Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 2021-07-24 10:40:14 –
Polar Sophia Shonauer, LCSW, continues to make continuous memoirs. If you haven’t read the first half of this series yet, take a look at the bottom of this page.
The reality is nothing more than a Rorschach ink blot.
— Alan Watts
Recognizing patterns is an essential skill for human survival. Primitive humans had to identify the differences between tall grass and tiger stripes, river rocks from crocodile roaming, and leopard spots from tree bark and leaves. Pattern recognition helps humans understand the phases of the moon, the passage of time, and our own mortality rate.
Knowledge of death poses an existential crisis, and we respond by trying to find signs, symbols, and patterns that convey longevity, security, and meaning. Autumn days that are getting shorter and shorter seem ominous. We seek peace of mind, develop rituals that bring back the light, and celebrate when we return.
We are aware of the up-and-coming spring leaves, warm climate and long days, and know that it is time to sow. The weather is as unpredictable as the lunar and solar cycles, so people try to recognize the signs of droughts and floods. We know that our lives can depend on storm transitions, lightning strikes, or wind directions. Perhaps we learned to pray for the weather, our anxiety urged us to plead for our uncontrollable power.
We are aware of the patterns and are ready to attribute meaning to what we experience. So while lying on a grassy hill, the familiar shape in the clouds, the Virgin Mary on a burnt toast, the humanoid face on the surface of Mars, the devilish appearance in the fire. , You can see the belching of smoke from the volcano.
People are convinced that the chaos of life must have some underlying meaning. We are confident that there is nothing more than we can endure, because God has a plan and he does not give us more than we can handle. We have things intended, there is a mysterious divine plan for our existence, and our existence is so miraculous and dilute that it is not always measurable. How vulnerable we are, even if registered only by our subconscious, because we rely on the movement of the universe.
I stared at the page of the ink blot that the doctor put on the desk in front of me. It lacked shape and structure, but the left and right sides of the page looked like mirror images.
“What do you see?” Anyway, the doctor asked, anyway, a kind of young, good-looking man younger than his dad. He wore glasses, had a gentle face, shaved cleanly, and his hands were soft, not stiff, and looked unfriendly like a dad.
“do not know.”
“Use your imagination.”
“Um … butterflies.”
“Good.” He got the butterfly back and put another ink blot in front of me.
It was unpleasant that immediately impressed me. The devil’s face, the corners of his head, his sharp chin, and his vague smile. I felt anxious and defensive and hesitated to say.
“But you do. I can see it.”
“What do you see?” He read me and seemed to be studying me, and I felt exposed.
“That’s okay. Tell me what you saw first.”
“The devil,” I mumbled.
The next Ink Blot brought in a monster like the face of a fly in the movie when a scientist accidentally switched heads to a housefly.
Another card brought me two witches dancing around the skull, the next “Another Butterfly, Sad”.
“Why are you sad?”
“The wings are down. I can’t fly.”
The doctor flipped a few more cards: a bear, an angel in the clouds, and two dancing girls.
Then the last collection of images like cards, spiders, caterpillars, yellow birds, but the overall image looked like an angry man with long hair and curly mustache.
“Very good,” said the doctor, but I didn’t believe him.
“So what is the correct answer?”
“There is no right or wrong answer. Only your answer.”
The doctor was silent for a moment and interrupted the conversation with hope.
Was I expected to speak, or was the doctor supposed to say something? Every move I made, every sound I made, had a deep meaning and made me realize that I was being tested.
The doctor was looking directly at me and his eyes were looking at mine. His gaze scared me as he was looking through me. “Have you ever thought you should be born as a girl?”
This question scared me. Until that time, I enjoyed my stay at the hospital even after moving from the 8th floor view overlooking the city to the 1st floor with iron webbing on the windows.
The ground floor is an old part of the hospital, with boomerang-shaped floors, cluttered activities, and unsightly appearance, but disinfectant remains. The intercom announcement was loud and echoed throughout the building. There was a playroom and more kids, butcher paper, paint, crayons, an easel with markers, and lots of toys: big wooden trucks, toy people, dolls, dolls with a small theater. And the food was good too. I have never eaten pancakes so often in my life.
However, I always felt that I was being watched by nurses and doctors. Someone was always writing notes in small notebooks and someone was always looking at me and analyzing me, as was scored for everything I did and said.
This didn’t really bother me until the doctor’s last question, and I was suddenly urged to go home.
“Do you think you should have been a girl?”
What would I say? Will they keep me in the hospital forever? If I say no, will they let me go home? For some reason, I was in the locker room with the older boy and saw him holding a knife in private, and I felt buoyant, floating in myself, and the spirit escaping. Mostly it was tied up in my body.
“No,” I finally said, but I don’t think the doctor believed me.
He kept staring at me. I twisted myself.
What did he see in the ink blot of my life?
He saw me playing with trucks and dolls. He saw me playing with boys, but most of them are girls. Ghosts, barren trees adorned with hanging ropes, haunted houses, city-destroying monsters, bridges with large arches, houses underneath, rows of smoke rising from chimneys, wooden tire swings in the front yard.
The previous segments are:
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Last updated: July 24, 2021 9:40 am Brett Dickerson – Editor
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