who, however adoring, had been away on location for weeks at a time, then you might have a few problems.
These few problems had started getting the better of Jill during the first year after her father's death. Her grief had caused something in her psychological navigational system to tilt. Behavior previously unremarkable had become extreme, and finally her friend Susannah Donovan, no stranger to psychotherapy, had put a label on it: "extreme caretaker-ism."
Of all her qualities, Jill had always most valued her loyalty. She was an excellent friend. Most of the projects she spent her time on resulted from pleas from her large circle of friends.
But in the year after Cass's death something had gone wrong. Helping people was exhausting her; she was turning into Horton the Elephant of Dr. Seuss's books. Like Horton, Jill would have sat on the top of a tree through rain and snow, hatching someone else's egg.
She had become unable to say "no." She tried to do everything anyone asked her, but still it seemed like no one was ever satisfied; no one ever thought she had done enough. If she spent eight hours serving dinners to the homeless, why not ten, why not twenty? If she gave ten thousand dollars to a drug abuse program, why not fifteen, why not a million? Everyone had his hand out, wanting her time and her money.
Both Susannah and her mother, the only ones seemingly aware of what was happening to her, had urged therapy. Primarily because she wanted to show them that she wasn't closed-minded, she had a session with a therapist who had immediately recommended she join a group.
It had begun disastrously. She was almost immediately sucked into the bewildering vortex of one member's troubles. This young man was a terrible procrastinator. After her second session, Jill had sat in a coffee shop with him and helped him fill out a job application form, virtually doing it herself. That simple favor—such was her definition of the act—had been an open door to unceasing demands. He wanted help balancing his checkbook. He needed to find new car insurance. He needed someone to call his boss and say he was sick.
Jill instead called the therapist to quit the group. "I don't need this. This is what I'm trying to get away from."
"Ah... but, Jill," came the irritating answer, "this is the point."
Indeed it was. Group therapy was not a gathering of seven people each waiting their turn to talk about their current life problems. The group focused on the group itself, on what happened inside that room during those ninety-minute sessions. The assumption was that a member would, given enough time, react to the people in the group as he reacted to the people in his "back-home" social sphere. The therapist and other group members would help him understand this behavior, and then, within the safe confines of the meeting room, he could try to alter it.
Jill had to admit that how quickly she had turned herself into Horton the Elephant did confirm the first stage of the process. So she thought she ought to stay with it and explore the rest.
She had been in the group for more than a year now, and she could see the difference in herself. Had she lost her calendar during her Horton the Elephant stage, she would have been so agitated about disappointing the people who were expecting her to be certain places at certain times that she probably would have had herself hypnotized. Therapy had also helped her recover the warning system that alerted her to people who were snakes and users. Although she still was not great at saying no, she had learned to reframe the questions people asked her. "I certainly could do what you are asking, but my skills are organizational. Perhaps I can help you in that way instead."
She had joined the group on the same day as Cathy Cromartie, another woman also in her late twenties. At that first meeting the two newcomers had sat side by side. They never had again. Jill did not dislike Cathy, not at all, but the dynamics of
These few problems had started getting the better of Jill during the first year after her father's death. Her grief had caused something in her psychological navigational system to tilt. Behavior previously unremarkable had become extreme, and finally her friend Susannah Donovan, no stranger to psychotherapy, had put a label on it: "extreme caretaker-ism."
Of all her qualities, Jill had always most valued her loyalty. She was an excellent friend. Most of the projects she spent her time on resulted from pleas from her large circle of friends.
But in the year after Cass's death something had gone wrong. Helping people was exhausting her; she was turning into Horton the Elephant of Dr. Seuss's books. Like Horton, Jill would have sat on the top of a tree through rain and snow, hatching someone else's egg.
She had become unable to say "no." She tried to do everything anyone asked her, but still it seemed like no one was ever satisfied; no one ever thought she had done enough. If she spent eight hours serving dinners to the homeless, why not ten, why not twenty? If she gave ten thousand dollars to a drug abuse program, why not fifteen, why not a million? Everyone had his hand out, wanting her time and her money.
Both Susannah and her mother, the only ones seemingly aware of what was happening to her, had urged therapy. Primarily because she wanted to show them that she wasn't closed-minded, she had a session with a therapist who had immediately recommended she join a group.
It had begun disastrously. She was almost immediately sucked into the bewildering vortex of one member's troubles. This young man was a terrible procrastinator. After her second session, Jill had sat in a coffee shop with him and helped him fill out a job application form, virtually doing it herself. That simple favor—such was her definition of the act—had been an open door to unceasing demands. He wanted help balancing his checkbook. He needed to find new car insurance. He needed someone to call his boss and say he was sick.
Jill instead called the therapist to quit the group. "I don't need this. This is what I'm trying to get away from."
"Ah... but, Jill," came the irritating answer, "this is the point."
Indeed it was. Group therapy was not a gathering of seven people each waiting their turn to talk about their current life problems. The group focused on the group itself, on what happened inside that room during those ninety-minute sessions. The assumption was that a member would, given enough time, react to the people in the group as he reacted to the people in his "back-home" social sphere. The therapist and other group members would help him understand this behavior, and then, within the safe confines of the meeting room, he could try to alter it.
Jill had to admit that how quickly she had turned herself into Horton the Elephant did confirm the first stage of the process. So she thought she ought to stay with it and explore the rest.
She had been in the group for more than a year now, and she could see the difference in herself. Had she lost her calendar during her Horton the Elephant stage, she would have been so agitated about disappointing the people who were expecting her to be certain places at certain times that she probably would have had herself hypnotized. Therapy had also helped her recover the warning system that alerted her to people who were snakes and users. Although she still was not great at saying no, she had learned to reframe the questions people asked her. "I certainly could do what you are asking, but my skills are organizational. Perhaps I can help you in that way instead."
She had joined the group on the same day as Cathy Cromartie, another woman also in her late twenties. At that first meeting the two newcomers had sat side by side. They never had again. Jill did not dislike Cathy, not at all, but the dynamics of
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