An LGBTQ-Affirmative Therapist in Portugal & Paris: Love, Psychology & the Problem with “Vacationing”
If I had any pie-in-the-sky hope that my long-awaited trip to Europe might finally free me from the constant influx of worry that had plagued me for 30 years—about my clients, my cats, the bills, the upcoming psychology exams, the grades still to file, the endless catch-up of social media, the headlines, my work, my workout—I would soon be disabused.
On my “vacation,” I found myself wrestling with the truth that I still had more internal work to do before I could settle down enough to make sense of le voyage.
Just maybe, I thought, I might enjoy spending time in Southern Portugal with my ex—even if his itinerary (which approximated Barry’s Bootcamp) would drive me more than a little crazy.
Up at the crack of dawn, we were first off to Lisbon, then Largos, then back to Lisbon, and on to Porto. I’m sure we climbed millions of steps in the Portuguese capital!
I felt a mix of feelings for my ex throughout our trip: some of gratitude, some of awe (his traveling skills are truly “world class”), and yet, with all of the hullaballoo, I felt some flashes of aggravation. It took some work to partner with all of those feelings with only one, maybe two, small fits.
How did I self-soothe? By reminding myself I’d have a week alone in Paris when I could roam the streets on my own time. There, I could study the French Revolution, reminisce about the magical, three-month trip to Paris taken alongside my first Great Love, and speak French to my délice du coeur—my heart’s delight.
I could meditate on Rashi, the 11th Century Talmudic Genius, who hailed from France—or, maybe, I could see what kind of trouble I could get into!
Kay is an African American Jewish Singer; We Are Both “Children” of Dr. Joy Turek, Who Helped Me Create the LGBT Specialization in Clinical Psychology at Antioch University
I could meet Kay, a lovely African Jewish woman who had been the dear friend of my former boss and own dear friend, Dr. Joy Turek.
But then, even thousands of miles away, I was still rocked by the devastating shockwaves sent by the right-leaning Supreme Court: Roe had been overturned. American governance had taken an authoritarian turn, the likes of which had not been seen for a generation.
I felt my Devastated Inner Child fall through a black hole. I found myself unable to pull him out of a dark depression. What other dirty tricks might they play?
I called upon my Inner Therapist for help—but learned his passport had not been granted by rightwing elements.
I was on my own.
Without any internal guidance, my Inner Roommate Bully (what Freud called the “superego”) was given full license to invade what was left of my inner civilization. He could also speak in French—not only had he invaded my goddamn neurons, but he was now brainwashing me in a romance language! “Vous devriez être beaucoup plus organisé dans votre itinéraire comme l'était votre ex, juste en vous promenant.”
This is what he was taunting me with: “You should be much more organized in your itinerary like your ex was, not just walking around. You are wasting your time.”
To shut him up, I had no choice but to employ the STOP technique of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy:
Stop. Whatever you're doing, just pause momentarily.
Take a breath.
Observe. Notice what is happening, both inside and outside of you.
Proceed.
On what was meant to be a calming walk by the River Seine, Parisian passerby could hear me muttering: tais-toi mauvais parent (shut up, you bad parent!). I’m sure they looked at me like I was dérangé.
Perhaps, I thought, a walk through Le Marais, the “gay” and “Jewish” neighborhood in the 4th District, might lift my spirits. Once known as a swamp, it was now très chic, and I hoped it would provide a new horizon.
I was right; seeing the queer people waving rainbow flags as they waited in line for fresh falafel (now a French staple!) helped ground me in both of my cultural identities.
I further meditated on my condition by going to Le Centre Pompidou Museum, also known as “Le Beaubourg,” which was a 20th-century archit architectural marvel. It had been designed by
Renzo Piano and Richard Rogers and stood out for its exterior escalators and enormous colored tubing. Its 20th and 21st century art collections were internationally renowned.
There, I encountered the breathtaking works of Robert Dalaunay.
From 1904 onward, he experimented with the broken brushstrokes of the Neo-impressionists and the fragmented space of the Cubists, introducing into the mix the colors of his Jewish Ukranian wife, Sonia, who was also a brilliant painter. Highlighted in fragmented, circular forms, the color emerged as a source of movement with a dynamism and energy that mirrored my inner turmoil. I saw how I, too, could make “art” from the internal chaos.
At one point, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a very stressed-out Provence family struggling with an unruly child who seemed determined to smear his chocolate-covered hands all over the Picasso paintings. While her do-nothing husband simply shrugged his shoulders and smirked, the mother said to her child, si vous ne respectez pas notre accord que vous ne dégraderez pas le tableau je vous achèterai une pâtisserie à notre départ. “If you don’t degrade the painting, I will reward you with a treat later.”
Then, turning to her arrogant husband, she warmed him he better not egg the child on: Et je ferai de même pour vous pour ne pas me contredire.
The mother had cornered them both with her fair heart. I saw her take a deep breath and return to her own being, gazing at the painting as if she were gazing into eternity. “I will have at least this one moment for myself,” I imagined her saying, “before worrying about the whole lot of you.”
Ah ha! It was this lovely woman, whose name I later learned was “Marie,” who had seen my Inner Therapist (this time as a Sister Figure) and waved me through my own “psychological customs,” giving me the STAMP of approval.
With Marie’s help, I understood that a vacation is not about taking a leave of absence from one’s feelings and sufferings—a vacation is not a reason to escape history. Rather, the traveling is bound to trigger psychological conflict, both with the self and with others.
There are always planes to catch and, for now, Covid tests to take. There will always be jet lag and indigestion, as well as worries about sick friends left behind. And of course, never has a client’s crisis planned around the therapist’s vacation! There will always be lovers who give too much and lovers who give too little. There will be sunsets too sublime to bear and men too handsome to let go. On vacations, there will always be a balance to strike between peace and angst.
I thank the goddess for her capacity for inviting self-reflection.
Together, she and I realized that “depression” was a euphemism that could mean many different feelings. We invited it to sit down with us, to join us in conversation so we could jointly consider what the heck is going on!
Ah ha!
Perhaps the real guilt derives from avoiding one’s feelings—from avoiding them as if they were persons. The feelings don’t like this. They whine. They want to smear chocolate on the great works of art! So, of course the good-enough parent will suffer healthy guilt!
But then, as always, guilt turns to care, care turns into love, and love turns into joy.
Now life makes sense. But only if we notice and pay attention to the kids. Then, together, as a family, we can joyfully learn that work can take play, and play can take work.
It was she who gave me the strength to answer the text of Franck, the seductive French African man, with whom I had been talking before leaving the U.S. Would I like to join him for dinner at a French African restaurant when I returned?
Ah ha! Wouldn’t I!
But, alas, for that affaire de coeur you will have to wait until the next post!
Au revoir.