As part of an undergraduate sociology class, our professor asked us to complete a questionnaire that would measure in which socio-economic stratus our families belonged. I was quite confident results would reveal mine to be soundly a part of the American middle class. All I knew was that my father worked long hours, my mother made home-cooked meals, and that we never seemed to lack for anything. If they ever argued, I never heard them. Living ten short blocks from the Capitol Building in Washington, DC, we played on cobblestone sidewalks and walked innocently down to a corner store for candy. As a little boy, I would even stop by a small liquor store to drop pennies into a gum ball machine. I knew that my mother would sometimes take me on the streetcar for a special animated movie at a large downtown theater. My father, a policemen, went off daily to fight crime while we ourselves experienced none that I knew of. Just a normal, stable middle class family, right?
Imagine my surprise when the results were tallied and I learned that we were officially identified as “upper-lower class.” Living so close to Pennsylvania Avenue, my world was small and there were few children with whom to socialize. I was somewhat aware that our neighbors in their small row houses were not as blessed as we were. My mother would regularly invite my few friends to stay for lunch or dinner as their parents permitted. She must have known more about these things than I did. Anyway, we went to our school a block away everyday and spent summers outside attempting hopscotch and jump rope on those unforgiving bricks. As a family we would sometimes take Sunday drives to see sites or to visit relatives. My brother and I would often play our guitars together. And, more often than not, a small radio sat atop a cabinet playing the top forty hits of the day. In short, I really had no way of comparing my life to those who were less or more fortunate.
And yet, upon further adult retrospection, I realize that the category in which we were placed did seem to fit. In truth, we were just a blue-collar family with one working parent and three children living in a house that belonged to my grandmother. Both sides of my family grew from rural farming areas of Maryland and Virginia dating back at least two centuries. While our neighborhood would eventually become known as “capitol hill” with homes owned by the rich and powerful, that was certainly not our experience there on E Street Southeast at the time. No, I never heard either parent yearn for more. Don’t get me wrong. There were plenty of emotional abrasions and mistakes along the way. However, whatever social class best described us, we were rich in basic values and comfortable with the simpler things.
From these modest beginnings, a life of opportunities blossomed. My upper-lower class parents never finished high school but were somehow able to see that we did and then pay for our college tuitions as well. My mother would send food down to Richmond via my visiting friends and my father would slip me a twenty dollar bill just before heading back to campus. They knew little about what it takes to be a college student but understood it was important to us and our futures. As a wonderful crescendo, upon defending my doctoral dissertation, I found great joy in making a collect call (remember those?) to my mother asking if she would accept charges from “Dr. Voit!” “Yes!” she shouted gleefully. This, it seemed, she could understand. Forever humble, I am sure she took no personal pride in this achievement. She was proud for me.
Although not immediately obvious, the point of this brief memoir is an attempt to trace how certain facets of my imperfect life experience have contributed to my philosophy and style as a psychologist. In my preface, I offered an overview of how my training, work experience, and clients taught me about diagnostics and therapeutic strategy. But I am also aware that one’s progression into a seasoned therapist requires extensive personal introspection into a history of challenge and change. In truth, I believe aspects of both are highly correlated and intertwined. I do know that the molding of my professional and personal orientation really began much earlier than formal education. It began in that upper-lower class home and continued until this day. Through this wide angle view of myself and my clients, I feel levels of humanity and normalcy become an integral element to assessing anyone’s emotional or behavioral makeup.
At some point along the way, I began describing myself as an “existential therapist.” Aside from the notable influence of psychiatrist and author Irvin Yalom and other eminent scholars, I have considered how I arrived at this self-portrait. I know that my extensive training in clinical hypnosis taught me a great deal about the nature of the unconscious and how symptoms are created and maintained. Even before donning this professional identity, I have believed that everyone bears the freedom and burden of responsibility to evaluate and guide our existence. I believe it is understood by most clinicians that lives are shaped by our thoughts, feelings, and choices across many years. And as I have written earlier, I believe that no two client stories are exactly the same and that all lives are destined to be unique and imperfect. Everyone will at some point suffer the emotional effects of those lives. Outside of medical or mental illness, our symptoms, failures, and successes are largely the aftermath of choices made for us and choices we have made for ourselves. In this way, the challenges we face and the ways we respond are all part of normal human existence.
And so I can see, with the benefit of hindsight, how these tenets describe my own journey through change. I see the rutted path of failures and adjustments that have led to a life of contentment and success. It’s not so much that I have always made the best choice, although there is really no way to know this. It’s more that I have taken after my father in doing what it takes to persevere. I could boast of my triumphs, but they are of far more value to myself than to my readers. Believe me, I am just as proud of overcoming obstacles and imperfect choices as I am of more obvious accomplishments. I have told clients of that letter of academic dismissal received after my disastrous first year in college and then pointed to my doctoral diploma on the wall. “Which one am I?” I ask. My answer is, “Both. I am both.”
Simultaneously, I can feel the presence of an influential and very active internal family.
I hear their presence in so many things. I hear the painfully shy, intercity kid who still leans towards introversion and privacy. I hear the adolescent who, although still socially awkward, has stood before strangers singing and lecturing to rooms of his peers. I’m aware of the young adult who faced major turning points but listened to his restlessness towards creating change. Most importantly, I hear my two parents who never finished high school, who hadn’t owned their own house until their youngest child turned nine, who worked only to pay the bills and provide comforts for the family. I hear my cautious mother saying, “Pay your bills, then have fun.” I see my father’s gun lying on his dresser. I never once touched it but appreciated the courage it took to wear. And I can still hear my grandmother in her apron humming favorite hymns as she went about life seemingly comforted by her faith.
Although it might sound like an oxymoron, I am proud of my humility. I find great pleasure in many memories as well as the breadth of my entire life story. I know that my periods of anxiety, depression, or discontent have been the result of choices made and resolved by the responsibility and courage to make new ones. I know that my triggers were created over many years and are welcome to my conscious response. It is a blend of humble roots and career success, northern intellect and southern sensibilities, mother’s nerves and father’s work ethic. I like to see myself as normal. To me, being an existential psychotherapist lies in believing that we are all normal and in conveying this reality to my clients. There so many things we can’t control and we definitely cannot control the past. But here, right now, in this moment, we have choices. And if we fall flat with those choices, we will have more to make tomorrow.
