Tag: mental-health

What am I?

October 19th, 2025

“Identity dispersion refers to the extent to which an individual’s self-concept is fragmented, inconsistent, or lacks coherence across different roles and contexts. In psychological and sociological terms, it describes a state where the meanings a person attaches to “who I am” vary widely depending on the situation — for example, feeling like one person at work, another at home, and someone entirely different among friends. While it’s natural for people to adapt aspects of themselves to fit different environments, identity dispersion becomes problematic when these variations feel disconnected or contradictory, leaving the person without a stable, integrated sense of self.”

The paragraph above describes the psychological concept of “identity dispersion”. My therapist has spoken to me about this topic. He in fact sent me this definition of the term. I tend to feel that the condition applies to me to some degree. Since I talked with the clinician about the subject, I have been thinking quite a bit about “who I am” and “who I was”. Identity is a difficult thing to understand. It’s like grasping at smoke.

I will start with Zen Buddhism. I started Zen meditation back in 2005, and although I almost never meditate with the sangha anymore, the teachings I received while I was actively engaged with Zen still resonate with me. One thing that I remember distinctly is the mantra that was suggested for sitting mediation. As a newbie, I learned that I could focus during meditation by softly asking, “What am I?” on my inbreath, and then saying, “Don’t know” on my outbreath. The mantra is deceptively simple. First, it asks a question for which there is no clear answer. Secondly, the response to the question is not “I don’t know”. It’s just “Don’t know”, because there is really no I that doesn’t know.

Zen assumes that there is no real identity. Who or what I am is just a constantly churning mix of the five skandhas, different aspects of a personality that fluctuate and morph constantly. I am not the person I was twenty years ago. I’m not even the person I was twenty seconds ago. My identity is a moving target, something I can’t maintain.

After thinking about it, I see that often my identity has been a function of my relationship with other people. There is a song by Paul Simon called “My Little Town.” It’s about a boy growing up in a dying industrial community. One verse goes like this:

“I never meant nothin’, I was just my father’s son
Savin’ my money
Dreamin’ of glory
Twitchin’ like a finger on the trigger of a gun”

That was my youth. That was me. I was just an extension of my dad’s life. My job was to work hard, be successful, and make him look good. Especially after I was accepted to West Point (United States Military Academy), I was somebody he could brag about at work or at the tavern. I can recall him often telling me, “Make me proud! You got my name, you know!” He was a “Frank”, so that’s what I became. I was always “Frank’s oldest boy”. Nothing more, nothing less.

Now, many years later, I am generally known as “Asher’s grandpa”. At the playground or at the Waldorf school, people often don’t know my name. However, they know I am Asher’s grandfather and caregiver. I’m okay with that. At this point in time, Asher needs me. He’s not quite five years old, and I provide him with love and stability. My life revolves around this little boy, so my identity is deeply connected with his.

I was a soldier. During that period of my life, my identity was often determined by my rank and my profession. I was “Captain Pauc”, an officer and a helicopter pilot. That was a time when I really did feel disconnection and contradiction in terms of what I was. A military officer by definition is an expert in the management of violence. I was never comfortable with that role. I couldn’t make that jive with my moral values. Alcohol abuse made the contradictions blur somewhat, but I that particular identity was a bad fit and I eventually was encouraged to find a different career path. I’m glad that I did.

Over the years, I have been many things: soldier, peace activist, father of a combat vet, husband, pilot, dock supervisor, advocate for migrants, representative in a parish council, non-Jewish member of a synagogue, Zen practitioner, marginally competent bass player, etc. The list goes on and on and on. I am different things to different people. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. I can relate to a diverse population.

The input about my identity that I get from others with whom I interact is often confusing. I have had some people tell me that I am a good person. I have also had others enthusiastically declare that I should burn in hell. So, who’s right? Who’s wrong? Are maybe both parties right to some degree?

So, what am I?

Don’t know.

Anger

July 26th, 2025

“And there’s always a place for the angry young man,
With his fist in the air and his head in the sand.
And he’s never been able to learn from mistakes,
So he can’t understand why his heart always breaks.
But his honor is pure and his courage as well,
And he’s fair and he’s true and he’s boring as hell
And he’ll go to the grave as an angry old man.”

from the song “Angry Young Man” by Billy Joel

I lost my temper yesterday morning. My wife gave our little grandson, Asher, French toast for breakfast. He tends to be a fussy eater, but he’ll eat French toast, if it is made a certain way. Yesterday, there was a problem with it. Eventually, I had a problem with it too.

Asher likes his toast with honey, syrup, and vegan butter. These three toppings need to be added to the French toast in a certain order. Yesterday, Asher put a spoonful of organic honey on his French toast. Then I poured a bit of organic syrup over the honey. Then Asher suddenly realized that he had forgotten to apply a dollop of something that looked like butter on the bread. There was a crisis.

Asher cried out, “I didn’t put the butter on! I forgot! Now, I’ll have honey all over my knife!”

My wife tried to console him. She suggested that he flip the bread over and try the sequence again. He did that, but that just meant there was honey and syrup on both sides of the toast. Karin got him another, pristine slice of French toast. There was something wrong with that one too. Asher was upset and yelling.

There was a back-and-forth conversation between Asher and his Oma that continued without any resolution. Asher refused to eat, but my wife kept looking for ways to appease him. Finally, I couldn’t listen to it anymore. I slapped my hand on the table and stormed out of the kitchen.

Anger has definite physiological effects. When I got mad, I could feel my face flush and my heart race. The stress hormones were doing their thing. What I noticed the most was the aftermath. Once the emotional storm had passed (it probably only lasted two minutes), I felt exhausted. I was a bit lightheaded, and my joints hurt. I was shaky.

For many years, I was a rage-oholic. I was angry almost all the time. When I was younger, the anger used to energize me. It got me moving. It often got me moving in the wrong direction, but I was active. Now, that I’m 67 years old, anger wears me out. It’s too much work to stay pissed off. I still lose my temper. I guess that I always will, but I can’t maintain that intense rage. My body won’t tolerate it. I have mild hypertension, and I don’t need to have a heart attack. Asher and my wife don’t need that either.

Many years ago (it seems like everything in my life was many years ago), I participated as a facilitator in a program to help families with troubled teenagers. In one session of the program, we talked about feelings. The program tried to distill a plethora of emptions down to just four: mad, glad, sad, and scared. The idea was to get people to recognize their feelings and maybe handle them in constructive ways. “Mad” was the big one for me.

I am a product of my generation. When I was growing up, males were not supposed to be sad or scared. My father belittled me if I ever cried. Showing fear was frowned upon. If I couldn’t be sad or scared, then almost every emotion got funneled into being angry. That’s what my dad did. That’s what I learned to do. Being angry has not done me much good. It hasn’t done much good for anybody around me. It’s been highly destructive.

I have been told that there is such a thing as “righteous anger”. The notion is that there are times when a person can be enraged about injustice and oppression, and that sort of anger is a positive thing. I suppose that it is, but I have never experienced it in a pure form. My anger has always been tainted with ego and selfishness. If righteous anger exists, it is exceedingly rare.

I’m not so angry anymore. Why? I’m not sure. Years of Zen meditation has helped. Learning how to cry and feel sadness has helped. Understanding and accepting at least some of the world’s suffering has helped. Growing old has helped. I was an angry young man. I’m too tired to be angry old man.

Counseling

July 9th, 2025

I’m taking Asher to see his therapist tomorrow morning. He spends an hour with her once a week. It might seem odd that a four-year-old is getting help from a clinician, but that’s what Asher is doing. Going to the therapist was his mother’s idea, and it’s a good one. In Asher’s short time on earth, he has already had more than his fair share of chaos and trauma. Having another concerned adult in his life to listen to him and guide him is a positive thing.

A side effect of Asher’s therapy is that I have also started talking to someone from the same clinic. I had not planned on doing that, but therapy was offered to me by the doctor in charge of the clinic, and it seemed to be a good move. My life has been at least as chaotic as Asher’s, and it helps me and those around me if I have somebody to meet each week to sort out my thoughts and feelings. So, almost every Tuesday afternoon, I spend an hour with a man who tries to help me to make sense of my life. It’s a process and a journey, and I have no idea what the end result will be. Maybe the end result doesn’t even matter.

This isn’t my first time with a therapist. My wife and I went to couples therapy back in the 1990’s. That was intense at times, but apparently it helped. We are married now for forty years, so the therapy must have done some good. I was impressed with our therapist, and I asked her if she would be willing to work with my dad and me on issues that we had. She agreed to give it a try.

I remember calling my dad on the phone and asking him if he would come to see therapist with me. He exploded,

“No way! Absolutely not! I don’t have any problems! You’re the one with the problems!”

I didn’t ask him again.

In my father’s generation, men rarely went to see a therapist. It was socially unacceptable. If a guy went for treatment, that implied that something was wrong, and men like my dad never admitted that anything was wrong with them. They were okay. It was everybody else that was batshit crazy.

So, did men in my dad’s time talk to anybody when things were bad? They might talk with a really close friend, or maybe a bartender who took the time to listen. I think in my dad’s case, he might have talked to his parish priest when in uttermost need. That’s what priests were for, and that’s what they are still for.

The Church was different then. Parish communities were relatively small and there was an abundance of priests to serve the faithful. That meant that a priest could really know the members of his flock. He would probably know each of them and how they struggled in life. The priest, by virtue of his role, carried some authority and his counsel could be of real value. A good priest, like a good therapist, knew how to listen. He knew when to encourage and when to admonish. He would help people to grieve and to heal. He might not have a solution to every problem, but then there are some problems which do not have an answer. Some things are simply carried like the crosses they are.

A priest often occupied the position that is now usually held by a therapist. But those days are done. We go to a church which is part of a cluster of four parishes, and there are two priests to run the entire operation. These two priests are very busy men, too busy. They are more like corporate managers than the shepherds of souls. Neither of these two men know me or my family. They can’t. There is no time for them to get to know who we are and what we endure. The priests seem to be good, dedicated men. However, they are often unable to give an individual the deeply personal kind of attention that their predecessors provided years ago.

I have not often gone to a priest for guidance, even though I am a Catholic. The priests just seem too preoccupied to establish a relationship with me or anyone else. Oddly enough, I have most often received the best help from rabbis. I’m not sure why that is, but they connected well with me, and they were excellent listeners. Zen masters are good too.

I am not sure that a person necessarily requires a professional therapist to solve life’s riddles. I have found wisdom in strange places. There was a Vietnam vet in the psych ward of the local VA hospital who gave me sage advice. I have had found encouragement in the company of former prison inmates. Homeless people have taught me things.

Asher is an excellent therapist.

How not to Comfort Someone

July 4th, 2025

There are times when I or somebody I know struggles mightily with a problem. The person who is hurting might be sad or angry or a combination of the two emotions. How do I comfort them? How does somebody console me when I am in a bad place? That depends on a lot of things.

For me to encourage another individual requires that I know the person, at least somewhat. The better I understand them, the better I can act in a way that is helpful. Over the years, I have learned that there are some things that are often counterproductive. I have also discovered that I can sometimes make a huge difference.

I try not to give advice. My experience has been that most people do not want it, even though it might be useful in their situation. I have almost never wanted advice when I was in a bad way. I just wanted to be heard. I am convinced that is what most people want and need when they are wounded. They want another person to listen to them, really listen. If I truly listen to the story of somebody’s pain, then I can decide how to respond. Listening is the first and essential step.

I try not to fix things, even when the temptation is strong. I am by nature a problem solver, at least when I am not actively creating more problems. However, fixing a problem for someone else is not necessarily helping them. It is better if I can give the person the resources to solve a problem on their own. I have learned the hard way that some things cannot be fixed. Death is one of those things. Sometimes, the only response is to grieve withe person for what is lost.

I try not to give glib or inauthentic responses to somebody else’s pain. Nothing pisses me off as much as when somebody tells me, “You are always in our prayers.” Depending on the person saying that, those words might be true and heartfelt. However, I am convinced that once in a while those words translate to, “I’m saying this to get you to shut up. I’m tired of listening to your bitching.”

It also bothers me that, when I am exhausted and at wits end, someone tells me, “Stay strong!” No shit. What do you think I have been trying to do? It’s not like I have an untapped reservoir of strength available. The individual exhorting me to be strong no doubt wants to be encouraging, but sometimes that just infuriates me instead.

Sometimes, a person tells me about their suffering, and I simply cannot comprehend the depth of their pain. Their experience is beyond my understanding. At that point, I might tell them, “I don’t know what to say.” That’s okay. It’s honest. If I don’t have the necessary words, then I remain silent.

Words are often too clumsy. I am good with words, but I also understand their limitations.

When words can provide no comfort, then it might be time for a hug.

Like a Small Death

November 29th, 2023

Incarceration is like a small death. That may sound like an exaggeration, and maybe it is. However, when a person goes to prison for long period of time, it really feels like they have died. They are cut off from everybody and everything they love, and likewise the people that care about the prisoner are physically separated from that individual. The separation is not usually total and final, like with a biological death, but it is still harsh and very real.

Incarceration closely resembles a sudden death. The arrest and subsequent imprisonment are often unexpected occurrences. In retrospect a person may be able to look at the prior chain of events and recognize that there were warning signs before the police to control of the situation, but at the moment of arrest, it all seems shocking, just like when a person gets run over by a bus. What happened? How could this happen? It feels unreal, just like death would feel.

Incarceration also resembles a sudden death in that there are people left behind who need to pick up the pieces of the prisoner’s life. The person who goes to prison often leaves a mess for somebody else to clean up. In a person’s day to day life, there is always unfinished business: bills to pay, appointments to keep, relationships to maintain. When a person gets busted and winds up in jail, everything in their life stops. It is worthwhile to understand that an incarcerated person is stripped of all the trappings of their normal life. The person has no access to money, or the Internet, or a phone, or even paper, envelopes, and stamps to write an old school snail mail letter. The incarcerated person is helpless, and that is by design. The individual is completely dependent on people on the outside to get anything done. Friends and family have to take over everything, just as if the person in prison or jail had just died. Woe to the person who has nobody on the outside. They are truly lost.

I know a person who has been recently arrested and will likely go to prison for years. I have been trying to sort out their affairs, and I have run into road blocks every step of the way. I don’t have a power of attorney, so I do not have the authority to, for instance, sell their car for them. I spend an inordinate amount of time explaining the situation to folks who have never dealt with this sort of thing before. When I do explain what has happened, they often display shock and dismay, and offer their sympathy and condolences, just like I was talking about the dear departed.

An incarcerated person is missed by others, usually. The person was part of some kind of community, and perhaps members of that group depended on this individual for financial support. People who know the prisoner also feel a deep emotional loss. For instance, the imprisoned person who I am helping has a small child, a toddler. Yesterday that little boy looked up at me and confidently said,

“When Mama comes home, she’s going to give me a gummi worm.”

The boy smiled. I wept.

The boy’s mother is not coming back. For the foreseeable future, this child is an orphan.

It’s a small death, and I grieve.