Attachments

By Harold I. Siegel

Henry, a middle-aged psychology professor, is in the midst of an unpleasant stage in his life. His past relationships with his parents have left him feeling enmeshed and bitterunappreciated and guilty. His adulterous attempt to seek affection outside his unsatisfactory marriage has ended tragically. As he privately struggles with his own insecurities, Henry embarks on an unpredictable journey to find healthy attachments.

Despite repeating several unfulfilling sexual experiences with his female students, Henry makes a valid attempt to maintain some degree of professionalism. But is it a mere coincidence that Henry is teaching Attachment Theory, a course focused on healthy and unhealthy interpersonal relationships that first involve parent and child and then later adult romantic connections? As Henry struggles to find a way to satisfy his own unmet attachment needs, he tries to ignore his own compulsion to seek out relationships that do not provide the deep, emotional connection he so desperately craves.

But Henry is about to discover that his past actions may come back to haunt him in ways he never imagined. Only time will tell if he will be able to take his life full circle and heal the wounds from long-ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450285926

Harold I. Siegel

Harold Siegel earned his PhD in psychology and conducts research on a variety of attachment theory topics. He is a professor and chairperson of the psychology department at the Rutgers University–Newark Campus, and has published numerous articles in a variety of professional journals. He lives in New Jersey.

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Copyright © 2011 Harold I. Siegel

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-8594-0 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8593-3 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8592-6 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010919511

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 2/15/11

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

References

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank Sharen for encouraging me to devote time to writing and for reading the chapters as they were placed in front of her. I also wish to thank Matt (my accidental agent), Paul, and Scott who, unfortunately for them, arrived well before my discovery of Attachment Theory. I am grateful to all who read earlier versions of the manuscript, and certainly Sheri. My attachment students, graduate and undergraduate, taught me so much and continue to do so, and I am wholeheartedly indebted. And thanks to Rebecca for illuminating the path to attachment.

Preface

Attachment Theory demonstrates that our thoughts, feelings and behaviors are influenced by how we have been raised by our parents or other caregivers. That is, the type of attachment formed early in our lives with these attachment figures, at a time when we cannot store the information in our memories or take notes for later reflection, affects not only the kind of children we were but also our relationships with our parents. To be clear, this is not about finding fault with our caregivers but instead about understanding them in order to help understand ourselves. Further, our attachments affect our relationships with other children and siblings, with friends and teachers, and with our teen and adult romantic partners. There is evidence that these early experiences also shape how we deal with stress, physical illness, anxiety, and loss of loved ones, plus much more, for the rest of our lives.

I am a psychologist and I study attachment at a major research university. Attachment Theory is a hugely popular theory within the realm of professional psychology but is relatively unknown among the general public. My sincere view is that the foundations of the theory need to be available to everyone. Since I began to study Attachment Theory, I have learned a great deal about myself including the origins of many of my attitudes, beliefs and behaviors. I have also discovered why I respond in particular ways to various situations, especially in terms of my parents and romantic partners. I consider myself a dedicated educator, and I would truly like to share what I have learned. Instead of providing Attachment Theory in a formal text, I have written a novel that includes the basics of the theory. This novel provides the important and interesting information within the context of simulated college classroom scenes along with characters who illustrate common, everyday attachment conflicts and experiences. You cannot help but see yourself and those close to you within this useful attachment framework. My hope is that you take the attachment journey and continue to look forward and back.

Chapter 1

His mother was a black belt hypochondriac. Her collection of complaints made up some of his earliest and everlasting memories. In one of those memories, she sat upright in her Queen Anne chair, head tilted to the right to accept the ice pack that she repeatedly demanded from his dozing father. He could never understand why his father couldn’t be more attentive. Her pain and upsetness were so obvious. On those occasions when he could predict her outbursts, he would do his best to arouse his father ahead of time. It might involve brushing up against him or turning up the volume on the television or producing a noise with one of his toys. None of these warnings gained favor from his father, but he continued to follow his childhood instincts.

After several visits to her general practitioner and the referrals to two neurologists, the treatment plan consisted of Phenobarbital and cold compresses when the pain peaked. Nowadays she would have been sent for a CT scan at the very least, but the radiologists would find nothing unusual, nothing remarkable as they would say. At about six- to eight- month intervals, Henrietta would begin the process again, each time highlighting what she thought was a meaningful shift in the locus of the pain in her head. Dr. Goldberg, her internist, brimming with compassion, empathy, warmth, and all other remotely related traits, boldly suggested a referral to a psychiatrist. She looked away, rolled her eyes, and expressed her serious doubts that those who dispensed electric shock would be able to help her. After a lengthy pause, she told him that to be fair she would give the suggestion some thought. Thinking that he was on to something, Goldberg then proposed a referral to a psychologist and made it clear that because they are not medical doctors, psychologists cannot give shock therapy. Her response this time left no doubt. Absolutely not; I know they couldn’t help me, she said glaringly.

How do you feel, Mommy?

Terrible, I need a new head.

She would announce that she was going to get ready for her appointment. Henrietta would emerge from her bedroom about an hour later, perfume scent filling the aura around her entire five-foot, rounded figure, stockings rolled down just below her knees, oversized and golden clip-on earrings, and a pastel sweater clinging for its dear life onto her enormous breasts. Sid, it is time to go. Sid, Sid, do you hear me? Sid, are you awake?

Mommy, how do you feel?

Terrible, I need a new stomach.

The tiny Phenobarbital pills were prescribed for her head pains, shoulder pains, neck pains, and frequently unsettled stomach. And there was so much more than Phenobarb. Henrietta’s long middle dresser drawer was filled to capacity with a vast array of plastic pill bottles. Antibiotics, antihistamines, a variety of analgesics from aspirin to codeine to percoset, anti-diarrheals, anti-constipations, and of course the Phenobarbital were catalogued and arranged for easy access. The majority of the bottles had simple white labels devoid of any identifying pharmacy information. The drug names were handwritten with the dosages in parentheses. Henrietta’s supplier in the days before serious federal control of druggists’ inventories was a pharmacist from the other side of the family.

As a child, Henry assumed that his mother smiled less than his friends’ mothers because she was in pain or her stomach was upset, but it was difficult to make her smile even when she didn’t seem to be too physically distressed. Only many years later, well into adulthood, did he recognize that there probably wasn’t much of a connection between her physical problems and the slope of her lips. Even when others would laugh at the comedian on television or at a story or joke told by a friend, Henrietta had that look about her that suggested that she had heard everything before and it wasn’t funny the first time.

It was most likely true that getting her to smile was confused with gaining her approval. One might be interpreted as the other, and both were equally difficult to accomplish. At some level his father may have been aware of his son’s dilemma, perhaps because he was a party to it. On the day before her birthday, Mother’s Day, and oddly, their wedding anniversary, Sid would give Henry cash and send him to the greeting card store and the women’s wear store, both conveniently located on the same block on which they lived. Henry’s task was to buy a card for his father to give to his mother and a gift from himself. Sid didn’t believe in gifts but the occasions had to be at least minimally acknowledged.

The card buying process, difficult at first because of the large selection, became routine after just a couple of purchases. For each event, Henry chose the card for his father that began something like, Although I don’t always show it, your love means the world to me. The outside of the card changed from Happy Birthday to Happy Mother’s Day to On Our Anniversary. Henry always asked his father if the card was okay, and it always was, so Henry continued to buy similarly worded cards until he started high school. At that point, Sid stopped asking and Henrietta no longer received cards or anything else.

The gift purchases became every bit as routine as the cards. Henry would turn over his cash to Mr. Teller who would return with two housecoats. Henry was asked to choose the one he liked better, and Mr. Teller folded it into a box with a piece of tissue paper. On her special day, Henrietta received her card and housecoat with little fanfare and returned a response of even less magnitude.

As an adult, Henry continued to buy gifts that would bring a smile to her face or result in some other tidbit of evidence of her approval. He would bring her flowers and he was told that flowers die. At each of his various offerings he was told that he didn’t know much about women’s clothes or household decorating accessories or gourmet foods. In later years Henrietta rarely left her home, other than for doctors’ visits, but she claimed that I don’t have time to water that plant, why don’t you take it home. The authenticity of a Hummel statue was first questioned and then accepted nonverbally. I have enough perfume; I don’t go anywhere.

For over thirty years, Henry racked his brain to think of the perfect gift because apparently only the perfect gift would do. He easily would have settled for a short but enthusiastic thank you and a smile. Painting her bedroom and wallpapering her kitchen around the time of gift-giving occasions were criticized for taking too long to complete or because she had chosen the wrong color or wrong pattern as a result of Henry’s impatience.

Finally, on her seventy-second birthday, Henry hit pay dirt. Afterwards he would only wonder why he had not thought of this gift idea many years sooner. It was so obvious. Obvious enough for Henry to entertain the notion that he had unconsciously blocked the thought of the gift. Perhaps he really did not wish to please her; perhaps he did not wish to succeed. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that it took so many years because he didn’t want to acknowledge the reason for the book’s success.

He remembered handing her the book wrapped in pretty rose-colored paper. Initially she received the package and placed it on the coffee table. Nothing unusual about not accepting and opening any gift right away. After dinner they moved back to the living room and he prodded her into opening the package. For a second time, he handed her the large and heavy book. Okay, she said slowly and reluctantly.

Go ahead and open it, he commanded with extra affect to compensate for her lack of it.

Slowly, she began to remove the paper as if she were trying to save it for another gift. Henry encouraged her to rip the paper but she continued to methodically undo the tape.

Come on, Mother, I have class in the morning.

Okay, okay, she said with her usual discomfort.

The red cover began to appear and as soon as some of the letters were readable, she broke into a large smile. Henry thought her lips would crack or that she would call out for an ice pack from the shooting pains emanating from her jaws into her temples.

You know what it is?

Of course I know what it is, her smile only partially retreating.

Do you like it?

Yes, she said. Thank you, she nodded, still reserved but definitely pleased.

She began to page through the volume when the phone rang. Hello. There was a pause, long enough for someone to wish her birthday greetings. Thank you, Frances. Yes Henry is here and he just gave me the PDR. No, the PDR, speaking louder and slower. The Physicians Desk Reference. Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know what it is?

Haven’t you ever seen it in your doctor’s office? It lists all medications for every problem with doses and side effects and even pictures of the pills in case you forget the name. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. She didn’t say goodbye, hung up the phone and picked up the PDR.

By the way, you didn’t tell me about your last doctor’s appointment.

You didn’t ask, she said matter of factly.

Okay, so I am asking now. How was your pressure?

It was high.

How high?

I don’t remember now but he sat with me and talked with me and then he took my pressure again, not the nurse.

And it was better?

Yes, it was better but then I told him to take blood because last month my triglycerides were elevated.

You mean you told the doctor to measure your whatevers? Why didn’t the doctor order the blood test?

He is very busy, you know. He always is. He has many patients and he goes from one room to the next and back again all day long.

But I thought you said that he sat …

She interrupted and asked in rapid-fire succession, How is your pressure? Have you had a colonoscopy? Have you even been to a doctor recently?

No, I haven’t been to a doctor for a colonoscopy or anything else for that matter and I have no idea about my blood pressure, except for maybe right now.

You ought to go, she said with a sideways glance.

You want me to leave. Okay, I’ll go …

No, I meant you ought to go to the doctor. Your father died young, my mother died when I was in high school, my father died soon after you were born, your father’s sister has had a couple of strokes, and I certainly have an extra helping of health problems.

Her health problems could easily be dismissed. She was in her seventies and didn’t have a truly serious health issue. In fact, one could probably make the case that her hypochondriasis, her complaints to all who would listen, was precisely what kept her going from day to day. Illnesses provided reasons to awaken each morning.

But now, twelve years later, sitting in her former home and thinking back to that day, something must have happened. What she said, the impact of the concentration of cardiovascular deaths and near-deaths from both sides of the family must have seeped in, below conscious awareness and were unstoppable. It was able to take hold in his mind, with a dozen added years, perhaps made fertile by a role model with a specialty in sickness. He was becoming his sick mother. Symptoms were beginning to implant.

Maybe it was comic relief, but Henry’s mind took him to the New Yorker cartoon that he had seen years earlier and had reminded him of his mother. The cartoon showed a tombstone with a name engraved separated by a comma and then the word Hypochondriac. Below the name and description were the words, I told you so.

Henrietta was about as much of a gift-giver as she was a gift-receiver. When he was a young adult, Henry would receive a small check in a card signed, Love Your Mother, as if it were a commandment, and Frisky, her cocker spaniel. Frisky’s name would continue to appear on the cards two years after he had been buried in a small private ceremony at the pet cemetery two hours away from her home.

She would buy his father two shirts for every occasion requiring a gift. Henry and Sid wore the same size and after Sid died, Henrietta gave Henry twenty-three shirts, mostly flannel or wool, all still in the original plastic bags from the manufacturer. Henry was not particularly fond of flannel and refused to wear wool and so it was an amazing surprise on one of his recent birthdays when Henrietta gave him two shirts that he really liked.

The very next time that he visited Henrietta he made a special point of wearing one of his birthday shirts. He wasn’t more than several feet into her living room when she asked, What’s the matter, don’t you like the other shirt? One look at her face and Henry realized that she was not trying to be funny.

He had to look away and for some reason his eyes moved to the coffee table. The typical clutter had been separated and moved to either end of the table and in the middle, prominently displayed, sat the PDR, the perfect hypochondriac’s coffee table book. He didn’t bother repeating her statement about his shirt. She would see neither the irrationality nor the humor.

The call came one warm and humid Wednesday evening about a year ago. The noises in the background sounded more like those one would hear in a restaurant, but he wasn’t certain because he focused on the words and could not recreate the sounds later. The message was short, to the point, firm, and completely unambiguous, most likely by design and practice. Henry repeated the words back and he heard, Yes, I am sorry. He had read somewhere that the average stay was three years, but she had barely been there for three months.

Just one more thing. How did she …

Massive coronary. We couldn’t do anything.

The next morning Henry drove the forty-three miles to her house to select a burial dress. Henry had only been in the house twice since she fell and transitioned from the hospital to the nursing home, once to empty the refrigerator and a second time to gather up some of her housecoats. Not knowing about any preference she might have had, Henry chose a beige skirt and pastel blue sweater that she wore the last time he took her to the internist.

Henry had no desire to stay at the house any longer than necessary, but again his eyes were drawn to the PDR, still resting in the center of the coffee table. Had she ever read up on anti-depressants, one of the few drugs recommended to her that she refused to ingest.

Henrietta maintained a rigid mind-body dichotomy when it came to medications. Barbiturates, analgesics, and gastrointestinal compounds were almost always circulating, but she drew the line at drugs primarily intended to alter her sadness. She wouldn’t even try to alter her own mind without drugs. Henry had suggested meditation. He sent her a short pamphlet on simple meditation exercises knowing that he didn’t have a chance if the material took too long to read. Initially she said that she didn’t have the time for meditation because she had too much to think about and couldn’t waste her time thinking about nothing. She later changed her mind when she figured out a way to make meditation fit her style of thinking; she would close her eyes and focus on her symptoms.

Henry sat down on the right side of the couch, his usual position when he visited her, the seat farthest away from her Queen Anne. He opened the PDR and carefully examined the pages containing antidepressant information. It was difficult to know for certain but the pages looked untouched. Henry decided to take the PDR and make it his. He understood its value now.

Scanning the living room as he was about to leave, Henry decided that he would need to replace the shag carpeting with its various shades and heights of green fibers, get rid of or donate the Zenith in the Mediterranean console and almost all of the rest of the furniture, and re-paint the pale green walls. When he was a child, she had green walls and green carpeting. It was time he made a change.

A glance into the kitchen confirmed Henry’s expectations. The appliances looked in good condition and the wallpaper, with various fruits on a mid-green background that he had hung was unattractive but neatly done with still flush seams and no obvious peeling. On the corner of the light brown, butcher-block style Formica countertop sat a copper-topped recipe box for three-by-five cards. He had only vaguely considered the box in the past and couldn’t imagine what recipes might be included.

As far as he could remember she only made a few different meals, three to be exact. Meatballs made with one egg and bread crumbs along with thin spaghetti that was covered with Del Monte tomato sauce and, if she had the time, sautéed onions; brisket baked in the oven with sautéed onions and Del Monte tomato sauce split to cover the meat and the rest to mix with white rice and lima beans to make her Spanish rice; and baked halibut smothered in sautéed onions and Del Monte tomato sauce (purchased by the case), with white rice, hold the sauce and hold the limas.

Henrietta was an extremely picky eater. She rarely ate what others made and didn’t make much herself. For lunch, usually four days per week, she ate Bumble Bee tuna to which she added mayonnaise and diced onions. On the other days she ate egg salad with mayonnaise and sliced onion. Onions made her cry.

There were only two local restaurants that earned the Henrietta seal of approval. One was quite expensive and hence she only ate there on rare occasions. The other was a very causal type of place that made tuna salad with mayonnaise and onions. One day a few of her women friends invited her to lunch but they chose a restaurant completely unknown to Henrietta.

Well, I really didn’t want to go but what was I supposed to do? So I went. That’s where I was when you say you called.

Already Henry knew that she probably would not like her meal. What did you order?"

I forgot.

What do you mean you forgot, you only went yesterday?

Henry, don’t pester me, you know I am getting older and more forgetful.

Okay, did you like your meal? he asked, goading her.

It didn’t even look like what I ordered.

No wonder you don’t remember what it was.

I didn’t eat very much of it, I only picked at it.

So I guess that you won’t go back there again.

And the waiter was so stupid. He asked if I was done. Of course I was done; my plate was almost full after everyone else was finished. And I had put my fork down. Then he asked me if he could wrap up my food to take home!

But Mother that’s not stupid, he was just doing his job.

No, he’s a moron. If I didn’t eat the food there, why would he think that I would eat it at home?

Chapter 2

He rubbed his penis across three index cards and placed them on top of the pile of remaining cards. He gathered the additional materials and checked the mirror on the back of his door. Six feet one or so, just under two hundred pounds on most days, sandy brown hair now with scattered strands of gray. Years back he wished for a more chiseled face but he’d gotten over that. He straightened his thin bronze-framed glasses, stroked his face, and left his office.

It wasn’t more than two minutes past ten but the hallways on this first day were virtually empty. He checked his zipper one more time, put on his game face, and opened the door with authority. He tried to never make eye contact, not yet anyway, not because of them but because he found it awkward. It seemed necessary, more important in fact, to unpack several piles of material, lay them out neatly, and double check their neatness. Then he would scan the room just above the level of their eyes. Most of the rooms were indistinguishable and far from remarkable; certainly not a selling point, but that was another issue. The electronic age had ushered in smart classrooms, capable of seamlessly presenting slides, video, and audio material onto a large screen, but there was something not quite right about these smart rooms that were brighter than many of the students and almost the entire faculty. Each fall, the Dean would announce how the SAT scores of the current freshman class had increased but now he focused more on the classrooms. Perhaps the students’ scores had maxxed out or had begun to decline, but the technology would continue to improve. And there was the assumption that high tech classrooms, with PowerPoint presentations spewing out onto large screens, would automatically result in better teaching and better learning. For an environment that placed such premiums on indisputable, observable truths, some assumptions were insulated from the slightest hint of investigation or criticism.

Good morning, he blurted out. They responded weakly, a bit anxiously. This is your lucky semester. You had the good sense to enroll in this class. Believe me, I am not patting myself on the back. The material in this class is just inherently interesting. It is interesting from a psychological point of view and from theoretical and conceptual points of view. And it is interesting, most likely more interesting, for some of you from a personal, relevant, practical perspective.

Would you like to have a better romantic relationship? Some of them nodded. Would you like to be able to find someone more appropriate for you? More nodding. Would you like to be able to avoid the same sorts of not so great dating partners that you continue to choose or maybe they choose you? Some knowing smirks. You just think that they are choosing you.

How about your parents? Would you like to choose better parents? Just kidding, I know you cannot do this, although I am certain that some of you wished to exchange a parent for one of your friend’s parents at least sometime in your life. Some of you have truly wonderful relationships with Mom and Dad. Some of you don’t. We will certainly speak about those folks who raised us, how they did it, and why they did what they did. You are to a significant degree a product of their efforts. However, I cannot emphasize enough that this course is not about blaming your parents or whoever raised you. No parent bashing. In fact, I would hope that by the end of the semester you are blaming them less because you understanding them more.

In short, how you were raised, the kind of attachments you had affects all subsequent attachments and so much of your life, not just the relationships with your parents and boyfriends and girlfriends but the kind of student you are, your self esteem, anxiety, how you cope with stress, with loss, either temporary separation or death, the ultimate separation.

He leaned back in his chair and swept the room with his eyes. Relevant enough? he asked. And you get three credits and we are going to have fun. I promise you. They were alert, tuned in, and it was going to be another good semester.

Let’s stop for a moment. He took one of the piles from the desk and asked the woman to his far right to take one copy of the syllabus and one of the surveys and pass them around. For some reason he had never understood, it always took much longer to accomplish this simple task than he thought it should take.

He gave them a few minutes to scan the syllabus because he knew that they frantically searched for the words, exam, presentation, and papers. This gave him a chance to look them over more slowly. At least two-thirds were females and almost all were in the traditional eighteen to twenty-two age range. Not a bad looking class, he thought to himself. There were a couple of young ones who were pleasing to the eye, and he would look at them more often during each class. There were two older women, closer to his age, and one of them was rather attractive.

As they continued to look over the four-page syllabus, he began walking around the room, placing an index card on each desk. The three top cards went to the three best looking women. If you would take the index card and give me the following information. He went to the blackboard and wrote a list of requests including name, address, email address, and phone number. And on the back of the card would you tell me in one sentence why you are taking this class. Please be honest. If it is the only class during this period that you haven’t already taken, then just say so.

Again he scanned the room, slowly, this time focusing on their faces, not the wall above their heads. They were busy with the index cards and he could spend more time on particular ones without appearing too obvious. He enjoyed teaching, especially this course, but pretty students made going to class just a bit more interesting.

Kindly just pass your cards forward. He watched the older woman give her card to the student in front of her who put the card on the top of the pile. As he collected the cards from the students in each row, he carefully kept his finger in the stack and then moved her card to the bottom.

She had jet black hair that fell somewhere between her chin and shoulder, slightly curled and slightly tasseled. He could make out white jeans that fit snugly, topped with a white sheer blouse over a dark green camisole and she was taller than average.

Next, read the instructions at the top of the single page survey and respond accordingly. You can have about three minutes for this page. Just do not put your name anywhere on the sheet. When he could see that all were finished, he collected the surveys.

Let’s briefly review the syllabus, shall we? My name, office, phone, email, and office hours are listed in the upper right hand corner. You can see the name of the text and the additional readings. About halfway down the page you will see one of those dirty four letter words, ‘exam.’ Beginning in a few weeks I will ask three of you to present each reading to the rest of the class. Just remember that this doesn’t mean that the rest of the class needn’t read the articles. And finally, some good news and some bad news. Which would you like to hear first? Almost unanimously they asked for the bad news first.

The bad news is really not so bad at all. You will need to write a paper, an attachment autobiography, in which you integrate Attachment Theory with your own attachments during your life. True, this may be more difficult because you have never done this before, but it should be a wonderful exercise for you. It will really help you understand your own upbringing, it may help you to understand your parents better, and it just might help you think more constructively and act more constructively about your current and future attachments.

So what’s the good news? asked the Hispanic male, one of the three males in the entire class.

I’m glad you asked. The good news is that there is no final exam. But wait, before you conclude that you don’t need to read the text and article assignments from the second half of the semester, those scheduled after the midterm, just keep in mind that this material will prove essential for your attachment autobiographies. I guarantee it.

Any other questions? He looked at each of them but none spoke. Okay, the plan is to give you a brief overview, then a larger overview, and then we will devote time to each of the main topics in the overview. Repetition is a good thing and I would be pleased if each of you understood the basics, really understood the foundations.

Here’s the short overview. Attachment Theory is the work of John Bowlby, British psychoanalyst.¹ Essentially it is a framework for understanding much of what we call ‘personality.’ The theory suggests that the nature or quality of our early relationships with our mothers and other caregivers affects our sense of security, degree of autonomy, relationships with other children, other adults including teachers and relatives, some of our cognitive abilities and the willingness to explore or try new experiences, our degree of self reliance, confidence, how we respond to stress, etcetera, etcetera.

The majority were frantically taking notes, some trying to write down everything he said. You are going to hear this stuff over and over. I would suggest you put down your pens and just listen for right now, just let the importance of all of this wash over you. Reluctantly they did as he said as if their writing instruments were glued to their fingers.

It becomes even more important. The theory states that our early relationships develop into mental models, internal working models or IWMs, a mental way of figuring out how others will treat us, that is, how people we meet for the first time will treat us. This model guides our subsequent relationships, friendships, romantic and otherwise but it is unconscious. If we were treated in a secure manner as children, then we are able to trust others, to depend on them, to recognize that we are worthy of their trust and attention and when appropriate, their love.

But maybe Mom or Dad or another caregiver did not raise you securely. They shunned physical contact with you; they were hostile or rejecting and ridiculing. In essence, you learned to avoid close relationships and to be wary of them, to keep your distance from others. You must know some of these folks. Some of them may be your fathers. I certainly don’t intend to malign fathers, but it may be true that fathers more often have less close and sterner relationships with their children than do mothers. Regardless of who they are, they prefer to keep to themselves, to keep their feelings to themselves, to rely as entirely as possible on themselves. Almost everyone nodded that they knew someone just like he was describing.

And some of you had parents who were neither consistently secure nor consistently rejecting. Maybe Mom was inconsistent, sometimes available and sometimes intrusive, mother-henish, overbearing, some might say overprotective. Small