Dr. Good and Mr. Lucky : Booth's Legacy
They turned left at the bottom of the drive onto the longer stretch of their local road. There were no sidewalks, but as the area was not thickly settled and traffic correspondingly light, it was less of an annoyance than it might have been. They walked on the side of on-coming vehicles, staying close to the rough shoulder rather than on it. From behind one of the neighboring houses came the steady growl of a lawn mower, and high in the trees, the sentinel crows raucously spread the news of their passage.
"So…" she said, when they had fallen into an easy rhythm, "Same ground rules as before? No interrupting unless strictly necessary?"
"Nah. I think we can do this more conversation-style."
She gave his arm a grateful squeeze. "I was hoping you'd say that. I've been investigating some of the terms and ideas you mentioned last time, with a particular emphasis on the 'wounded inner child' syndrome."
"Why am I not surprised," he said.
"Because," she answered inevitably, "you know that I am in the habit of thoroughly researching topics that show promise of yielding practical information or increasing my stock of general knowledge."
"Right…" Another tip-off might have been the books bristling with multi-colored post-it notes, the new subscription to Psychology Today, and the print-out of articles downloaded from the internet scattered around the house. He wouldn't be astonished to discover she now had a better grasp of the subject than he did. "So, I'm curious: now that you've done so much reading, what's your take? Does the approach hold up, or is just so much new-age bunko?"
"Well, it's not science, for certain, but I find using traditional story structures and established archetypes as loose equivalents of psychological processes that have no objective reality fascinating and potentially quite valuable. Myths, creation stories, fairy tales, all have a long history of bringing a semblance of order to chaos. They don't produce truth, as science defines it, but, if comprehensive enough, they can spark insight and understanding."
"So, you're not put off by talk about a self that splits into pieces and has to be made whole again?"
She shrugged. "I'd prefer a less metaphorical formulation, but, given the object of study, I accept imprecision as a functional necessity."
They were approaching an intersection, and as there were cars stopped on both sides of the crossroad and the pedestrian light was flashing red, she slowed her steps. "Left, here," he told her, steering her off in that direction. While not one of the town's thoroughfares, the road saw considerable traffic and was in consequence lined on both sides with ribbons of asphalt.
"Are you going to tell me where we're headed?"
He didn't mistake the note of irritation in her voice. She probably hadn't appreciated being manhandled, even if gently. "You'll figure it out."
She drew back for a better look at him, and eyed him narrowly. "Are you planning on telling me anything at all today, or are you going to be 'Booth, Man of Mystery' out and back?"
He grimaced in apology. "I guess I'm just not sure how to go about this, where to start… How about you ask me a question, you know, to get the ball rolling…"
Her expression brightened immediately, her eyes wide and darting as she considered the array of possibilities. She settled on, "Has 'splitting' been part of your experience, and, if so, how many sub-selves have you identified?"
He couldn't help it: he burst out laughing. "I don't have 'multiple personality disorder,' if that's what you're thinking. I just have the standard legacy from childhood abuse: an unresolved inner conflict. So, to answer your question: two sub-selves. Disappointed?"
"Don't be absurd! A dichotomous personality is enough in itself to deal with. I've noticed in the literature that, in the interests of simplifying discussion, each half-self is given a designation that reflects the personality traits associated with it."
"Right. In my case, Dr. Cameron and I came up with 'Tim' — short for 'victim' — and 'Victor.' Polar opposites, but two sides of the same coin."
"You're mixing your metaphors, but I know what you mean. I understand the 'Tim' part well enough: your father beat and humiliated you, and, as a child, you had no defense against him. He was bigger, stronger. He provided the food and shelter you needed to survive. You only had one option: to submit, both physically and emotionally. But the 'Victor' part…" She shook her head, at a loss.
"It's not obvious, I know. Dr. Cameron explained it this way: a child's reaction to abuse isn't just one thing. It's not just shame and grief; it's also rage and rebellion. The child is torn between the two: on the one hand, the abuser is an adult, and consequently, endowed with complete authority, while on the other, the child has the very strong sense that he is being wronged. In the end, circumstances take the decision out of his hands, leaving the question unresolved."
"And setting up an oscillation between the two positions." She nodded her head, thoughtful. "Yes, I see. A painful and unsettling situation."
"A situation young children aren't equipped to handle. Children need certainty. Something is either black or white, true or false, right or wrong. You heard Christine back at the house: gambling is bad. Period. No exceptions. So, from the time the abuse began until I went to live with Pops, my 'Victor' self was almost completely repressed. I was in 'Tim' mode: sad, afraid, accommodating, full of self-doubt, anxious. Whatever rage I did feel, I directed at myself. I wasn't exaggerating that day in Sweets office when I admitted to considering suicide. At my lowest point, I despised myself through and through, and had no hope my life would ever improve. But then, thank God, Pops swooped in to the rescue, and things began to look up."
She had been gazing down at her feet as they walked, her head tilted toward him so as not to miss a word. When he paused for breath, she glanced up and caught sight of a canary yellow diamond-shaped warning sign not too far ahead. "So…" she said, slanting him a laughing look, "that's where we're going!"
"Took you long enough. Hey, whoa there!" he protested, pretending to be staggered by her elbow-jab to the ribs. "No roughhousing on the sidewalk! You want to cause an accident?"
She fought back a smile at his antics, and, when he reached out a hand for hers, let him take it. They set off again, their clasped hands swinging freely between them as if they were, for all the world, no more than a couple of kids.