My therapist has a couple of theories and one observation.
A) She thinks that it is a result of a lack of attention and love from my parents all throughout my childhood.
B) She thinks that psychoanalysis may have something to give us here: I can’t stand happiness, so I’m trying to destroy my world (I like this idea).
C) I was born in the wrong society. I should have been born in France or Italy or in an Islamic country—anyway, some place where multiple partners are not frowned on.
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Just a few highlights from A.
In the days before I was born, my father tells over and over, he had a dream. And in the dream he is approaching a bassinet. There’s a sign on the bassinet. When he gets close, he sees that the sign says “genius.” When he tells this story, it is always clear that I never turned out to be what his dream promised. Remember this when we get to the end.
When I was 2, my brother was born and he was quite sick. We speculate that my parents may have totally focused him, and I would have gone from being the only child to the forgotten child in an instant. I don’t remember this.
In my middle childhood, when my Mother came to say “good night” to us, she would often spend a lot of time sitting on the side of my brother’s bed, talking about I don’t know what. I could only hear the murmur of their voices.
She never sat on my bed to talk. It was always just a “good night, daloon” and off to my sister.
I don’t remember either of my parents telling us they loved us.
When it was 1978 and I couldn’t find a job, and was pretty depressed about it (perhaps the first depression of my bipolar condition), he just saw me as doing nothing. Of course, he’d been given a job straight out of college.
I had never felt sure that my parents were really behind me. For them it was about preparing us to live; not about loving us. But when they kicked me out—suddenly. With nothing but the proverbial clothes on my back, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. But after that, I didn’t want to see my parents for a long, long time.
My wife tells a story of something that happened one night, maybe at Thanksgiving. First, my Father extolled his pride in my brother’s work. Second, he waxed ecstatically about my sister’s work. My wife was expecting him to talk about me, next. But that was it. Neither of my parents has ever expressed any pride in me.
Thus, growing up without love, that is the only thing I want, but whatever I get, it’s never enough.
These things are true, as far as I know. Some of the facts are based on other people’s stories. But they happened long ago, and I’m not convinced.
D) My theory. I’m just immoral and incapable of doing the right thing, and I don’t deserve a spouse and children. I’m just selfish. I can’t say I don’t think about the consequences, because I do. I do it anyway, knowing what I am risking. I’m irresponsible. Bad news.
E) The theory of one of my buddies from my crazy group: this is the way we are. We seek experiences of the greatest intensity. We are all drama queens. We enjoy the up and down (yes, the down, too). We only go through life once, and why should we hold ourselves back? It is society that doesn’t understand us or doesn’t like us, but that doesn’t mean we are guilty of unorthodox brain chemistry. It’s the was we are, and there’s no need to mess with it.
Take your pick.