Staying on the Right Side of the Glass
I’ve gone to a lot of therapy. Like, a shit ton of therapy. In my never-ending quest to be as stereotypical a New Yorker as possible, I went through two Jewish shrinks in nine months, and later in SF, found a supposedly local therapist whose dry, anguish-infused wit could have easily landed her as a regular on Curb Your Enthusiasm (me by her side, kvetching on her couch like a proper Larry David).
But my favorite therapist of all was Beth. A lifelong New Yorker, she was anywhere from 45 to 75 years old. I imagined her as the type to experience the Summer of Love, but at the same time having never left her apartment. Everything she owned appeared to be covered in a thin film of dust. Her hair was the color of dust, and so were her eyes, which were at all times barely open. The chair she sat in appeared too small for a woman of her size, but whenever she assumed her position, it seemed so natural I forgot what she looked like standing up.
Beth had a dog who farted regularly. An otherwise serious moment would often be cut by the sound of the dog’s sad-trombone fart. We’d laugh so hard, scrambling to open a window despite the 95 degree heat outside, I often forgot what I had been saying.
I once jokingly told Beth that given I couldn’t find an effective way to chill out, maybe I should take up smoking pot. She replied, “well… maybe you should.” (Note that this was years before the ubiquity of legalized marijuana, as in my head doctor was suggesting I find a drug dealer.)
Another time, I exasperatedly asked her, “what good is this anxiety???” expecting a scholarly explanation rooted in evolutionary tendencies. Instead, she paused for a moment, shrugged, and said “…it entertains me?”
Such honesty made me trust Beth immensely. So much so that when she suggested I try an alternate form of therapy — group therapy — I thought, sure, why not. I loved things in groups — Groupon, the band Grouplove… Actually, I didn’t care for Grouplove. And also, I hated groups. But what’s the worst that could happen? It doesn’t work, and I’m back where I started.
That was not the worst that could happen.
It turns out, in-groups determine everything. My dad once told me the story of when he was younger, his father took him to a lavish event in Istanbul held by city dignitaries. They offered champagne and caviar to guests, and in an odd twist of self-unawareness, began handing out cake to the masses outside. The mob grew, and people began trampling each other to get a piece of free cake. As my father and his dad silently watched the chaos unfold out the window, my grandpa finally said “always try to stay on this side of the glass.”
Ever since, staying on the right side of the glass has been a sort of family meme for us, a snobby but light-hearted laugh about choosing your peers wisely. Growing up, hanging out with the right kids would determine whether or not you stayed out of trouble. In college and later in the workforce, surrounding yourself with the best and brightest made it more likely that you too would become the best, the brightest. And now, when I find myself eating pasta in bed, oversized glass of wine in hand while reading celebrity gossip or watching reruns of Veep, I realize this too is a type of person, a side of glass I’ve put myself behind. And I’m ok with it. Because the truth is, I have just as much in common with the best and the brightest as I do the lazy dregs of humanity. The important thing is to find groups where you identify with the members, you share common interests, and you learn and grow from them.
So what happens when you’re told you belong to a group full of mentally volatile, ready-to-bawl-or-maybe-throw-something-at-your-face individuals (the least charming form of spontaneity)? And worse yet, when the person making the recommendation is a medical professional, an expert on your psychological profile?
On my first day in group therapy, I was introduced to my new peers. Rachel came from an insular, oppressive Orthodox community where she was “shielded” from the outside world by a family of neurotic unstable banshees. Naturally, Rachel was my favorite.
Then there was John, who despite still being apprehensive about fully coming out and embracing his sexuality, had already managed to be years-deep into an emotionally abusive relationship with a man who was admittedly cheating on him, but using their adorable dogs as bait to keep John from moving out. Though I was only seeing a cross-section of their life together, a brief moment in their history, I suspected such turmoil was par for the course.
And finally, there was Margaret. Margaret was a mousy, anxious woman who despite her homely appearance, expressed that her biggest fear in her social circles was being looked down upon. She clarified this was not due to her fragility, her shy wallflower-ness, but because she had slept with all of them. The first time I heard her speak was when she asked me unkindly to please slow down my speaking because it was setting off her nerves.
These were my new peers. This was my in-group.
In our private sessions, I asked Beth why, why did she ask me to do this. I couldn’t believe that someone had looked at this collection of disturbed misfits and thought, “hm, Deniz would fit right in.” I felt like I was in some sort of fucked up version of Us Weekly’s Stars — They’re Just Like Us! except the stars were mentally unstable, and this time, they really were just like me.
Beth explained, diplomatically, that conflict was normal in the group, and that in fact, was the point. To bring up and resolve conflicts in a safe place, learning appropriate ways to react to things before trying it out in the big scary world. Except the big scary world was not nearly as scary as my tiny cohort. And every minute I spent there was another minute I was closer to believing I belonged.
This is exactly the reason why people are outspoken against initiatives like No Child Left Behind, where gifted and remedial children are lumped under the same curriculum in hopes that everyone graduates with at least a reasonable understanding of the subject matter, despite its potential for hampering an overachiever’s excellence.
A much more dramatic effect is prison. Sending someone with at least criminal tendencies to a secluded windowless hole full of angry murderers with cabin fever has got to be the worst way to rehabilitate any individual.
So why, then, did my therapist think it was ok to immerse me in a group where by mere association alone, my fledgling grip on my own sanity and self-worth was kicked swiftly off the cliff, hammered into the very coffin I was trying to avoid by seeing her in the first place? We started spending half of our private sessions trying to undo the stress caused by group therapy. At no point did I see the cyclical insanity of it all, and even thought gosh, should I start seeing her more often because talking about therapy was taking up so much of our time?
The day inevitably came when I had to say goodbye to the group. I explained briefly that I’d recently rekindled a long-distance romance and decided what the hey, I’d pack up and move 3000 miles to see it through. Sure, it would be hard to leave such great friends I valued so, so much, but we all need to take chances, right? The room fell silent. Finally, Margaret snipped, “Sounds like you’re nervous to tell us. Are you scared we can’t handle good news?? Are you scared??”
I was scared.
“Well, Margaret… it’s just… you see… [looking up at ceiling]… When a man, and a wom-”
It was hopeless.
That said, I don’t regret group therapy. It serves as a brutal and hilarious reminder of the importance of choosing your in-groups correctly. It made me strive to surround myself with thought-provoking, hilarious individuals, and to keep my carefully curated list of Facebook friends at a meager 567 people I may or may not have actually met.
It also taught me that no crappy circumstance is forever. So the next time you find yourself frustrated at coworkers, or angry with your dating prospects, or horrified at the fact that the only four people you make time to see on a regular basis are less Breakfast Club and more The Shining, just remember that this too shall pass. There will always be another chance to get on the right side of the glass.
