Thursday's Child: A Gay Man's Memoir Told in Sessions of His Psychotherapy

By Phil Cooper

THUSDAY'S CHILD is a deeply personal and often painful account of growing up gay in a small town in rural Maryland in the middle of the 20th Century, and the influence of this past on the author's later life. After two life-altering events, he realizes at fourty-four that he's confused about the nature of love and enters psychotherapy where his life story is told in actual sessions between him and his therapist. This story includes many of the issues gay men of this period were forced to face: the realization that he could never have what he calls "a normal life;" the trauma of coming out to friends, familly and business associates; the stigma of a disgraceful discharge from the US Army even after successful completion of two highly skilled and classified specialties; the anguish over the break-up of an early affair of the most abandoned type; and the resultant reluctance and struggle to ever risk intimacy again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468546156

Phil Cooper

PHIL COOPER was born and raised in a small town on Maryland's Eastern Shore where many of the events in his memoir occurred. He's a graduate of Swarthmore College in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania, and retired from a long management career during which he was president of several prominent companies in the home and contract furnishings industry. In addition to his writing, he has traveled extensively in many parts of the world and has had numerous one-man shows of his photography. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

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Thursday’s Child

a gay man’s memoir

told in sessions of his psychotherapy

Phil Cooper

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© 2012 Phil Cooper. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 2/24/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-4617-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-4616-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-4615-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012901186

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Session One

Session Five

Session Seven

Session Ten

Session Twelve

Session Fourteen

Session Sixteen

Session Nineteen

Session Twenty-Two

Session Twenty-Five

Session Twenty-Seven

Session Twenty-Nine

Session Thirty-Two

Session Thirty-Six

Session Forty One

Session Forty Seven

Session Fifty-One

Session Fifty-Five

Session Fifty-Eight

Session Sixty-One

Session Sixty-Five

Session Sixty-Eight

Session Seventy-One

Session Seventy-Two

Epilogue

THUSDAY’S CHILD is a deeply personal and often painful account of growing up gay in a small town in rural Maryland in the middle of the 20th Century, and the influence of this past on the author’s later life. After two life-altering events, he realizes at fourty-four that he’s confused about the nature of love and enters psychotherapy where his life story is told in actual sessions between him and his therapist. This story includes many of the issues gay men of this period were forced to face: the realization that he could never have what he calls a normal life; the trauma of coming out to friends, family and business associates; the stigma of a disgraceful discharge from the US Army even after successful completion of two highly skilled and classified specialties; the anguish over the break-up of an early affair of the most abandoned type; and the resultant reluctance and struggle to ever risk intimacy again.

For Doctor Bob

Monday’s child is fair of face.

Tuesday’s child is full of grace.

Wednesday’s child is full of woe.

Thursday’s child has far to go.

Friday’s child is loving and giving.

Saturday’s child works hard for a living.

But the child that is born on the Sabbath day

Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

-Anonymous nursery rhyme

Prologue

August 1935

Margaret carefully steered the Ford Roadster around the deep ruts where the spring rains had washed away some of the oyster shells from the surface of the road. Oyster season was over and there were plenty of shells but the crews had not yet repaired this road to Greensboro. She was nearing the seventh month of her first, difficult pregnancy and the doctor had warned her to be careful driving.

She was relieved to get away from her husband’s family: his parents and his brothers and sisters, five of them, loose and loud and all talking at once, making crude jokes about her pregnancy; her mother-in-law’s house smelling vaguely of feathers and mildew. She hadn’t wanted to go, never really wanted to go, to this weekly gathering at her in-laws, an almost religious ritual of reconnection, recognition, intimacy, the family dance. She knew they liked her (in their way) and never meant to hurt her feelings. And she knew she was shy, taking everything too seriously. Still, try as she did, she never felt connected, recognized, a part of them. Instead, it always seemed as though when Gail and she arrived, her husband receded away from her, back to his family, while she remained outside their games, alone, a stranger in their playground.

Today had been especially difficult. Alan, Cleone’s husband, the cigar-smoking big shot from the city, had had too much to drink and had teased her about refusing alcohol. John, the medical student engaged to Ruth, her husband’s youngest sister, joined Alan, assuring her that whiskey wasn’t dangerous to her baby. Mothers on the frontier, he said, had used whiskey for all kinds of medicinal purposes. But this, she thought, was Maryland, not the frontier. And it was 1935, not 1865. Medical science had become more enlightened since then.

She had felt a little sick at the sight of all that food, even thought she might scream at the continuing confusion. She made some excuse to her husband and her mother-in-law. It was really nothing. She was a little tired. Perhaps it would be better for her to drive to her mother’s, at Eglantine Farm, just a few miles away, and lie down for a while. She wasn’t hungry anyway, would be back in an hour or so. She was fine. Really. They had let her go with little protest, returning to their boisterous intimacy.

As she drove, she thought about how she felt, so different from them. Indeed. How different she truly was. Her father had been a county school superintendent, a learned, hungry intellectual whose strident sense of order and purpose had always made her a little afraid of him, especially when she had been a little girl. Just as she was beginning to sense his expectant brand of love for her, he caught pneumonia and died just four days later, in the winter of 1921. She was just thirteen.

Her mother, trained in classical piano at the conservatory where she met her future husband, a fanciful but fearful, bird-like woman, surprised everyone by meeting her husband’s death with stoic determination to keep her family together. Through a combination of borrowing against their farm, scholarships, and alternating periods of work with semesters of college, Margaret and her two brothers and sister were all finally educated, her sister in violin at the conservatory, her younger brother at the art institute and she and her older brother at the university, in courses that prepared them to teach school. Margaret had graduated magna cum laude. Like her mother, she had also studied classical piano and her teacher assured her that she had a promising musical career ahead of her. She had seen her time teaching English in high school as only temporary, until she could move on to her real life on the concert stage. But she was twenty-six, approaching spinsterhood, and she wanted a family, too.

Her husband, Gail, had had only one semester of college before his father moved the family from Michigan to Maryland, starting a new life as a house builder and chicken farmer on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Gail had always resented having to leave college, especially to tend chickens, and when the Great War offered an opportunity to escape, he seized it gladly, even greedily. But when the Armistice came, he was still in training and so never had a chance to be a hero. Finding himself in the city, he took a job as bookkeeper in a department store where he fell in love with Joy, a zany clerk in hats. Their whirlwind romance quickly led to marriage, then two children, a girl and a boy, two years apart.

Gail’s father didn’t like the city, thought it was no place to raise a family so as an inducement to bring Gail back to the country, he built his son a house in the small town near his own home. It wasn’t long after Gail proudly moved his family into their new home and took a job as bookkeeper in the local furniture store that Joy’s zaniness expanded alarmingly into peculiarity. She began to hear voices and to hide her children under the bushes in the neighbor’s yard. Distraught and heartsick, the fiber of his world unraveling around him, Gail sought professional help. But there was finally nothing even psychiatry could do; Joy was to be institutionalized for the rest of her life, a classic paranoid schizophrenic. After several years of wrenching pain and guilt, Gail decided that for both his own sanity and the health and happiness of his children, he should divorce Joy and marry again.

As Margaret rounded the bend and took the fork that led to Eglantine Farm, on a road she had walked many times to school, she experienced again as she always did when remembering her husband’s past, a pang of tenderness and grief for what must have been his enormous pain. She had met him in his furniture store where she had taken a part-time job demonstrating pianos, playing Chopin etudes for potential buyers. She had been drawn to his courtly manners and infectious grin, to his sense of morality and his fierce determination to go on with his life in a small town despite the rumors, the innuendo about his tragedy. In some ways he had reminded her of her father, especially when he encouraged her to be braver, to have more fun, to make the best of herself. She had grown to love his children, too, longed to give them a secure and happy home. She and Gail had been married just a year before, on the lawn at Eglantine, surrounded by his parents and her mother, all the brothers and sisters, his children and the few guests they could afford to feed, a braided rug protecting her beautiful, white satin wedding dress from grass stains. They moved into his house on Second Street, a ready-made, completed family.

She’d never been sorry, even about missing her concert career. The world was experiencing a severe depression and there was no money to launch a musical career. But once in a while, like now, she felt a moment of hesitation, of second-handed separation from her life, a lonely little girl again.

As she crossed the bridge over the little stream and Eglantine came reassuringly into view, tears of recognition and expectation, of deep longing welled up in Margaret’s eyes. She brushed them away quickly and, feeling the child within her move, she swore that when this son was born, she would have made something truly hers and she would never feel lonely again.

Session One

March 22, 1979

The M. C. Esher print on the wall of the doctor’s otherwise undecorated waiting room was the one of ducks flying over a field, changing from dark on one side to light on the other, depending on how they emerged from the background, how they were seen by the eye. How appropriate, I thought, as I waited for the doctor. I wonder if after coming here, I, too, will emerge from the dark?

A close friend to whom I’d turned for advice had recommended this doctor, who’d sounded friendly but formal on the telephone. I’d made this appointment and found the address, arriving somewhat nervously in this tiny abandoned waiting room chopped out of what might have been a nursery on the second floor of a big, old house in the Hopkins area of Baltimore.

Marveling at the finesse it must have taken to create the illusion of ducks and fields, one emerging from the other, I stared at the print as I waited for the doctor, who I presumed would find me when the proper time came, even though I wasn’t sure how, for there was no secretary, no receptionist. How carefully the printed scene had been drawn, and how easily the reality changed. Like the glass being half full or half empty, I thought. I supposed I’d come here for that very reason, to learn the difference between half full and half empty, between light and dark, not because I thought of myself as sick – far from it – but rather as confused about my reality. And while I was sure I could figure it out by myself, now that I knew I didn’t know, I wanted finding out to go faster than I thought I could manage it on my own. As a professional man myself, I respected all other professionals and after all, wasn’t that what shrinks were for?

My reverie was interrupted by a pleasantly rotund man with a goatee, bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses, a tweedy, owlish-looking man, an ideal fit for my idea of how a psychiatrist should look. The doctor nodded, rather curtly, I thought, and I got up and followed him into his office, a heavy, darkly paneled space, a former master bedroom probably, furnished with a roll top desk, a rocking chair, three lounge chairs and several, beautiful Persian rugs. A spider plant, hanging by the window, was obviously in need of water. Perfect, I thought!

The doctor sat down in the rocker and motioned me to the lounge chairs, one next to the rocker, one facing it and one at a slight angle and somewhat removed. I was sure there was significance to the chair a new patient – or was I a client – chose. What the hell, I thought. Let’s get intimate immediately. I sat down in the chair closest to the doctor who watched this decision without any change of expression. The doctor folded his hands across his ample belly and waited.

I took several sheets of paper out of my inside coat pocket and handed them to the doctor. I wanted to save us both some time, I said. So I’ve listed my parents’ names and birth dates, my sisters and brother, their backgrounds, schools, occupations, and some information about myself I thought you’d find helpful to our conversations. Without it costing me one hundred bucks an hour to provide it, too, I thought.

The doctor smiled benignly and took the papers, putting them on the table beside him. Thank you, he said.

There was an awkward pause. You said on the phone there was something troubling you, said the doctor.

Like, yes, I thought. Brilliant! Or what the hell am I doing here? But it would be some time before I was to feel sufficiently comfortable expressing humor or sarcasm with the doctor. So what I said was, Yes. I did.

How can I help you? asked the doctor.

I took a deep breath. Well, I said, it’s a little hard to explain. I thought for a second and then went on. Or maybe it’s my confusion that makes it seem that way.

Go on.

About eight years ago, my brother – an older brother – died. He…uh… and this was always hard to say, …he killed himself.

I’m sorry, said the doctor, his benign smile disappearing.

Thank you. But that’s not the point. I paused. The point is that I didn’t feel much when that happened. I was sad, of course. And the circumstances were quite painful, particularly for my parents. It was a difficult time. But I didn’t feel much sense of loss. Or much emotion. Or much of anything, really. I stopped, then went on. I just had to manage the event and its consequences, much like I manage my business.

The doctor looked at me expectantly, a look I was to learn was a signal to continue.

But then recently, I went on, a close friend of mine died quite suddenly, while he was away, on vacation. And the news came to me as a great shock. I went all to pieces. It was in a phone call. Charles’s brother called to say Charles had died. I was giving a dinner party. I couldn’t go back to the table. I began to cry, almost uncontrollably. It brought the dinner to a complete halt. It was very embarrassing.

Yes, the doctor said, consolingly.

Well. The point is this: my brother, whom I’m supposed to love, dies and I feel nothing. But a friend dies – just a friend – and I react dramatically, as though I loved him. I decided that here, at forty-four years old, I don’t really know what love is. Or when I’m feeling it. I decided I’d better get some therapy to help figure that all out. I stopped, to let that sink in. Then I went on. It isn’t that I think I can’t figure it out. For I’m sure I can. But I want to figure it out faster than I can do it alone. So, I come to a professional for assistance. Does all that make any sense?

Yes, the doctor said. Yes, it does.

Well, how do we begin? I asked.

We must begin at the beginning.

You mean…? I trailed off, not knowing just where to go from there.

Exactly. At the beginning. We’ll need to explore where you came from in order to understand where you are.

But won’t that take a long time?

Perhaps, said the doctor. Perhaps not. It depends on how hard you want to work at it.

Oh, very hard, I said. I’m impatient. Once I know I don’t know, I want to learn as quickly as possible.

Knowing you don’t know is the beginning of knowing, said the doctor cryptically.

Nice, I thought. But probably true. I could see that immediately. Like confusion is the beginning of learning.

Exactly, said the doctor. The fool is always filled with his knowledge; it’s only the confused who has room to learn.

Well, what’s the procedure? I was eager to begin.

You come to see me once a week. We’ll look in a minute to find a regular time. And we’ll talk. About you, mostly. About your past. About your present. About what you’re thinking, how you’re experiencing things.

And how long will it take?

As long as it does, the doctor replied.

Okay. I’ll level with you Doc. May I call you Doc?

If you like.

I decided before I came here to invest a thousand bucks. Without thinking about it. I’ll just stick to the process for a thousand bucks’ worth. At the end of that time, I’ll evaluate where I am and decide, based on the progress I’ve made, whether to continue or stop.

That sounds like one way of going about it, the doctor said, dryly.

I caught the innuendo. Do you disapprove?

Oh no. It’s very logical.

But? I prompted.

The process of psychotherapy is not always logical.

But until I get into it and explore it from the inside, I can only think about it from the outside.

True, admitted the doctor.

Score one for me, I thought. Maybe this would be interesting.

There are a few rules, the doctor said. I’ll expect you to be on time. And I’ll need appropriate notice if you need to cancel an appointment. I bill you monthly and you send me a check.

As simple as that?

As simple as that.

I tried to draw the doctor out about how seriously I needed help, how long it might take, what I might expect at the other end. But the doctor would not be moved; he wouldn’t commit himself. I sparred some too, and found the doctor a worthy, although gentle, sparring partner, never really answering a question, usually responding by asking his own, pushing me to think, and to clarify my thinking. Before I knew it, the hour was over.

We have to stop now, the doctor said. He consulted his book. How about next Thursday at eight o’clock in the morning?

So early?

You’ll find you think best early in the morning, the doctor said. You’ll be fresh and so will I. Will that work for you?

I guess so. I wasn’t excited about working so hard so early in the morning.

Until next week, then, the doctor said, nodding in a curt little dismissal.

See you then, I said, as I rose to leave.

Outside, in my car, on the way home, I wondered if I had done the right thing, opening doors to my past, thinking about myself, analyzing. It could be painful, I supposed. Or very helpful. I’d just have to wait and see. I wondered what my friends would think.

Session Five

April 19, 1979

During cold or unpleasant weather, they gave me my sunbath inside, in the study, lying on the padded table wearing my dark goggles under the big green sun lamp. I didn’t like these sunbaths, even though my mother always tried to make them fun, like being at the beach, she said. But it wasn’t like being at the beach at all: no water to splash, no bucket or sand to dig in, not even any moving around, just lying there, looking up at the light while the timer ticked away until the ding reminded someone that it was time for me to turn over.

But when it was warm and clear, as it was today, they brought me outside and put me on the old Army cot in the back yard where I could lie in the real sun. This was much better. I could feel the rough canvas against the skin on the back of my arms and legs, my shoulder blades, my bare heels. I could smell the heavy scent of my mother’s flower garden between our yard and Miss Thompson’s next door. I could hear the bees buzzing around the occasional rotten pear fallen from the trees where I had my swing. The sun seemed to surround me, caress me, lift me up into a warm and lazy nothingness, a space where I could float without demand or obligation, no correction, all alone, at peace.

I closed my eyes now and concentrated, to speed the process, feeling the warmth, detaching. The picture of my mother, hanging clothes to dry on the clothesline nearby, began to fade from my mind. I could barely hear my friend, Patsy Kelly, riding her tricycle down the block, calling to her older sister, laughing. Sometimes I wished I, too, had a tricycle, that I, too, could play with someone, anyone. Too sick, they said; I had to rest. Sometimes I wanted to cry. But not now. I was lying in the sun feeling warm and special.

~

How old were you then? the doctor asked.

I was seven.

You were in the second grade.

No. I wasn’t in school. I was too sick to go to school. They kept me at home, in bed, most of the time. Miss Miller came every day to tutor me.

And what were you sick with? Tuberculosis, you said?

Well, that’s what they thought at first. That’s why they were so worried.

You said ‘at first.’ Did the diagnosis change?

Well, during that year, the many doctors I saw could never come to a definite conclusion. I would test positive for TB and they would treat me for that – mostly fresh air and sunshine – and then I would test negative. Then some other doctor would suggest something else: rheumatic fever, for example. The only constant was that I ran a low fever and had no appetite. I didn’t want to eat, stayed pale, looked sickly.

Your parents must have been terrified.

Yes. I suppose they were. They tried everything they could think of to get me to gain weight.

For instance?

In the beginning they tried force, made me sit at the table until I’d finished at least half of what was on my plate. That didn’t work. So, they tried persuasion. Offered me a dollar for every pound I could gain. That didn’t work either. I remember being upstairs, in bed, where my mother would bring me a sandwich and eggnog for lunch. When she went downstairs, I would hide the sandwich behind the books in my bookcase and tiptoe into the bathroom to pour the eggnog down the sink.

It sounds like you were very angry about something.

Maybe.

How did all this end?

Finally, my parents took me to a child specialist in Baltimore. I was in the hospital for several days of tests. It’s still vivid in my mind. I was in the child’s ward and some boy several beds away from me kept telling me that when I got out of the hospital, I would be hit by a car.

Sounds awful! What happened?

My tests finally all proved negative. The specialist told my parents to just let me go, be a normal little boy. I remember him saying that I should run around outdoors in the sun and get as tanned as his mahogany bookcase.

Your parents must have been greatly relieved.

Yes. My mother has told me how, when she saw me running around the deck on the ferry back to the Eastern Shore, she was so moved by my new freedom that she cried.

Yes. After a year of confinement with what was originally thought to be TB. What year was all this?

I was seven. So it must have been 1942.

TB was more deadly then.

Yes, I agreed. And Mother’s first boy-friend and a childhood girl-friend had both died from TB. She was terrified that I would die too.

"So, is that why you felt special?

Well, no. Not exactly. I thought about it, trying to articulate what I’d experienced. I felt very detached, almost as though I were encased in an invisible sheath, or a force field, to use ‘Startrek’ terms.

Go on, the doctor said.

"Well, I could see through to the outside world,