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Support Group Revelations

Anita G. Gorman

    Dr. Helene Marker Bolster Brewer liked to use all three of her surnames, since her father had been a renowned psychologist, and so had her first and second husbands. She herself had a doctorate in psychology and realized that perhaps she should take on a brand-new name, sloughing off any desire to bask in the glory of her own patriarchy. But she had not done that yet, and wouldn’t, not until she made a name for herself. And that was what she was trying to do with her very own Suppression Support Group.
    Dr. Brewer had come to the conclusion that all we have to do is expose those hidden memories, and all would be well. She had therefore advertised her Suppression Support Group in the local newspaper, appeared on a talk radio show, and now had a group of six women ready to unburden themselves of their suppressed traumas.
    This was their first meeting. Dr. Brewer began to outline her goals. “What we want to do, my dears, is hunt for those suppressed memories that are still hurting us.”
    A young woman with red hair raised her hand. “What if they aren’t suppressed memories? What if they’re bad memories that still hurt us every day?”
    Dr. Brewer smiled. “Oh, it will be fine if you want to talk about a memory that is already in your consciousness. And perhaps probing that memory may lead to something else that one has buried.” Or so she hoped. Dr. Brewer was counting on lots of horrific, suppressed memories for her book. “Shall we begin? Please just state your first name and mention one thing in your past that you would like to get off your chest, suppressed or not.” She nodded at the young woman to her left.
    “Hi. I’m Mary Ruth. I can’t sleep at night, and when I do sleep I dream the same dream. I dream that my mother is not my mother. My real biological mother is really my aunt.”
    Everyone was looking at Mary Ruth. Dr Brewer decided to comment, after a long pause. “Do you actually believe that your mother is not your mother, and that your aunt is your mother?”
    “Yes, I think so.”
    “Why, my dear, has that idea occurred to you?’
    “My mother and my aunt are identical twins.”
    “So?”
    “Well, don’t you see? I look like my mother, but I also look like my Aunt Mabel.”
    “Yes, well, if your mother and your aunt are identical twins, that makes sense. But why do you think your aunt is your biological mother?”
    “Because she’s so nice to me.”
    “Is your mother not nice to you?”
    “Well, my so-called mother is nice to me most of the time, but she also yells at me and scolds me and punishes me when I do bad things.”
    “And do you do bad things?”
    “Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”
    Dr. Brewer ignored the question. “So you are saying that because your aunt is always nice to you, she must be your real mother.”
    Mary Ruth nodded energetically. “Yes. Of course. Doesn’t it make sense?”
    Dr. Brewer pondered the question for a moment before answering. “Were your parents married when you were born?”
    Mary Ruth nodded. “Yes, of course.”
    “And do you have any reason to believe that your father was having sex with your aunt?”
    Mary Ruth looked horrified. “Oh, no! He wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
    “Then, Mary Ruth, I suspect that the woman who says she is your mother is really your mother. That’s the way it is with mothers: they yell and scold and punish and try to make kids into respectful, law-abiding human beings who become educated and hold jobs. Aunts, what do they have to do? Just be pleasant and bring presents to their nieces and nephews. Not a lot of work, if you ask me.”
    Mary Ruth was looking depressed. Dr. Brewer was feeling depressed. It was going to take more work before she had enough material for a blockbuster of a book.

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