Mom Told Me To Visit A Psychiatrist

I called my Mom yesterday for one of our bi-weekly chats. The conversation normally follows a pretty standard format, where Mom checks to make sure that I am fulfilling the basics laid out in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, from eating to sleeping to avoiding laying on the couch while wallowing in my own filth. I then dutifully respond to her queries with a quick, monosyllabic answer along the lines of “yes” or “fine.” At this point, Mom will embark upon a ten minute tirade over the house’s chronically leaky roof, cursing my father who designed the roof, our comically incompetent Indian roofer Ganesh, and God in his role as the creator of moisture.

Apart from the fact that conversations with my Mom have changed little since I was sixteen, the call yesterday was interesting because after complaining about the roof, she took the discussion in an unprecedented direction.

Mom: Do you think it would be helpful if you talked to someone?

Me: I am.

Mom: No, I meant a psychiatrist, like Frasier.

Me: Uh.

Mom: Their not just for crazy people anymore. Maybe you’d feel better.

Me: Hmm.

Mom: Believe me, I’m going to have to visit one if this stupid roof keeps leaking…

Mom’s suggestion was disturbing because, like most parents, she has always viewed my idiosyncrasies through a rose colored prism. This meant that when I was growing up, my weight problem was attributed to “husky genes,” my deficiencies in school were the result of “not being challenged,” and the many stains that appeared on my bedspread during puberty were simply “toothpaste.” These past denials tell me that if she came right out and mentioned a shrink, she must think I’m pretty fucking nuts.

It also hurt because I really don’t want to let her down. As her only child, I am the sole measure of whether or not she was competent at child rearing, a task our society regards as an adult’s most important responsibility. Conversely, if a family has ten kids, and three are a success, then the parents would be batting 300, a percentage normally sufficient to have a player enshrined into the Baseball Hall of Fame. For Mom, I’m her one swing, which is why I’ve actually considered her proposal.

My personal assessment is that I do not need to visit a psychiatrist, a conclusion I reached after a day of self reflection and a few moments staring at my WWTCD bracelet (What would Tom Cruise do?) However, I do need to change the way I communicate with Mom.

In particular, I am going to try to listen to her inquiries, and respond with thoughtful and complete answers that actually stretch into sentences. I am going to ask her questions, and move beyond topics such as my eating habits and laundry status. I am also going to fire Ganesh, and replace him with someone who can actually fix the roof, which will hopefully help both Mom and I maintain our sanity for a long time to come without the need for professional intervention.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

[Frasier] [Tom Cruise] [Abraham Maslow][Baseball Hall of Fame]