psycho III

SALAMI AND PASTRAMI

PSYCHOANALYSIS III

MEMORIES AND MACHINATIONS

By Izzy Ess of “You Can’t Take It With You,” Mess

Salami and pastrami were the treats

We ate on Sunday mornings when there was

Enough to pay for them.  On Sundays with

More money, would allow us Nova Scotia

Lox, egg bagels, cream cheese and some halvah.

Friday nights were chicken soup, the best

I’ve ever had.  On Thursday afternoons,

I walked the seven blocks to Hamilton’s

Lone Jewish Orthodox real Shoichet and

I handed him a live, old chicken, purchased

From my uncle Willie, or my uncle

Solly, or my uncle Benny, Thursday

Mornings.  Uncle Willie was the youngest

And the friendliest, most handsome brother

Of my mother.  In my teenage years

He’d be the one to teach me how to drive

His half-ton Chevy pick-up, how to joke,

Bowl five pins, joke and flirt with girls and women,

And just laugh a lot at life and other

Crazy uncles.

[Now, at five and seventy, it’s me who is the crazy uncle, certifiably.  I’m also certified as harmless and quite charming, during psychoanalytic sessions, ordered by my Certifying College, before my forced retirement due to change of management in my own group of practicing physicians.  Ironically, I've been retired from all my family by kin who find me “dangerous” to their grand fixed ideas about decorum, income, chosen kith, my “smell,” my lack of family behaviour about neatness, cleanliness and “wanton” waste of money, time and sparse resources, and my unpredictable behaviour, quite a lot like Biblical high count of lashes and the ostracization, when the hundred sixty-three grand Rules and Regulations of the Pentateuch, are slightly bent or broken.  Uncle Willie was the last to die of all my uncles and my aunts.  All died of lung cancer, presumably depressed and disappointed.  My auntie Rosie, daughter of a rabbi, would not allow me to make visits to him.  She said that I, of all my kin, should understand that he was quite depressed with his lung cancer and was not about to have me visit.  I tried explaining how he was my father figure, mentor and my idol for thinking and behaviour, but to no avail.]

When I had started dating, uncle Willie

Gave me, always, “valuable” advice.

In fact, he helped me patch up things with Lorna,

Who became my wife, when I was 22,

In 1960.  It was happy

For me, while my wife had many other

Notions about money and success

That she pursued, relentlessly.  She honestly

Did state that she could not cohabitate

With me, although dull moments were so rare.

She also said that, finally, my gold

Accumulation was quite rich enough

For her to sue me for divorce.  Attempts

At reconciliation, on my part,

Were unsuccessful, even later, in

The many years since separation and

Divorce.  And, even recently, a letter

Asking her for some degree of closure

And for some forgiveness was rebuffed,

Completely, sans a smidgeon of response,

Except for stony silence.  My own

Psychoanalyst had said that just a little

Patience and some love, from both our parties,

Could and should and would have made the marriage

Work, perhaps, forever.  Her psychiatrist

And mine said both of us were just

Too stubborn to concede the facts of both

Our issues.  From the start, my second marriage

Was disastrous.  Both of us disabled

With a bunch of psychiatric issues,

Both of us discovered many conflicts

And we made them worse, before some love

And understanding could abide.  I suffered

Panic, once again, and had to be

Protected from myself.  A deep depression

Overwhelmed me.  The prevailing feeling

Was that I, again, had failed and could

Not ever live my dreams of family

And peace and harmony.  By this time, I

Had children, ages 26 and 22

From my first union and a love

Child, 12 with a good friend who suffered mood

Swings.  All were very smart and savvy with

Regard to family affairs, all getting

Ready to distrust my “different” personality,

Quite moody and unstable,

Unreliable and unpredictable.

All difficulties were not helped

By both their mothers who had their own moods

But were quite “perfect” in their attitudes.

Since then, I have gained insight with some expert

Psychotherapy, including all

The variations, cognitive, behavioural

Examinations and attempts

To modify distortions.  At my present

Age, I do feel better than I’ve ever

Felt and, thankfully, drug free.  I tend

To spend a lot of money when I’m feeling

Good.  Perhaps, I am a little hypomanic,

At this time.  As usual,

For me, I feel the twinges of the “summer

Blahs”.  The difference between then and now

Is that I am aware of all my foibles

And I tend to like them, now.  I’m writing

Quite a lot and painting, too.  To most,

“Artistic” output is a waste of time

Because it isn’t profitable and

It doesn’t make me rich like them.  And, so

Far, there are not too many people clamouring

To buy my stuff.  I know it makes me feel

Good doing it.  Though oils, acrylics and

The canvases are dear, the water colours,

Crayons and the colour markers, pencils

And some simple chalk, are not.

So be it.

THE END

© izzy sommers, md

Retired, Bankrupt, Impecunious

Happy and at Peace, at last…

Welland, Canada

July 25, 2013