On Service: Altruism, Neglect,  Love

I happened to catch an interview the other day with US Surgeon General Vivek Murthy. I had heard him before but I was in the car, and there was nothing else on right then. He wrote a book not long ago about the “epidemic of loneliness” in this country, and when I heard him that first time, I proceeded to order the book (Together: The Healing Power of Human Connection in a Sometimes Lonely World, 2020 Harper.) curious to know more about what he might have to say. Admittedly I did not get very far into it, finding it annoying and obvious in a superficial self-help kind of way. I tossed it aside in favor of the groaning pile of what I really do want to get to. However, this time, I did hear him say something that I thought was of value, not that it was profoundly new or different, but that it was validating of my own experience and belief. He suggested that a valuable antidote to loneliness, and a perhaps “endangered species” in the way of general practice/behavior, is the category of “acts of service.” I began to ponder that: the idea that emerging from one’s own self focus and be not only a relief but a gift or blessing that reverberates outward, that benefits all. I remember learning long ago that being pack animals, we are hard wired for interdependence, so acts of altruism and generosity are “rewarded by a dopamine surge, a shot of endogenous feel-good chemicals. As my husband and I enjoy saying to each other, “what a great arrangement!” A win-win. Acts of service are nature’s design.

As we know the nature of trauma is to fixate on the trauma. I also remember a book I read in graduate school, I only remember one thing about it besides the title, (The Body in Pain,) and that is it said, that pain categorically becomes a pre-occupation: when in pain we can’t think about anything else.  No wonder the seemingly endless litany or “organ recital” as one of my clients used to call it. It is clearly hard to listen to when it is someone else. I remember my father, ever the stoic and martyr used to say, “no one wants to hear about your bad day!” Clearly, he did not want to hear about ours…

But I do remember that acts of service were a respite for me, and a source of comfort or relief in some ways. I think I was constantly trying to earn the right to existence, somehow compensate for occupying a patch of ground to stand on, on this earth, or balance out the blight or bother that I was. I also recall that in many ways, trying to do things that would help our mom, might “manage” her in some way. Either neutralize her irritability about disorder or burden that she might feel, which may change her feelings or behavior toward me. It was a hope anyway. I remember feeling that the only way she registered my leaving home to go to off college, was that she hired a housecleaner.

Neglect

I also remember our dad, setting the good example for acts of service, spending many a Saturday afternoon visiting congregants in the hospital, as it is a “mitzva,” a good deed to “visit the sick.” We often felt as if we mattered less to him that they did, a not unusual way to feel for kids of clergy, activists and the like.  In effect acts of service beyond a certain point, can constitute another whole category of neglect. I know the kids of many esteemed heroes and martyrs have felt slighted or sacrificed in this way. Nonetheless I do agree with Dr. Murthy, that doing for others is a good way at least sometimes, to climb out of a trauma state, and to feel better.

Getting back to the “yes!” pile: books that I look forward to and do want to read, I turned to To Be Loved: A Story of Truth, Trauma, and Transformation by Frank Anderson (2024, Bridge City.) I especially love reading books by people I “know.” I can’t say I really know Frank, I met him briefly in Boston, and I was introduced to him by a friend with a wacky sense of humor, so I can’t say I have really had a serious conversation with him. But like most of us in the trauma world, I have heard his name and seen his offerings for a long time, and have always been drawn to know more about his work. I was pleased to see his book was also a memoir, so it incorporated not only information but his own personal story, which I always love.

Love

In a not unusual way, although perhaps less so than in the past, I viewed Frank through a particular lens: a good-looking white guy with an anglo sounding name, an MD, and Harvard Medical School among the fancy letters after his name. I figured he was “not in my league,” and there would be some sort of silver spoon in his story. The book was a good reminder that perhaps we are all in the same “league,” that trauma is a great leveler, and also has the potential to be the seed of the most profound of transformation. Besides being a humble reminder of my still around tendency to compare my insides with other people’s outsides, it was a great opportunity for me to examine my quick assumptions, probably absorbed from my dad, of always feeling not quite good enough, or not as good as… The truth is that Frank had plenty of his own obstacles, apart from a fierce history of abuse and neglect, the additional trauma of being a sexual minority, and the attachment trauma that all too often goes with that in families, plenty of his own immigrant story as Anderson is his married name and the name he grew up with was the unquestionably Italian Guastella, and that his educational laurels were hard earned from slave-like, devoted effort and relentless study and determination.

This is also a story of the power of therapy for healing and moving from despair into joy and satisfaction. In the vein of “acts of service,” Frank’s experience was much like my own in that discovering that “this stuff works, I am getting better…” made me feel as if maybe I could do this work too. It enabled me to find meaning in what had been a great vacuum. And Frank reminds us, that even the most gifted of healers return to therapy perhaps again and again in the course of a lifespan. 

Perhaps the most moving part of the book for me, is the significant portion where he details his journey into and in parenthood. Because I lacked the courage to be a parent, so hell bent on not visiting the experience of my own childhood on some unwitting innocent children, I left that endeavor alone, contributing to breaking the chain of intergenerational transmission at least in part in that way. For Frank as a gay man and father, the challenges and the courage involved is multiplied. Our culture is pronouncedly prejudiced in favor of hetero-sexual  parents, and significantly biased in the direction of mothers. One of my ongoing social justice concerns has to do with reproductive equality, and the formidable obstacles and expense for same sex couples to become parents, especially men.

Frank takes us through his journey, detailing the emotional, time and financial challenges involved, and the amount of love and grit required to acquire a child or children, let alone raise them. In describing his experience, he makes palpable how much love is involved at every step, especially as he painstakingly monitors his own behavior so as not to replicate his own abusive father, catching it, owning it, repairing it and working on it (including returning to therapy when he sees he needs it-) promptly when he slips. It is a heartwarming account, and reflects such profound love.

Perhaps as the book’s title suggests, what is most salient of all, is the reminder that what is most damaged by trauma is the world of relationship and attachment. Like myself he has the good fortune to find and cultivate deep and rewarding love with a partner in life, and also to bestow and transmit it to a blessed generation. It is a good read! (And it even has a play list of songs!) We are indeed all in the same league. Thank you, Frank.

Before closing I wanted to mention that Monday is Memorial Day in the US, where we remember and honor the veterans, and generations and misbegotten history of war and its many its many repercussions. I remember the grainy old black and white films of hobbling men returning from war with the label of shell shock and battle fatigue and back before we had the nomenclature let alone treatment for PTSD. Many of the veterans I worked with in the VA hospital back in the 90’s still wander around talking to their buddies, invisible to us, in Haight Ashbury near our home, and sleep in Golden Gate Park. Thank you for your service… 

Today’s song:

(Apparently a fave of Frank’s)

True Repair: Yom Kippur, Why Apology Matters, What Heals?

Next week’s Jewish High Holiday Yom Kippur brings many thoughts. My childhood memories of that day are spotty and mostly painful. Our dad being the cantor was more nervous and irritable than ever, as that was the day when he had the fullest house of the year, meaning the “once-a-year-crowd”

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