The mind’s red ants
My plumber mate Gus hadn’t been his usual self. In fact,
his wife, Floss, had expressed frustration and concern about him to a number of
their friends.
“He’s so strong-willed and independent he makes me
sick,” she protested to my wife and me as we were about to drive off.
“He’s so cranky I don’t want him about the house. I’ve told
him to go and see a psych and sort himself out.”
On the drive home, I thought about her dilemma. Gus has been a
good friend and a help to many of us over time, and you just didn’t think
of him having “trouble”. Floss was right – he is independent and
strong-willed, and I could just hear him say he was “all right”, and
didn’t need any psych to mess about with his head. Gus is of the old
school, and couldn’t conceive of himself needing help. “Psychs are
for sick people,” he would say.
When I called the other weekend, he was threading some pipes
and, although he was working like a man possessed, he seemed short and
agitated. He told me he was frustrated and had a lot of things on his mind. He
went on to angrily explain Floss had booked him in to see a bloke next
Thursday, and he didn’t think he had the will or time to keep the
appointment. He seemed to be looking for a way out, so I joked that it looked
as though he might be too scared to find out what he was really like.
I reflected later that a number of significant and disturbing
events had occurred in Gus’s life. It was true that he hadn’t had it
easy, and no doubt the residue of some of these issues still weighed upon him.
We had all just assumed he had been able to shrug off any inner hurts and
traumas, because he appeared and talked tough, and seemed to tackle everything
confidently.
Now he was showing that he didn’t need criticism or
chiding, but perhaps just some understanding that his family and mates were
with him. Gus never liked anyone making a big deal of personal things.
To see a psych was a big step for Gus, so I called past to see
him a few days after his visit. I understood his sensitivity and waited until
he and I were alone in the shed before asking how it had gone.
“Rust,” replied Gus. “The doc says I’m
suffering from a residue like rust mounting up in my life, clogging my feelings
and emotional responses. He told me when those ‘red ants’ get working
inside the mind, they make a mess of the channels through which reactions flow.
Sometimes I hardly know what’s happening.”
I queried Gus as to whether he had felt helped by his visit
and whether it was making sense for him.
“Those bloody red ants,” he mused. “Losing dad
on top of everything else that happened over the last year or so has been
feeding those beggars and making it hard to keep everything straight. If it
hadn’t been for Floss’s nagging and making the appointment, I’d
never have known how bad I was.
“You know,” he continued, “I wish I knew more
about these psychs before, and a lot of this mightn’t have happened. Of
course, the biggest hurdle was me and my pride.”
Some of us try to control the rust by being abrasive.
