“Fuck America!” Tom screams as I enter his room that day. “Fuck
God!” I think to myself: He is letting all that anger out. And witnessing
his fury calls out the huge rage in me, the need to express it, release it.
Fuck Hitler! Fuck Mengele! It would be such a relief. But I am the
doctor here. I have to assume a role, present myself as in control and
having solutions, even though inside I want to punch a wall, kick
down a door, scream and cry and fall apart on the Ęoor. I look at my
badge, Dr. Eger, Department of Psychiatry, and for a moment it seems
to read, Dr. Eger, Impostor. Who is the real me? Do I know who I am?
I’m so scared of the feeling, of the mask falling apart, of seeing how
broken I am, of all the rage that pushes at me: Why me? How could
this happen? My life has been changed irrevocably, and I’m furious.
It was thrilling to watch Tom because he was so overt about
expressing what I’d been hiding. I’d been too afraid of others’
disapproval or anger, afraid of anger itself as a destructive force. I
hadn’t let myself feel the feelings, afraid that if I started to let them
out, I might never stop, I’d become a monster. In a way, Tom was
freer than I was, because he was giving himself permission to feel the
rage, to say the words, the ones that I could barely allow myself to
think, much less speak. I wanted to get down on the Ęoor and rage
with him.
* * *In therapy I timidly say I want to try it, I want to express that rage, but
with a professional there to help pull me out if I get stuck in it. I get on
the Ęoor. I try to yell, but I can’t, I’m too scared, I curl into a smaller
and smaller ball. I need to feel a limit around me, a boundary, I need
to feel something to push against. I tell my therapist to sit on me. He is
heavy, his weight almost suffocates me. I think I’m going to pass out. I
am about to tap the Ęoor, to beg him to let me up, to give up this silly
experiment. But then a scream comes out of me, so long and full and