Anybody: Preoccupation, Affiliation, Acceptance

From an early age, I harbored both fascination and perhaps preoccupation with the body. Certainly my own, but really everyone’s. I was curious about sex, obsessed about food and weight, athletics, healing, all of it. I did not think I was smart enough to be a doctor, but I thought about it. In graduate school, I chose a specialization in somatics, even though back then, somatic psychotherapy did not have nearly the foundation of science and neuroscience it has now. I pored over Wilhelm Reich’s Function of the Orgasm because it integrated the essential worlds of psychology, sexuality, and politics in a way that profoundly resonated with me, those being three areas of exploration that consumed me and still do. I am gratified that the body has come to occupy center stage in the field of trauma, and even in a weird way, how the pandemic has forced us all to be mindful of the body and of health. It has also illustrated how profoundly matters of the body affect our mental health and even vice versa and worldwide.

Admittedly, I neglected the vast population of disabled or “differently abled” people. I don’t know if out of fear, denial, or simply oblivion. Another population that is invisible and forgotten, abandoned or cast out. I remember telling my husband early in our relationship, “if ever I can’t move, please shoot me.” I simply could not imagine being able to live if not fully “able-bodied.” (I am ashamed to remember it.) Our office has an elevator and a “disabled” parking space. I figured I was “doing my share.” Oy vey.

I recently heard an interview with a young woman introduced as a blind, queer, African American hip hop artist, Young Ant. She was talking about disability in the music industry, and what it is like to be a blind performer – something I had never thought about. Watching her rap and dance on YouTube was eye-opening. I had never considered how a performer finds their way gracefully onstage, dances, and looks cool moving, not to mention the accessibility issues of most or certainly many venues. Ant is on a mission to awaken the world to this.

I was impressed by the recently released movie, Box of Rain, a movie not about the Grateful Dead, but about the culture of Dead Heads, by the mention that way back in the 1970s, the Dead had a little platform in the audience at their shows for wheelchairs. That was radical in its time: the same era in which then-President Nixon killed what would have been the Americans with Disabilities Act. Many species destroy or abandon their “imperfect” young, and sadly, many human parents and fellow citizens are not much better. I am humbled to find another “blind spot” in my awareness, another big point of neglect and injustice.    

A man featured in Box of Rain, a longtime Dead Head, was Jim LeBrecht, who worked as the sound engineer for the Dead for many years. He is also a longtime friend of my best friend. Of course, I was excited to tell her about seeing Jim in this new movie. She asked me if I had ever seen another movie he had produced, Crip Camp, about a summer camp in the Catskill mountains of New York, specifically for disabled kids. I was intrigued.

Rarely have I seen a more moving and graphic depiction of the power of affiliation, what it is like to be in a group of others with a similar experience to one’s own. In the world of trauma and neglect, we are well aware of the power of the group: what it is like to be in the company of others with some sort of similar experience who understand without any words. Some of us have had the good fortune to have been in such a group and found it indescribable. I am not much of a movie person, as I always say, “I am way too stingy with my reading time,” but this one is a must-see (and it is available on Netflix).

The film also makes a powerful point of how (yes, we ever return to it) the original attachment with primary caregivers so profoundly affects the sense of self. The film opens with Jim narrating, 

“When I was born,” he says, “they did not expect me to live more than a couple of hours.” In the visual footage, a grainy old black and white home movie, we see little Jimmy as a toddler, blissfully happy, laughing and ambling, climbing and tumbling on his plump little arms. Although we do not see his parents, it appears that he feels secure and safe enough to explore widely, move and grow, even to become the teenager who has the gumption and grit to imagine and aspire, hope, and actually become the sound engineer for his favorite band. And those parents obviously got him to Camp Jened, lovingly referred to as “Crip Camp.”

At camp, everyone had one or another disability, and for the first time ever, felt free and accepted. They did what all kids do at summer camp: sports, art, music, experiencing nature and the outdoors, and communal living. With a culture of non-judgment and helpfulness, they pushed each other’s wheelchairs, carried those that needed it, and understood each other’s sometimes strained or challenged speech.   

In the larger world, apparently, there is a definite hierarchy or pecking order of disabilities, with the “Polios” at the top rung and the “CP’s” (those with cerebral palsy) at the bottom. Not here. It was moving to see how carefully and thoughtfully the “CP’s” difficult verbalizations were both listened to and comprehended, sometimes “translated” or summarized by a comrade. And my memory was jogged.

I remembered a time, the one time in my long and sweaty waitressing career, that I waited on a really famous person. I worked in a fancy place not far from UC Berkeley and had the honor of serving a large dinner party celebrating the luminary physicist, Stephen Hawking. I watched the tiny man in his wheelchair, fitted out with many super-high-tech devices to help him communicate with the throng of scientists and other intellectuals fawning over him, myself included. What a rarity in today’s “ability-supremacist” world.

My favorite part of Crip Camp was when a “CP” named Judy laughingly told the story, in her somewhat garbled speech, “I was getting older, and I did not want to die a virgin! With a twinkle she declared, “So I had an affair with the bus driver! A week or so later, I had a terrible abdominal pain. I went to the doctor and turned up a diagnosis of gonorrhea. The doctor was flabbergasted, incredulous! He could not imagine that anyone would want to f— me! As soon as I got well, I went back to school and got a master’s degree to become a sexuality educator.” Judy became an activist and vocally championed the cause of disabled sexuality. She also married happily, although she laughingly added, “my in-laws accepted me, but they said to their son, ‘couldn’t you have at least married a ‘Polio?’”

anybody

Admittedly, I neglected the vast population of disabled or “differently abled” people. I don’t know if out of fear, denial, or simply oblivion. Another population that is invisible and forgotten, abandoned or cast out. 

Acceptance

Our dad, when he had throat cancer, required a complicated surgery where they had to break his jaw and build a new one, out of steel. Always vain and proud of his strapping good looks, he was now disfigured. He was 50. Amazingly it did not seem to phase him (the insulation of narcissism?). Years later, I even asked him about that. He said it never bothered him. By then, he was fond of saying, much like Keith Richard, “I’m happy to be here! I’m happy to be anywhere!”

I once had a client who finally accepted his history and the idea of being a survivor of childhood neglect. He said, “I want a disabled placard for my car that says “Child of Neglect!” It is a blessing and a daily challenge to accept who we are.

Have a look at Young Ant rapping and dancing with her white cane. And thanks Jim!

Today’s Song:

My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.

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