By Peter Schmedding
Although the name and some of the situations have been changed,
the core elements of this story are true.
It may remind us of the sentence:
Truth is stranger than fiction.
He might have been in his mid fifties when he approached me with the request for help.
"Throughout my life I have been asking one and the same question," he said. "Over and over: What is wrong with me? There is a hate inside me that I cannot explain. I am healthy and ok but I feel sad and there is no reason for it."
At that moment I had no idea that the encounter with this man would lead me into one of the most frightening situations in my dealings with mentally disturbed people.
After introducing himself as Frank, he explained how he was dismissed from his firm earlier in the week. It happened without any plausible explanation. He could not find any evidence for their excuse that the demand for their produce had declined. The more he had thought about it the more he became convinced that once again it must have been his personality. Frank always had felt that he could not harmonise with other people. As he had no idea what made others uncomfortable in his presence, he was never able to change his behaviour or at least control it.
"How long have you noticed this trend?" I asked him.
After a long pause out it came like a confession: "I was born that way. There is nothing I can do about it. Nothing."
After talking about some not directly related matters to clear the air, I suggested that I would use a technique that might shine a ray of light on some inner conflicts that in our lives are seldom revealed. Without an attempt to hide his scepticism, he agreed.
I am an NLP practitioner (Neuro-Linguistic Programming). As such I have a toolbox of psychological methodologies and the one I had decided to use in this case is called the 'Transderivational Search'. It leads us through the maze of mostly long forgotten memories that still influence our attitudes and conduct in life.
We began by exploring the present. How he started the day. His feelings about the events in the world, in his town, in his house, in his life. His perception of a sunny day, a rainy day, a cold day, a warm day. I lead to a day dream, imagining him lying on the grass in a meadow, feeling the soft breeze on his body, listening to the sounds around him, smelling the air, watching the clouds in the sky.
"This reminds me..." Excitedly he interrupted the scene: He explained how some weeks ago he was sitting on a bench in a park. A sudden anger had welled up inside him as he once again had searched for a reason that had made him so unhappy.
"There simply is no reason for my stupid attitude. That's the way I am. I have to accept it."
We went back in time, months by months, year by year. A pattern emerged. He did not trust people. Any attempt to reach out to others was thwarted by unseen forces. He mentioned his difficulties establishing eye contact with others. To look openly into a person's eyes was almost painful for him. Was that part of his behaviour that people silently objected to?
Further and further we went into the mysteries of his earlier life. Long forgotten memories emerged. Experiences came to life once more, feelings of joy and disappointments. His last day at school. Then suddenly he saw himself as a nine year old on the pavement outside the school. A policeman shouted something at him. As he had not understood what he had said, Frank looked at the policeman expecting him to repeat the message. Like a ton of bricks it descended upon him: "Why the hell do you stare at me, you stupid kid."
Now Frank appeared to be testing himself by looking straight into my eyes.
"My parents..." Frank hesitated. "I was their only child. My parents, as far as I can remember, they didn't seem to be happy with me. But I had never done anything wrong that I could see."
"How did you feel about your parents?" I asked him.
His expression turned to fright, then to anger. "I hated them. And there was no reason for me to feel that way."
"You felt hatred toward your parents, but without any reason. Did they ever punish you physically?"
"Never."
"Did they ever put you down like many parents do, saying things such as 'you are dumb' or 'you can't do anything right' and similar remarks?"
"They wouldn't do such a thing. But I do remember, and they said it often over the years: 'We do everything for him'. That was always followed by 'why do we have such an ungrateful son?'. There must have been something I did that was wrong. But what? I have no idea."
At this stage we had reached stale mate. We were well beyond the allotted time and decided to continue at the next appointment. Before he left, however, he recalled the resentment he had felt when the others in his school talked happily about experiences with their parents.
For the intervening days I was wondering how anyone who had nice parents could feel such hostility toward them.
When Frank arrived for his second session he was eager to tell me: "You know, thinking back, my parents always tried to be really nice to me and I don't think they ever got the response they hoped for or even deserved. Now they are both gone and I can never make up for it. I feel guilty."
We continued the search back in time. Once more the school years. Second grade. First grade. He had few, if any friends. Other kids, he mentioned, had a sense of freedom, often of childish nonsense in which Frank could never participate.
As we came to Frank's first school day, he began to feel uneasy. The further we went back in time the more restless he became until on the top of his voice he shouted: "At YOUR Age!!!" He had become furious. Like a wild beast with his fists banging on the table he continued to scream: "At YOUR age. At YOUR - Bloody - Bloody - Age".
Before I had a chance to think of self defence should he attack me he stormed out of the office leaving me wondering how to deal with the situation.
Out of breath and with deeply felt apologies he returned a while later. "That bloody woman accusing me with that sentence: 'At Your Age'."
"Tell me more", I demanded.
From that moment on other long forgotten events unfolded. As a five year old he was sitting in Sunday School, dressed in his nicest new clothes. He had to go to the toilet. He sneaked out, apparently without the Sunday School teacher noticing. He tried to get his pants down. He struggled to undo his buttons but the button holes were too tight for his fingers. Although he pulled and pulled, he was unable to get his pants down in time. Without Frank having any chance to stop it, nature took its course.
Back in class the teacher called him to the front. Noticing the smell she grew angry and exclaimed: "Did you poo into your pants?" The pandemonium from the kids in the class was not able to drown out the teacher yelling: "At YOUR age".
He ran home. He was sure that his mum would understand and help him getting cleaned up. Before he had a chance to explain about his failed attempts to get his pants down, however, she shouted accusingly: "At your age".
Dad will understand, he thought. He ran to the study where his dad was painting the walls. "You didn't really ... at YOUR age?"
At that moment Frank had divorced himself from his parents. At that moment he had come to the bitter conclusion that in spite of all the nice talk, whenever he needed help from his parents the most, they would abandon him.
Later in the day his mother noticed the tight button holes and asked him if that was the reason why he had dirtied his pants. He evaded an answer. His mind was made up, irreversibly.
As the memories of these events had been too painful, he had 'forgotten' them. They had become detached from his conscious mind. Only the hostility toward his parents remained. It had become a part of his personality. He expected to be treated unfairly and, like a phobia, that complex grew the older he got.
Staring at the floor, Frank sat motionless in his chair for several minutes. "At your age", he whispered to himself. And once more: "At - your - bloody - age".
That was the last time he spoke. The revelation was too overwhelming for any more words. He finally gave me a long, tight hug and left.
Although all this happened many years ago, I am still wondering how his entire life would have taken a different course if his parents, instead of repeating that fateful sentence, had asked the simple question: "HOW did you get to poo into your pants?"