your voice as the narrator works well together. I enjoy reading your work.
Richie b.

[Shannon]

Very precise language used. There are many phrases I feel like as though I have never read written in exactly that way before.

I would encourage you to consider shortening the interaction with the counsellor and show us more if the story with mom and dad.

A unique story, for certain.

[andrew mitchell]

A remarkable story, some stories read like a story but others like yours here is well written and reads like it's real and you feel you are there almost like a soapy on TV live. That's good writing!

[Ted Kniffen]

All right, good continuation of the story. We're delving deeper into Peter's psyche and we're starting to develop feelings for him and his situation. The only thing that's a bit bothersome is using their names to start new paragraphs. To me it reads like a play then. Not a big thing really but a bit of a distraction for me. Still, a good write

[Stan Lee]

I am simply in awe of the way you write. Very gripping. I have no words, only awe!
Thank you for sharing.

[wordman]

i enjoyed this chapter phillip,i think it is better than the last one

[Bear]

Now that we have an understanding of Peter you can personalize him and his troubled experiences without offending some people's sensitivities. The emotional level is just right, Dr. Lavorter has yet to earn Peters trust for the emotional breakdown that will eventually occur. FYI, in a real therapy session after the second or third one, most patients try to shock the therapist. They embellish a half true story looking to test the therapist and see how judgemental they are, and how trustworthy they can be. Good luck with the next chapter, Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!

[Philip Muls]

Thanks Bear, good feedback. I am concerned still that it is very heavy as a read?

[Bear]

Is that not the nature stories dealing with addiction? The only way to lighten it would be to add some humor in Peter's flashback stories. Or by having Peter take part in group sessions where there tends to be some banter between the participants. You have already taken much of the clinical sterile feel away which is a big step in the right direction so don't doubt your abilities. Maybe a character solely for the purpose of comedy relief who hides his pain behind joking around could work if written right. There are a few ideas to bounce around in your mind, with luck you will come up with a way to lighten the story so I will wish that good luck my friend :~)