Wyatt Earp and Therapy

There are times I believe I was born one hundred and seventy-five years too late. I like wide open spaces, horses, Old West justice, John Wayne, and the prospect of venturing into rugged territory just to see what’s over there. The fact that I am addicted to modern day plumbing and an advanced health care system makes me a poor candidate for a pioneer however. The technological advances of the Gilded Age were not accompanied by corresponding advances in medicine; health care in the 1800s was woefully neglected. What were the medical equivalents of the steam engine or the telegraph? True, it was the age or Pasteur and Lister, but it took decades for their discoveries to affect public health. The way people with emotional issues were treated in the Old West was horrifying. The question of mental illness was bound up in dark suspicion, shame and ignorance. Families hid a demented member as if he or she were evidence of sin. People suffering from depression, bi-polar conditions, etc., were kept in attics and in cellars; in Tucson, Arizona a lunatic was confined to an outhouse so narrow that “his flexor muscles permanently stiffened.” I’ve spent several hours in the office of a psychiatrist discussing the situation with my brother. Now that the situation with Rick is no more, my visits have increased. I’ve cried often and am thankful I wasn’t locked in a cold, dark room because no one in the medical profession could understand the extreme grief I’m still feeling. I don’t think I’m any the worse off because I’ve employed a sophisticated therapist to plumb the depths of my psyche, but I do think sometimes it’s as tragic and futile a gesture as the loading of the ice-making machine onto the Titanic. I feel so very betrayed by people I could have sworn loved my brother…and me for that matter. I thought that way mainly because they were people who swore they loved us. No matter how many $150 sessions I attend I’ll never understand why my niece told me she loved me, exchanged emails with me, let me pay for some of her wedding and accept the wedding veil I wore at my wedding, then shortly after the ceremony told me she didn’t want anything to do with me. Please note, she never asked me to pay for any part of her wedding. I wanted to help because I love her. In spite of everything, I still love her. But I don’t want to have anything to do with her ever again because I don’t trust her. How is a therapist going to help me with that? I want to think psychotherapy works. It would help if the practice weren’t so susceptible to every goofy trend that rolls down the Mental Health Freeway. There’s aromatherapy, pharmaceutical therapy, couples therapy, there’s even psychotherapy for dogs. How messed up are you if you have to bring your dog? I don’t think therapy works much of the time because people are so eager to Scotchgard themselves from taking personal responsibility and they are allowed to get away with it. They conveniently blame the bad in their lives on bad that supposedly happened to them, and they take everybody down with them when they go. Let me give you an example: Any restitution Rick owed after being falsely accused now becomes the responsibility of the family caring for him. Oh, yeah! It’s a fair court. When my therapist or any sincerely concerned individual asks me “what is it that won’t let you get past this hurt?” My answers is always “if I were allowed to get some distance from it all, maybe it wouldn’t always feel like a fresh wound.” And for those readers who might be thinking that the federal government doesn’t make family members pay restitution, I invite you to come with me to the prison next month and see for yourself. You’d be surprised what the federal government gets away with. I think Wyatt Earp was very aware of that and that’s why he decided a vendetta ride was the best way to handle the problem. I can’t imagine Earp sitting through a therapy session anyway. I bet he…oh, I’m sorry, our time is up. We’ll continue with this next week.