Becoming Barry

I touched upon therapy in the post I’ve just written. I’m a believer in the concept of treatment if it means we gain an understanding of ourselves and the forces that play upon us. I think most people would benefit from that, even those with ‘good’ mental health. I’ve tried it a few times. I’ve found it interesting each time and rewarding to talk it out, but I don’t think I’ve ever learned anything I didn’t know before. Each time I’ve done it, the therapist has pretty much said wow, you’re awfully self-aware. Some of them have been very impressed, which is nice, but does nothing for me – because each time I offer an interpretation, they nod their head and say, that’s right. I’m looking for the magic thing I don’t know, but it turns out I know everything I should – and maybe more.

I know some streams of psychology seek to adjust how you think and interpret the world and events around you. I’m sure there’s great worth in that for many individuals, and I’m sure I could probably learn something from it myself.

That’s never been my motivation in seeking therapy. Above all, it’s understanding I seek, and so I go to a specialist hoping that they can help me discover it. As I said before, ‘understanding’ is a variegated thing, and so I’ve never expected to walk out of a session and think, right, the meaning of life is 42.

More often, it’s a psychological basis to work with and parameters to think within that I’ve been after. Though there have been times I’ve been down, I don’t recall seeking a quick pick me up. It’s not survival I’m after, but enlightenment.

I’m of the tribe that would rather face reality square on and deal with it with all the tools I can muster. I’ve always refused anti-depressants because I knew I could deal with it and because I wanted to see it as it is and feel it to its depth. That was a choice for me because I could handle it, but I know it’s less easy for others, and I know there are things (I’ve been spared) that can’t be handled without medication.

Of the times I visited a therapist, it’s a session 25 years ago that sticks in my mind most. He was a cognitive psychologist, and I liked and trusted him. I don’t remember why I visited him, but I remember how the day he asked me to bring in photos of my family, including myself when I was younger. He examined the photos and gave his assessment of what he saw. He was surprisingly accurate. When he got to my picture, he said what a lovely smile I had, and an open face.

We spoke then, or after, or before – I can’t remember – of an alter ego for me. He wanted me to imagine myself as another person – the person free of the traits I had imposed upon myself since maturing into a man. When mum was pregnant with me, they would call me Barry in conversation, thinking that’s what they would call me. As it happened, they named me something else, but I chose Barry as my alter ego’s name.

Barry was my innocent, natural self – the kid with a lovely smile and the open face. H, the man who sat in front of him, the man who writes here, was the grizzled, tough-minded character the world had moulded of me. The idea was, I think, to embrace Barry as a true part of myself, and to return to him. There was joy in him and naive delight. He was the authentic, unfiltered self.

In the years since I remember him occasionally. There’ve been many occasions I’ve felt him close. There have probably been times when he’s been to the fore. These days he’s very private. He’s still in me, but it’s rare the world gets to see him.

I was reminded of him this morning when I woke from a long series of dreams in which I featured as Barry. These weren’t imaginative fantasies, but rather they recalled actual times going back about a dozen years. The people in the dreams were real people I knew and worked with, and I was the person I was then – highly respected, very popular, witty and whole-hearted and capable of outrageous, often tongue in cheek, flirtation. Everyone loved me in the dream. I loved myself. I was my best self. And he existed once, if not quite as stylised as in my dreams.

I remembered that when I woke up. I lost him, and the reasons for that are well documented and hardly surprising – but sad, nonetheless. I wonder sometimes if I’m still capable of being that person, or if I’ve sustained too much damage. There are a lot of elements in this, a lot of deficiencies and areas to address – but what I miss most is the light-hearted charmer I used to be. I feel a million miles away from him these days, and if I had a magic wand, then it’s that I would change first.

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