#even the implication towards her death where she was becoming more like the doctor l | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dudeandduchess · 4 years ago

Text

Obsession: Yandere!Kyōjurō x F!S/O (NSFW Scenario)[Part 2]

Summary: After years of planning out how to get and keep (Y/n) for himself, Kyōjurō finally gives in to his baser instincts and lets the yandere inside him take over. He’d expected her to run away from him, yet he was in for a big surprise when she was more than willing to be consumed by him. Heart, body, and soul; his eternal captive.

Warnings: Smut, Yandere Kyōjurō, D/s Themes, Possessive Kyō, Language, Teasing, Blowjob, Bondage, Cum Swallowing, Deep Throating/Throat Fucking, Ball Sucking, Dub Con/Non Con, Implications of Violence, Mentions of Blood

Part 1 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5

***

A hateful glare bored into a haunting pair of demonic eyes, narrowing even further as helplessness crept into every inch of the demon’s body as he knelt on the floor. No one would have believed him had he said that a mere human’s eyes could turn so dangerous— like how the man’s red tinged irises in front of him had become.

“Have we come to an agreement, demon?” Kyōjurō’s chilly voice washed over the bound demon at his feet, making the said creature subconsciously cower in on himself; if only to avoid the tip of the sword that was trained at his neck.

“Ye- yes.” The demon’s quiet whimper of an answer was enough to have the Flame Hashira smiling as he sheathed his sword.

“If there are any casualties, or any serious injuries… especially to the eldest daughter of the house,” He shook his head then, the smile on his face turning into a scowl while the warning in his eyes flared even brighter. “I will make sure your death is long and painful.”

And with their agreement in place, Kyōjurō stepped away from the demon and while giving the other man’s arm a light kick with his right foot.

“Go.”

He knew that what he was doing wasn’t right, or befitting of a man of his position— whom had sworn to protect humans— but it was the most foolproof plan that he had to make sure that he got to keep (Y/n) in the end.

No matter what it took.

***

The cacophony of screams and pleas cut through the dream that was playing in (Y/n)’s mind. She shot upright from her bed, when the blood curdling screeches, as well as the chilling sound of claws scratching against wood, wiped any and every trace of sleep from her body.

Immediately, she scrambled up onto her feet— bypassing the slippers at the foot of her bed, as she grabbed the tantō that she kept in her bedside drawer.

Fear was slowly starting to consume her, making her hands shake as she unsheathed the weapon and held it in her right hand— poised to defend herself if needed.

And, with one deep breath, she set out to explore the house. Only to see the wreckage just outside of her room; doors ripped free from their hinges—as if they were nothing more than flimsy paper— and blood splattered all over the walls.

(Y/n) thought that she was brave before, yet the shakiness in her hands— as well as the definite blanking out of her mind— proved that she was not as tough as she pretended to be.

Despite her fears, however, those fiery eyes appeared in her mind’s eye; causing a chill to run down her spine, even as she held her weapon higher.

Instantly, she pushed the thought of those eyes away. She didn’t need to see them now, all because the man who owned them was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. He was only a recurring dream.

No man could have snuck into her room in the dead of the night; there was simply no explanation for it. Had he been real, there should have also been marks that would have been left by the ropes he’d used on her, yet there were none.

She was sure of it, as she had spent an hour staring at her ankles and wrists when she woke up. So, she had deduced what had happened the past week as nothing more than a vivid dream.

The sound of another blood curdling scream pierced the night air, prompting (Y/n) to snap out of her reverie and go padding down the wrecked hallways; following the whimpers and sobs that came after the cry that was definitely from her mother.

Her heart pounded so heavily in her chest, almost making her breathless with worry— while her brain quickly rifled through all of the possible scenarios. She couldn’t help but think of the worst, because the condition of her own surroundings brought forth the darkest of assumptions from her.

Finally, though, she reached the room where the sobs were coming from; and in the far corner she saw her father holding her younger brother, as well as her mother. However, it wasn’t only them that was present within the carnage.

There, stood in the middle of the trashed room— which used to be their main tea room— stood a man possessing vibrant blond hair with red tips that was tied back; the same shade of hair as that man.

At that very moment, her heart began beating faster for an entirely different reason. Because, right there, standing with his back to her with a bloody sword in his hand, was the same man from her dream.

Laid at his feet were the remains of a body which was slowly smoldering away; turning into ashes and floating into nothingness. Still, her attention was solely on the blond stranger.

(Y/n) couldn’t turn her attention away from him, even if she tried.

There really was no mistaking it, especially when he turned around and regarded her with a handsome— yet terrifying— smile.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to hurt you.”

She couldn’t help but flinch at that, as well as raise the tantō that she still gripped tightly in her right hand. Because he might have been the same man from her dreams, but she didn’t know him at all; nor did she know what his intentions were.

So it was best for her to be on guard.

Yet, the more that he stepped towards her, the more that she felt her body giving into his placating gesture: one hand raised up to his chest, while his other one sheathed his sword.

The young woman’s eyes darted between the fiery pair that belonged to the stranger, then flitted over to her family— whom were shakily beginning to get up from the corner of the room. They were fine, save for a few scratches, which relieved her immensely.

Still, she considered the man in front of her as a threat.

“S-Stay back,” (Y/n) managed to squeak out, despite the lump that was lodged inside her throat. “Don’t come any closer.”

Kyōjurō had to admit that he was upset at the turn of events, but he pushed down the irritation and offense that he felt at his beloved’s defensiveness. “Lower your weapon, I’m not here to hurt you.”

“It’s true, (Y/n). He saved us,” The (L/n) patriarch croaked out from where he was eyeing the situation warily. He didn’t want his daughter to get hurt by the blond man, as the aforementioned stranger radiated nothing but power and danger from his very skin.

Once more, her eyes darted over to her family, which was her biggest mistake— as the Flame Hashira took her momentary distraction as his chance to close the distance between them. In two big strides, he was already upon her— gripping her weapon wielding hand by the wrist, and gently lowering it to her side.

“I’m never going to hurt you, sweetheart.” Kyōjurō couldn’t resist then; he lifted his right hand up to her face and traced the outline of her cheek with his fingertips, smiling even more at the sense of familiarity that shone in (Y/n)’s eyes. “Good girl.”

***

No matter how hard (Y/n) tried, her heart still wouldn’t stop beating frantically inside her chest. Even the trepidation that bubbled up within her wouldn’t dissipate, despite the pristinely quiet air that surrounded her in her new room.

Thankfully, only one wing of their mansion was damaged by the demon attack, and no one was seriously injured from it; merely a few cuts and scratches, but nothing that warranted a visit from the family doctor. The downside, however, was that it afforded them the ability to accommodate their family’s ‘savior’— as her parents had called Rengoku Kyōjurō.

She was happy that she finally had a name for the face, yet she couldn’t shake the warring feelings inside her. Part of her wanted to fight him tooth and nail, but another— much scarier— part of her wanted nothing but to submit to him.

Everything that she was, and everything that she will be… she wanted to give it to him. Like a pet with its master.

And with that unsettling thought ringing inside her head, she closed her eyes and willed her mind into emptiness— forcibly screwing her eyes shut and praying for sleep to come to her sooner.

It was all she could do to try and escape from him. At least for the moment, because she had to get her rest; if she was going to have to see him in the morning for a celebratory breakfast.

***

When she opened her eyes, however, it wasn’t to a bright and beautiful morning— like she had expected. Yet everything still looked so surreal, that she knew that she had to be dreaming.

There was no way that the man from earlier— Kyōjurō— was smiling down at her at that very moment. She had left him in his room, and there had been footmen stationed just outside of her room, as a precaution; in case their guest didn’t have such pure intentions in the first place.

She tried to look around the room, only to have Kyōjurō’s fingers grip her chin and hold her gaze steadily at him. “Eyes on me, my love. I deserve it, after all.”

His voice was still saccharine sweet; practically dripping with honey that had her getting a little wet, what with how seductive it was. And when she caught sight of his hand moving from the corner of her eye, she lowered her gaze to where it was— making her eyes widen and her cheeks flush a warm and vibrant red.

Because, right there, within his hand, was his rigid cock. It was thick, veiny, and ended up with a little curve towards the end— and it had her mouth watering for it; needing to taste him on her tongue. Especially when she caught sight of the pre-cum glistening at his tip.

She had never done it with anyone before, had never even had sex— aside from the vivid dreams she had— yet she always found herself fantasizing about it. And the more that she thought about it, the more that she realized that her fantasies didn’t revolve around faceless men, but always with the blond man in front of her.

The realization had her eyes widening, as she also tried to push herself upright— yet the moment that she moved her arms, it was only then that it dawned on her that she couldn’t pull her arms apart, as they were bound together with a white belt.

The same belt that had been around Kyōjurō’s waist when she last saw him.

Her panic must have been evident on her face, since the aforementioned man let go of her chin in favor of cupping the right side of her face; all while letting his thumb gently press down on her bottom lip. “I’m not going to hurt you, my sweet flame. I’m only here to… collect one of my rewards.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer then, merely sat up on his haunches and brought the tip of his cock to her lips. His pre-cum smeared against her bottom lip, which Kyōjurō couldn’t help but grin at.

“Absolutely beautiful.”

Slowly, his thumb dragged (Y/n)’s bottom lip down— opening her mouth up to him; which the young woman found herself giving in to. Seamlessly, she followed his lead, even opening her mouth wider as he touched his dick to the flat of her tongue.

And instantly, she was hit with the salty taste of his pre-cum, the bitter aftertaste almost made her want to balk, yet she pushed past the unpleasantness and focused on looking back up into Kyōjurō’s eyes.

He wanted to melt on the spot then and there, because the innocent look on her eyes was too much to handle, especially when she paired it with the way that she opened her mouth further and poked her tongue out to shyly lick at his tip.

Kyōjurō tried to hold himself back— he really did— yet the alluring call of her warm mouth was too much of a temptation to even resist. And he found himself moving his left hand up to her hair, gripping the strands lightly as he pushed more and more of his length into (Y/n)’s wet mouth.

Her teeth had brushed against his skin, yet he remedied that immediately by tapping the side of her face with his right hand. “Wider, and wrap your lips around your teeth.”

Even as the words left his mouth though, he kept pushing deeper and deeper inside her, until he hit the back of her throat and made her gag around him.

“Such a good girl,” The Hashira’s words fell on (Y/n)’s eager ears, secretly spurring her further as she tried to ignore her gag reflex; breathing through it, despite the tears pricking her eyes. And when she saw his eyes flutter shut as he began lightly thrusting into her mouth, she felt all colors of aroused because of him.

Just seeing himself enjoying her mouth had her wanting to please him even further; and, unlike in her other dreams, she found herself growing much more eager for his attention. She especially loved it when he began muttering all sorts of praise for her.

It fed something inside her that she had desperately tried to bury; a secret need that she had always tried to ignore, and one that he was slowly fulfilling with every honey-laden word that fell from his lips.

Before long, (Y/n) had already gotten past her initial instinct to gag; instead opening her mouth further and letting Kyōjurō fuck her throat despite the tears that pooled in her eyes.

“Such an amazing mouth,” The Flame Hashira whispered with a moan, eyes still screwed shut as he lost himself to the heady pleasure of his beloved’s warm mouth. “On my pretty girl.”

At that point, (Y/n) willingly allowed him to guide her head in time with his thrusts; wanting nothing more than to reach between her legs to play with herself— but somewhere along the way, Kyōjurō had turned her on to her side, so she was leaning on her left elbow just to pleasure him.

It was straining her neck and back, yet she couldn’t care less as he kept reaping pleasure from her. His moans were like a heady drug; a symphony that she wanted to listen to all night, especially when he would hold her still when he bottomed out inside her throat; lightly choking her on his dick.

She didn’t know how long had passed, but she found herself wishing that the night would drag on— so she can stay even longer in her fantasy.

However, she was shaken from her lust-riddled stupor when the Hashira pulled his length from her mouth; fisting it in his right hand and pumping it rapidly, all while he guided his balls up to her lips.

(Y/n) looked up at him once more, flushing under his intense gaze as he waited for her to do his silent command. And slowly, she latched her lips onto one sac and teased the skin with her tongue; completely shameless as she lost herself to the headiness of his moans and groans, especially partnered with the wet sounds of him jerking his glistening length.

“I’m so close, my love, keep sucking like that,” The young man urged, groaning even louder when (Y/n) moved on to his other sac, while maneuvering her bound hands to fondle the recently-freed one. “Fuck. You’re so amazing. Just like that.”

The hand that Kyōjurō had around his cock began moving at an even faster pace, as his hips jerked involuntarily with the approach of his imminent orgasm. He tried to delay it for as long as he could, yet the urge to shoot his cum on her tongue and watch her swallow every last drop was a temptation that was too much to pass up on.

“Stick your tongue out.”

So, he found himself pulling her back with the hand that he had in her hair, aiming his slit right at her sinful mouth and blowing his load onto her tongue; spurting so much of his thick seed that some of it had missed and had begun dripping down her chin— and inevitably down her throat.

And as he came down from his high, he never once looked away from her.

“Now, swallow everything.” With that command, (Y/n) closed her parted lips and swallowed all of Kyōjurō’s seed; holding back a cough as she was not used to the taste. Yet. “Good girl.”

His praise rang in the air like a beautiful chime of bells; so at odds with the heated and lustful look in his eyes as he collected all of the traces of his cum from her chin and throat, before smearing it all over her lips. Then, of her own accord, (Y/n) poked her tongue out and licked up all of his seed that was on her lips.

The sight itself was enough to have Kyōjurō’s cock twitching to life once more, but he knew that it still wasn’t time to fully take her. When he finally took her entirety, he wanted her to have nothing and no one else in her mind— and her heart— aside from him.

“I love you so much. So, so much, my pretty little pet.”

Note: I feel like I have to say that Kyō is a Yandere in this fic, which would explain why he isn’t acting like his usual self. So yeah, what’s going to happen isn’t something that he would do as canon Kyō. Also, (Y/n)’s ‘dreams’ really aren’t dreams. She just thinks that they are.

And Biz helped me out with the coming pet-master dynamic that Kyō and his lover are starting to breach. It’s essentially the start of Kyō’s possessiveness. So that dynamic was all because if her.

359 notes · View notes

gravitymirage · 7 years ago

Text

Taking Back Control - Part 10

Warning: this chapter contains an attempt at severe self-mutilation and implies emotional abuse. If you still wish to read the chapter, the particular section of harm will have an * before and after. This selected section doesn’t mention anything particularly graphic, just the implications of what could’ve happened. I’m not sure if its triggering but I’m trying to be safe. The emotional abuse is impossible to avoid – it’s for plot and character development. Basically, this chapter is pure angst, as always whenever Dark appears. Hope you can enjoy regardless.

Dr Iplier kept his eyes locked with the monochrome being before him, pulling up his professional, confident façade. Bim, however, was grasping his hands together in a death grip, gaze averted to the floor. Amy could feel him crumple in on himself in a desperate attempt to hide. The doctor answered Dark’s inquiry carefully.

“Yes, Miss Nelson knows of Mark’s arrival tomorrow.” Dark tilted his head, letting his neck crack, before smiling. It was dead, a slight stretch of the lips that never met his eyes.

“Have you informed her of where she will be staying throughout this event?” The voice echoed through the infirmary, and Amy unwillingly flinched back.

“I was getting to that, Sir.” The doctor spoke through gritted teeth, his hands clenching at the fabric of his coat. Dark’s mouth twisted slightly at the sarcasm and anger in the doctor’s tone, leading to a somehow more horrific smile. Their pale grey complexion gave them the appearance of stone, or a dead man being carefully played by an expert puppeteer. Dark waved his hand in a smooth, dismissive gesture, shaking his head slightly.

“No need Doctor, I can take it from here.” He gazed at Amy, his eyes glinting from the shadows. “You will remain in your room, Miss Nelson. I apologise for the inconvenience, I know you must miss Mark very much. You will be allowed to see him soon.” Amy kept her mouth shut, mainly because there was nothing to say, it was a command, not a question. Besides, Dark was yet to show any signs of knowing Dr Iplier’s plan, and she had no intention of bringing his attention to it. “Now Doctor, can I ask you a question?”

Maybe she had spoken too soon.

“What is it?”

“Google was assigned to watch Miss Nelson, yet he isn’t here now. You aren’t talking behind my back now are you, doctor?” Amy tried to hide her distress. Surprisingly, Dr Iplier loosened up, smiling slightly.

“So that’s what’s gotten you worked up! No Dark, I was informing Amy about Mark’s arrival, and checking up on her concussion. Will shot Google again, he’s off repairing himself. He’ll be back shortly.” Dark nodded slowly, assessing the occupants of the room.

“And, it appears Mr Trimmer is also aiding in this endeavour?” Bim whimpered at the mention of his name.

“Yes, he is-”

“Hush now Doctor, let the man speak for himself.” Bim’s eyes shot up fearfully; his body tensed up beside her. “You’re aiding Miss Nelson, Bim?” He nodded frantically.

“Yes, Sir. She was willing for me to aid her and I’ve been assisting Google with his task!” He spoke quickly but still pronounced each word carefully to avoid error. He clasped his sweating hands together, offering a nervous smile. Dark nodded slowly, sensing the man’s unease. Playing with his prey. Amy couldn’t help but feel pity.

“Google allowed this?”

“Yes, Sir.” Bim didn’t mention that he had tricked the robot into it.

“And it’s all going smoothly?” Bim’s gaze flicked to Amy.

“Yes, S-Sir.” He faltered, and immediately he realised his mistake.

“Was that a stutter, Bim?” Dark straightened his suit and stared the man down intently. Amy and Dr Iplier were powerless to do anything.

“N-no S-Sir.” Bim cringed, covering his mouth his hand and muttering desperately. His eyes watered. Dark tutted, shaking his head slightly. The ringing increased.

“Don’t lie to me Bim. You know you can’t be a successful host if you can’t speak clearly. That is what you want to be, yes?” Bim was shaking.

“Yes, S-Sir. I’m s-sorry, Sir. I didn’t m-mean…” He trailed off, gulping. He wiped at his eyes anxiously.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Trimmer. You can’t say sorry on stage. How can you help Amy if you can’t speak clearly?” It was rhetorical, Amy didn’t get a chance to respond, it felt as if her mouth had been taped shut. Dark pinched the bridge of his nose in feigned frustration, and Bim lapped it right up. “I’m trying to help you, Bim.”

“I know, Sir I’m s-sorry. L-Let me-” Bim slurred away in hysterics.

“Come here, Bim.” Amy felt her blood turn to ice. Dark’s tone was cold and heartless, and there was no chance for escape now. She watched as Bim’s words died in his throat and his shoulders slumped.

“Sir, please, don’t…” Amy glanced at Dr Iplier, who looked just as mortified. There wasn’t anything they could do. Dark gestured at the floor next to him expectantly, and Bim choked back a sob. He shuffled over in defeat, falling deathly quiet. He stood beside Dark, avoiding eye contact with Amy and the doctor, instead settling his gaze onto his shoes. He was submissive, like Dark’s pet dog, following every command like his life depended on it. Maybe it did. Dark turned to Dr Iplier, smiling mockingly

“I will allow you to finish your check-up alone, Doctor.” Dr Iplier, nodded stiffly, his hands clenched tightly. Dark noted this, his gaze sweeping over the alter with calculating eyes. “Have you taken your medication today?” The doctor froze up, and Amy guarded her expression. She wouldn’t let Dark have the satisfaction of seeing her confusion.

“No.” he growled through gritted teeth, and Dark inclined his head.

“I suspected as much, make sure not to forget. I expect Amy to be in her room by nightfall.” Dark placed his pale hand on Bim shoulder, and she felt her heart clench as the man flinched. The two left, closing the curtains behind them. Their shadows disappeared immediately. The ringing was the only thing to fade away, and the second it was gone crushing relief hit her. It was fleeting, almost immediately replaced with guilt as Bim’s absence seeped in. Amy turned to confront the doctor and found him staring hollowly at the curtains. Before she could speak up, he spun around violently, causing her to leap back. He kicked the hospital bed, rattling out a loud string of curses.

“That fucking…” With a cry of frustration, he slashed out his arms, sending the equipment trolley spinning and clattering down towards the curtain, a few medical tools toppling to the floor. “Couldn’t even fucking stop it. What kind of shitty doctor am I?” After a few more kicks at the bed, he sat down heavily on the mattress, ripping at his hair, growling out blasphemies. A few moments passed where they both sat there, and Amy was unsure of what to say. Then, without a word, Dr Iplier stood, walking over to a sink and pouring himself a glass of water. He opened a cabinet, found the pills Amy assumed to be his ‘medication’ and downed them with the water. He placed the glass in the sink, then proceeded to sit down on the bed once more, looking up at Amy. She took this as her cue to speak.

“What’s going to happen to him?” She asked quietly, and the doctor sighed, rubbing his face. The way his tired eyes regarded her made him look much older than he was.

“I don’t know.” His voice was raspy defeated. Amy could tell by looking at him that this was a situation the doctor had gone through many times before. Watching his patients and friends taken away in front of him, before being left to pick up the pieces. She already had some suspicions about what the medication was for. “I’ve known something was wrong for the longest time. If it offers any reassurance, I doubt Dark will injure him. He doesn’t like getting his hands dirty, and there’s no need for him to.” What was worse was the way the doctor regarded her. He was tired and miserable, yet he was always looking at her. Always accessing her condition. Always making sure she was alright. He wasn’t considering himself.

“When did this start?” She realised that was quite vague, “I mean, when did Dark start treating Bim like this?” He leaned back, scratching at his slight beard.

“I remember every alter that’s ever appeared. I should anyway, I’ve given them all a medical record. Mr Bim Trimmer first arrived on the 10th of December 2014, one of the later ones. He was a bustling happy young man, if not a bit egotistical. I’d found him a bit too energetic and one-track minded for my tastes, that was until he first appeared at my clinic one night.” A small smile graced Dr Iplier’s lips, and it somehow made him look even sadder. “He been utterly distraught, said he’d thought his heart had been broken. It was when Bim had first realised that Matthias had used him to get a job and had never really loved him. I think it was then that I realised there was more to his character than just ego. It was when I realised he was a person too. It wasn’t much later when he suddenly disappeared.”

“Why?” The doctor observed her solemnly.

“It didn’t take long for the fans to forget about him, and Dark saw no use for him. Bim left for the forest like every other forgotten alter. It hit him harder than any of the others, he was designed to be confident and egotistical. Bim didn’t take everyone forgetting him well. Even Mark had forgotten him.”

“That’s awful.” And Amy meant it. She couldn’t have known this was happening. She wondered if Mark had even known just how many of his characters were suffering. If he had, would he have tried to stop it? Dr Iplier nodded slowly.

“We were all being forgotten, slowly and steadily the alters were becoming no more. That is until Dark couldn’t stand it any longer. He and Wilford were the strongest of all of us, and when they asked for Bim’s abilities, he had leapt at the opportunity. Dark hadn’t needed any manipulation to get Bim on his side. Sometimes, I think Dark just relishes in breaking people. I can’t even imagine what goes through that monster’s head as he leaves Bim slowly shattering apart. He’s made Bim so reliant on his opinion that he’ll believe anything he says. Not long now before Bim truly loses everything he once stood for. He cares about you a lot Amy, and that’s saying something. He’s scared of everyone else, even me. He’s thrown all his hope and trust at Dark, and I have to sit and watch as it gets sucked away, turning the once optimistic young man into a hollow shell.” The doctor didn’t even seem to register the rant that had left his lips as he wiped his watering eyes, sighing. “I’m sick of watching everyone break around me, and now you’ve been dragged into it as well. If you wish you can go back to your room. Try and avoid the theatre, though Wilford’s probably already forgotten whatever he’d had planned.” Amy shook her head sternly, eyeing the doctor down.

“I’m waiting here with you, Bim will be back, right?” The doctor shrugged.

“I don’t know. I just hope that he’s smart enough to know that if he’s being hurt, I’m willing to treat him no questions asked. Though, he’s got too much pride to admit to anything, even if he’s bad at hiding his pain.” The doctor looked over at Amy carefully. “If you have any more questions I’m willing to answer.”

“Is the plan still going again?” A nod.

“Oliver’s already been rigged to send the email next time Mark accesses his computer. Though, as you now know, you’ll have to stay in your room.” Amy thought for a moment.

“Do you know where the Host’s been?” A shrug.

“I understand that you wouldn’t know this, but it’s rare for the Host to leave his wing. I’ve been over the change his bandages, but other than that I leave him alone, as do the others. He doesn’t like disturbances or loud noises. He just locks himself in and writes, occasionally hosting his game show. He doesn’t eat, and I’d bet he doesn’t sleep. It isn’t healthy, but all my attempts to stop it have failed.”

* to the end.

They’d only been talking like this for a little while longer when Bim suddenly burst into the room. His face was red and shone with tears. He tossed his suit jacket to the side and with wild eyes dashed for the equipment trolley. Dr Iplier immediately jumped to his feet, but Amy got there first. She managed to restrain Bim, who was grasping desperately towards the various medical equipment positioned on the surface. The doctor quickly pushed the trolley away.

“Let go of me! Please, I have to…” The doctor held up his hands placatingly.

“Bim, calm down. Explain to me what’s going on.” Bim shook his head wildly, still attempting to escape Amy’s hold.

“I c-can’t! You wouldn’t let me!” The room started to twist and mould around them. It was as if time had sped up, the room slowly turning decrepit and decaying as roots seeped through the walls and twisted around the furniture. Dirt and dust built up, leading to growth spreading out from the floors. Amy glanced around in awe.

“What’s happening?”

“Amy, it’s just Bim’s illusions! Keep hold of-“

It was too late.

Bim broke free of her loosened grasp and grasped for the tools that had been scattered across the floor in the doctor’s earlier outburst. He fell the floor, his glasses snapping as they fell from his face and were crushed under his writhing form. The man’s hand found a scalpel. Amy reached down, only to have her palm sliced with the blade, causing her to stagger back. She held on hand tightly over the other to stem the blood flow, hissing from the sting. Dr Iplier grabbed Bim from behind, pulling him back. The scalpel slashed at Bim’s mouth, and the doctor quickly grabbed his hand, although not before the blade reached Bim’s lip. Blood trickled down his chin and stained Bim’s white dress shirt.

“Bim, please. Take a few breaths. Try to explain what happened ok?” Amy stood frozen, watching the as Bim broke, tears mixing with the blood. The scalpel hit the floor with a clang. He spat out a mouthful of blood. The room continued to crumble and decay.

“I c-can’t st-stutter if I don’t h-have a tongue…” The doctor’s eyes widened. They shook their head in disbelief.

“Bim, what did he say to you?”

“The tr-truth. I’m use-useless. I can’t d-do my j-job properly, I’m a s-stupid sh-shitty alter that’s b-been for-forgotten…” he splattered out more blood. “I haven-haven’t listened t-to any of h-his advice, I’m n-never going to be a g-game show h-host…”

“Bim, the entire fan base loves you. Have you not checked social media?” Bim furrowed his brow.

“D-Dark won’t let me. He s-says it’s to p-protect m-me.” Dr Iplier sighed.

“He’s lying Bim. I’ll have to show you some time. Here, let’s get that lip patched up, come on.” He hoisted Bim up, pulling him into a sitting position on the nearest bed. “What happened to your jacket?”

“I r-ripped it. It’s n-not good enough. I’m going t-to get another, maybe a b-better tie…”

“Bim, your clothes are fine. What we need to get you is a new pair of glasses.” Amy finally managed to catch the doctors eye, glancing at her bleeding hand desperately. His eyes widened. “Alright Amy, let me get you a band-aid. Actually, bandages might be better for that…” Suddenly, all the illusions flickered away as Bim made eye-contact with her. It seemed he’d only just realised she was there. His eyes trailed down to her bleeding palm.

“A-Amy I d-didn’t see you…” The alter started shaking, “I swear I did-didn’t, I’m so, s-so sorry…”

“Bim, it’s fine, look.” She gestured with her free hand as the doctor wrapped her wound with bandages. “Nothing a few bandages won’t fix. We need to look at that lip…” Bim flinched, a hand wiping at the blood, only causing more to smear across his face. They winced at the pain, averting their gaze away from her in shame. Dr Iplier looked him over, before eyeing Amy seriously.

“It might be best if you leave. You’ll be going tomorrow, I need a moment with Bim.” Amy nodded slowly, numbly making her way out of the room. She took one last glance the doctor kneeled in front of his crying patient. This wasn’t about her safety anymore, she realised as she snuck back down to her room, keeping an eye out for Wilford. This was about all the other alters as well.

She had to get them out of here.

Start - Previous - Next

#taking back control #part 10 #darkiplier #markiplier #amy nelson #dr iplier #bim trimmer #wilford warfstache #fanfic #markiplier alter egos #blood tw #emotional abuse #angst #so much angst #kill me #the host

55 notes · View notes

northamptoncouplestherapy · 5 years ago

Link

Not long ago, I used to joke that as a feminist family therapist I was obsolete twice over: once for being a family therapist and a systemic thinker— instead of being, say, a CBT practitioner—and then once again for being a feminist. I mean, who cared about feminism anymore? The points had been made, the lessons learned, and to some degree at least, the battles won—or at least on the way to being won. Feminism seemed to be old news. Gender issues in therapy? If anyone spoke about that anymore, it was to reenvision the whole idea—trans-kids, gender-fluid kids, straight men sleeping with other straight men. As for the impact of traditional gender roles on couples, on society—as for conversations about patriarchy and its effects—psychotherapists seemed largely to have lost interest.

Then 2016 happened.

When I gave a workshop called “Working with Challenging Men” at the 2015 Networker Symposium, it drew an audience of about 50 participants. When I was asked this year to give the same workshop, it drew an audience of more than 250. What happened to swell the ranks of those interested? We all know the answer: Donald Trump.

No matter what your political persuasion, it’s hard to deny that we have a man in the White House who behaves in ways that are not only challenging, but atavistic, offensive, and often downright frightening. Trump has called women “fat pigs,” ridiculed their appearance on social media, objectified and mocked them in person, and in his most unvarnished moment, bragged about assaulting them.

He’s regularly displayed behaviors one might’ve thought disqualifying in a public official. Harvard President Lawrence Summers was ousted almost immediately for asserting that women may have less innate math abilities than men—gone, and for a good reason. But “grab ’em by the pussy” from the leader of the free world? Democrats certainly thought it wouldn’t wash, but their efforts to make Trump’s character the issue in the election didn’t work. Each time they were freshly outraged by Trump’s behavior, his poll numbers grew.

So here’s a sobering thought: suppose Trump was elected not despite his offensive, misogynous behaviors but, at least in part, because of them. Whatever other factors determined the outcome of the election, a significantly large number of Americans, both men and women, educated and less educated, appear to have wanted a bully—or, said differently, a strongman—to be their nation’s leader. In a time perceived as dangerous, a time when the government seemed too paralyzed to accomplish much, when conservatives portrayed Obama as weak, ruminative, even feminine, we turned to a self-stylized alpha male.

Trump is a type. He fits the mold of other uber-tough guys of either sex that he openly admires and emulates: Erdogan in Turkey, Orban in Hungary, the Brexit leaders and Theresa May in the UK, and of course, there’s his storied bromance with Putin. Rarely noted is the fact that not just in the US, but sweeping throughout the West, this new so-called populism is gendered. Its appeal doesn’t lie exclusively with men. Factions of men and women these days are feeling a powerful pull toward many of the notions of traditional masculinity—and not just those few that make for good character, like real courage or loyalty. What we’re witnessing is a reassertion of masculinity’s most difficult and harmful traits: aggression, narcissism, sexual assaultiveness, grandiosity, and contempt.

And yet we psychotherapists, as a field, have remained largely silent about this resurgence, hamstrung by an ethical code that prohibits diagnosis or clinical discussion of public figures from afar. In our offices, we assiduously practice neutrality with regard to anything that smacks of the debates going on in the political realm, petrified that we might impose our values on vulnerable clients. But is neutrality in these times really in our clients’ best interests? Consider a recent couples session in my office with Julia, a petite and straight-backed woman, who lost her customary poise as she recounted her troubled week with her husband, Bob.

“I’m shot,” she confesses. “Frayed. Like a horse that shies away from the slightest sound.”

“She’s pretty spooked,” the laconic Bob agrees.

Julia smiles ruefully. “My poor husband tried to make love the other night, and I practically bit his head off.” What was triggering her so acutely? Haltingly, little by little, the trauma story winds its way out of her. First, she recalls the “ick factor,” as she puts it, of feeling her selfish, boundaryless father notice her physical development as an adolescent. Then there was the time he danced with her and had an erection, and finally, the night he drank too much and out and out groped her. “No one stood up for me. No one protected me. And now, ever since the election, I won’t let Bob near me,” Julia cries. “Just here, sitting here with you two men, walking the streets, I feel so unsafe.”

I take a deep breath and say what’s hanging like a lead weight in the air. “Your father’s in the White House,” I tell her. She doubles over, weeping hard. But she also reaches for her husband’s hand.

All over America women like Julia, who have histories of molestation, have been triggered by the ascendency of Trump. Julia is certainly in need of some trauma treatment, obviously; but to my mind, that comes second. The first order of business with her is naming the reality of what she’s facing. There’s a sexually demeaning man in the White House. This is real, not just about her sensitivities. For me to take a neutral stance on the issue, emphasizing Julia’s feelings and deemphasizing the actual circumstance, comes too close to minimization or denial, a replay of the covert nature of her father’s abuse to begin with. It was important, I felt, to speak truth to power; it was important for me as her therapist to name names.

THE HAZARDS OF MASCULINITY Let me be clear. I haven’t been for 40 years, nor will I ever be, neutral on the issue of patriarchy in my work. Traditional gender roles are a bad deal for both sexes. And they’re particularly toxic for men. The evidence couldn’t be clearer. In fact, the World Health Organization (WHO) has issued a statement implicating traditional masculine values as inimical to good health.

Let’s take a stark, bottomline issue: death. Men live 7 to 10 years less than women do, not because of some genetic differences, as most people imagine, but because men act like, well, men. For one, we don’t seek help as often as women do; it’s unmanly. Indeed, as I once wrote about male depression, “A man is as likely to ask for help with depression as he is to ask for directions.” And men are more noncompliant with treatment when we do get it. Also, we take many more risks. That driver without a seatbelt—odds are that’s a man. Men drink more, take drugs more, are more than three times as likely to be imprisoned, and five times as likely to commit suicide.

As Michael Marmot of WHO puts it, men’s poorer survival rates “reflect several factors: greater levels of occupational exposure to physical and chemical hazards, behaviors associated with male norms of risk-taking and adventure, health behavior paradigms related to masculinity, and the fact that men are less likely to visit a doctor when they are ill and, when they see a doctor, are less likely to report on the symptoms of disease or illness.”

Traditional masculine habits not only hurt men’s physical and psychological health, but also produce the least happy marriages. Study after study has shown that egalitarian marriages—which often involve dual careers and always encompass shared housework and decision making—unequivocally lead to higher rates of marital satisfaction for both sexes than do “traditional” marriages, based on hierarchy and a strict division of roles. Yet most therapists, even today, act as if these choices in marriage were simply a matter of personal preference, of legitimate, sometimes clashing values.

Where do we stand on issues like toxic masculinity and paternalistic marriage? For the most part, we don’t stand anywhere. We blink. So let me ask, if we were a group of dentists, knowing that candy is bad for teeth, would we be silent on the issue? Would we consider tooth brushing a personal value, not to be judged, only a matter of preference to be negotiated between family members?

PSYCHOLOGICAL PATRIARCHY

The men and women who come to us for help don’t live in a gender-neutral world. They’re embedded in, and are often emblematic of, a raging debate about patriarchy and a certain vision of masculinity. Trump appeals to a gender-conservative narrative, which holds feminists (“feminazis” as Rush Limbaugh calls us) responsible for deliberately attacking the line between masculine and feminine, and for “feminizing” men.

In a recent National Review article on Trump and masculinity, for example, Steven Watts laments that “a blizzard of Millennial ‘snowflakes’ has blanketed many campuses with weeping, traumatized students who, in the face of the slightest challenge to their opinions, flee to ‘safe spaces’ to find comfort with stuffed animals, puppies, balloons, and crayons.” And Fox News’s Andrea Tantaros rails, “The left has tried to culturally feminize this country in a way that is disgusting. And for blue-collar voters . . . their last hope is Donald Trump to get their masculinity back.”

The 2016 Presidential Gender Watch Report summarizes several surveys this way: “Trump supporters [are] much more likely than Clinton voters to say that men and women should ‘stick to the roles for which they are naturally suited,’ that society has become too soft and feminine, and that society today seems to ‘punish men just for acting like men.’” But to understand fully the implications of this gender narrative, even the contemptuous nuance of a derogatory term like snowflake, deemed by the Urban Dictionary as “insult of the year,” one needs to look squarely at the nature and dynamic of patriarchy itself.

I use the word patriarchy synonymously with traditional gender roles—misguided stoicism in men, resentful accommodation in women. As I tell my clients, an inwardly shame-based, outwardly driven man, coupled with an outwardly accommodating, inwardly aggrieved woman—why, that’s America’s defining heterosexual couple, successful in the world and a mess at home. Certainly, 50 years of feminism have changed most women’s expectations for themselves and their marriages, and Millennial men, for all their vaunted narcissism, are in many ways the most gender-progressive group of guys who’ve ever existed. But Baby Boomer men are often a mixed bag, and Boomer couples are in deeply conflicted distress. Divorce rates among this group are alarming, and climbing, causing some to write of a “gray divorce revolution.” We can reliably attribute many factors to this trend, but here’s the one that strikes me: many men in their 60’s are cut from the old patriarchal cloth, while many women in their 60’s are now having none of it. Have we therapists tuned in to what’s changed and what hasn’t in our gender attitudes?

Frankly, most of us in the mental health community thought that the old paradigm was on its way out— and indeed it might be. But not without a fight. The old rules, and the old roles, are still kicking, and many of us progressives have just grown complacent. If anyone over-estimated the triumph of feminism, the past election has to be viewed as a stinging rebuke and rejection. To this day, like it or not, we’re fish, and patriarchy is the tainted water we swim in.

But let’s get specific about patriarchy. For most, the word conjures up images of male privilege and dominance, and a resulting anger in women. I call this level political patriarchy, which is, simply put, sexism: the oppression of women at the hands of men. Psychological patriarchy is the structure of relationships organized under patriarchy. It not only plays in relations between men and women, but undergirds dynamics on a much broader level—among women, mothers and children, even cultures and races. The men and women who seek out therapy most often arrive at our doorstep saturated in the dynamic of psychological patriarchy, and I think it yields extraordinary clinical benefit to know about and work with this dynamic.

I see psychological patriarchy as the product of three processes, which you can imagine as three concentric rings.

The great divide. The first of these rings renowned family therapist Olga Silverstein, author of The Courage to Raise Good Men, refers to as “the halving process.” With this process, it’s as if we gathered all the qualities of one whole human being, drew a line down the middle, and declared that all the traits on the right side of the line were masculine and all those on the left were feminine. Everyone knows which traits are supposed to belong on which side. Being logical, strong, and competent is on the right, for example, and being nurturing, emotional, and dependent is on the left.

The dance of contempt. In traditional patriarchy, the two bifurcated halves, masculine and feminine, aren’t held as separate but equal. The “masculine” qualities are exalted, the “feminine” devalued. What does this tell us? That the essential relationship between masculine and feminine is one of contempt. In other words, the masculine holds the feminine as inferior. As feminist psychologist and sociologist Nancy Chodorow pointed out, masculine identity is defined by not being a girl, not being a woman, not being a sissy. Vulnerability is viewed as weakness, a source of embarrassment.

If you think this dance of contempt doesn’t affect you, I suggest you take a look at Trump’s budget. Here’s how Erin Gloria Ryan put it in The Daily Beast: “The President’s budget, like everything he talks about, play[s] into his conception of over-the-top manliness. Cuts to education, the environment, are cuts to feminized concerns, really. After school programs and meals-on-wheels, those are caretaking programs. Education (and really, all childcare), also the purview of women. The arts, not for men like Trump.”

The core collusion. I believe one of the greatest unseen motivators in human psychology is a compulsion in whoever is on the feminine side of the equation to protect the disowned fragility of whoever is on the masculine side. Even while being mistreated, the “feminine” shields the “masculine.” Whether it’s a child in relation to an abusive parent, a wife in relation to a violent husband, a captive who develops a dependency on those who took him or her hostage, or a church that protects sexually abusive ministers, perpetrators are routinely protected. One dares not speak truth to power. Everyday in our offices we bear witness to traditional hetero relationships in which the woman feels a deeper empathic connection to the wounded boy inside the man than the man himself feels. If she could only love that boy enough, she thinks, he’d be healed and all would be well. This is the classic codependent, a prisoner of what psychiatrist Martha Stark calls relentless hope. It’s an intrinsic part of trauma that victims (the “feminine”) tend to have hyper-empathy for the perpetrator (the “masculine”) and hypo-empathy for themselves. I call this empathic reversal, and it’s our job as clinicians to reverse that reversal and set things right, so that the perpetrator is held accountable and the victim is met with compassion, especially self-compassion.

CUT FROM THE OLD CLOTH

Just observing the way 53-year-old Bill sauntered over to my couch, clearly owning the room, I was tempted to label him an Old-School Guy. Lydia, his wife of 20-plus years, who was on the verge of leaving him, had another label for him. “Basically,” she tells me right off the bat, “he’s been a dick.” She bends down to scratch her ankle. “A real dick,” she reiterates. “For years, decades,” she sighs. “And I took it. I loved him. I still do. But, well, things have changed.” They’d come to my office in Boston from their home in Texas for what Bill described as a Hail Mary pass.

Here’s the story. Bill is a type: driven, handsome, relentless, utterly perfectionistic, and vicious to himself and others when a benchmark isn’t cleared. As their kids were growing up, there wasn’t much Lydia could do right: the house wasn’t picked up, the kids were too rowdy, the food was late or bland or both. Bill was both controlling and demeaning.

Lately, he’d become obsessed with physical performance, and he wanted to share his passion with his wife. Unfortunately, the way he invited her to the gym with him was to tell her how overweight she was. “I’m just attracted to fit women,” Bill says, shrugging.

“Yeah,” Lydia adds bitterly. “He thinks it’ll motivate me when he says, ‘That fat hanging over your belt disgusts me.’”

“I don’t have a very high emotional IQ,” Bill confides to me, his expression bland, untroubled. I’m thinking that I agree with him. Lydia, by the way, had been a competing amateur tennis player, with a figure many women would envy. I turn to Lydia, raising my eyebrows in a question.

“I’m no doormat,” Lydia asserts, stretching each word in her slow Texas drawl. “Sure, I took up at the gym again, but I also started spending more time with my girlfriends—I have a lot of friends—and I started my own business.”

I’m impressed. “Okay,” I say. “You’re no doormat.”

“Right,” she says.

“You didn’t just sit there and take his mistreatment.”

“Right.”

“You, uh,” I continue, “you gathered up your courage and confront- ed your husband on how. . . .”

“Well, no,” she smiles shyly. “I sup- pose I fell short on that one, until now anyway. Now I do.”

“What changed?” I ask, although I’m pretty certain I know the answer from their intake write up.

“Marylyn is what changed, Terry,” she says. And then, after a pause, she adds, “Eighteen months with Marylyn behind my back is what changed.” Bill sits beside her stony. “And there were others. I’m not sure of them all. Call girls when he traveled.” Letting out a sigh, she turns to her husband.

“It’s true,” Bill finally says, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Well,” I say, “what were you feeling?”

“Not much,” Bill tells me. Not satisfied, I press again, but he turns it back on Lydia, saying, “Well, you did pull away. I mean, between redoing the house, your business, your friends.”

“I pulled away because you were impossible!” Lydia wails in a quivering voice. “You kept harping at me about the damn gym!”

“Look,” he responds, more to me than to her, “I like the look of a fit woman. Shoot me. My parents were old in their 50’s, dead in their early 70’s. That’s not for me. I want to compete in triathlons in my 80’s. And I want my wife competing right by my side when I do.”

I’m starting to feel claustrophobic just hearing this. “Well, that’s fine, Bill. That’s what you want,” I tell him. “But have you ever asked Lydia what she wants?”

“I want you to talk to me,” Lydia finally screams, losing composure. She bends over and cries. “Jesus, just sit down and talk to me.”

“Okay, honey, I will,” Bill says to soothe her. But whether he will or won’t, he certainly hasn’t so far. “I’m just not good with emotion,” he tells me.“I just try to find a path and go forward. That’s my usual approach. Like the other night she woke me up in the middle of the night, crying, and I asked her if there’s anything she wanted, but. . . .”

“Just hold me,” she cries, “Just tell me you love me and that you want me!”

He turns on her, an accusing finger close to her face. “But you didn’t ask me for that, did you?” he says, making his point before some imagined jury. “Did you?” Now I can see the dripping condescension Lydia spoke of.

I lean toward him. “What are you so mad about?” I ask him, knowing that anger and lust are the only two emotions men are allowed in the traditional patriarchal setup. But much male rage is helpless rage. Burdened with the responsibility, and the entitlement, to fix anything that’s broken, including his wife, Bill sees Lydia’s unhappiness as an insoluble problem he must master, a rigged Rubik’s Cube with no winning moves. He describes his feelings as many men in his position do: frustration.

“I’m tired of being held responsible”—he takes a breath, visibly try- ing to regain his composure—“when I have no idea what she wants.”

“Oh,” I say. “So you feel helpless.” That brings him up short.

“Well,” he mutters, “I’m not sure thatI’d....”

“Right,” I say, heading him off. “You don’t do helpless, right? You don’t do feelings at all, except anger perhaps.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Like most hurt partners, your wife needs to get into what happened, and like most partners who’ve had an affair, you’d like to move off of it as quickly as possible.”

“I don’t think wallowing in it. . . .” “She wins,” I tell him.“I’m sorry?” he asks.“The hurt partner wins. She gets to talk about it. She needs to talk about it.”

“And what do I do in the mean- time?” he looks at me, jaw stuck out, angry, a victim.

“Well, would you accept some coaching from me at this juncture?” I ask. He nods, though skeptically, and Bill and I begin to break down the idea of masculinity—or his stunted version of it.

For his entire life, Bill credited his success in life to his fevered drive for perfection. He thought his harsh inner critic, which he never hesitated to unleash on others, was his best friend, holding up the standard, goading him to achieve. I tell Bill that like most of the men I treat, even like Icarus winging it toward the sun, he thought it was the achievement of glory that made him worthy of love. And like Icarus, he was about to fall, and fall hard.

“But my drive is my edge, my equalizer. I may not be as smart as some of the boys in the office, but, man, I can work.”

“Let me help you out here,” I tell him. “I promise you that as we work together, you won’t lose your edge. All the guys I see worry about that. But you can be just as tough and, at the right times, just as driven.”

“So what will be so different?” he asks.

“You,” I tell him. “You’ll be different. Radically different if you want to save this marriage. You’ll have choice.”

Like most feminist therapists I know, I don’t want to “feminize” men any more than I want to “masculinize” women. I want choice. When the moment calls for combat, I want men to be ferocious. But when the moment calls for tenderness, I want men to be sweet, compassionate, soft. Mostly, I want men to be able to discern which moment is which and behave accordingly. I want men to hold fast to those elements that are good and right about the traditional male role—courage, loyalty, competence—but men like Bill also deserve to have access to emotion, particularly the vulnerable emotions that connect us to one another. He deserves to have more empathy for himself first of all, and for those he loves.

By the end of our long session, we all agree that Bill—or “the old Bill,” as I begin to call him—was selfish, controlling, demanding, and unhappy. He based his shaky sense of self worth on his performance, on whatever he’d amassed materially, and on his wife’s nurture. Although he’d have been loath to admit it before, Bill needed an overhaul.

“You’ve been acting in this marriage in a lot of ways as though you were still single,” I tell him. “Six hours a day at the gym, 10-hour bike rides, call girls when you travel. You need to learn to become what I call a real family man,” a term that deliberately harks back to some of the positive ideals contained in traditional notions of masculinity.

Contrary to what gender conservatives claim we feminists are after, I don’t want the men I work with to discard every aspect of masculinity. Rather, I talk to Bill about the differences between living life as a self-centered boy and living it like a family man. It’s not “repeal and replace” the entire notion of masculinity so much as “sort through, use the best, and transform the rest.”

“You played the old game: the competitive, don’t-rest-till-you-kill-them, grab-the-brass-ring game. Okay, you won at that one. Congratulations,”I say to him. “Now it’s time to learn a whole different game, different skills, different rules, if you want to stay married at least.” Bill’s nodding. He loves his wife, feels awful about how much he’s hurt her, would move mountains to keep his family intact. “Good,” I tell him.

“Because it’s mountains you’re going to have to move. This is about cultivating that wildly undeveloped part of you that you’ve actively tried to get rid of. It’s about redefining what you think constitutes “a man” and how he’s supposed to act in the world. You’ll need new skills that stress receptivity over action, like being curious about your wife, learning to be quiet and leave space for her, drawing her out, truly negotiating.” He seems game as he listens. “I’m happy for you,” I tell him. “May this day be the beginning of your new orientation, your new life.”

“Okay,” he says, a little skeptical still.

“The next time your wife wakes up in the middle of the night because she’s a wreck and she needs to talk,” I start.

“I know,” he interrupts.

“Listen,” I tell him. “Here’s your new compass. When in doubt, I want you to pause, take a breath, and then picture yourself as a generous gentleman.” Like the term family man, the opportunity for Bill to see himself as a generous gentleman offers him a model, a reference point, for giving more to his wife without feeling like she’s won and he’s lost. I repurpose a familiar ideal—gentleman—to inspire flexibility in Bill, a willingness to yield that doesn’t shame him. “The next time she wants something from you, ask yourself, What would a generous gentleman do at this moment?”

Becoming a generous gentleman requires Bill to move beyond his self-centeredness into compassion and bigheartedness, moving beyond sheer logic to feelings, both his and others. It’s a good example of using a mostly abstract ideal contained within the patriarchal lexicon to help a client move beyond patriarchy itself. Did I have an in-depth discussion with Bill about Donald Trump? No, though I certainly would’ve been open to it had Bill seemed interested. But did I talk to him about patriarchy in general? About women’s changing demands for more sharing, more intimate, more connected marriages? About the state of manhood in transition, from the old to the new? And was I clear with Bill about where I stood on these issues and why? The answer is an emphatic yes on all counts.

“Bill,” I tell him. “You’re a statistic. All over America, men like you are being dragged off to people like me so that we can help you learn how to be more relational, more giving, more empathic, more vulnerable—just a more thoughtful, connected person. There are hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Bills in offices like this one. We can’t make it all about personal failings; there are too many of you.”

Bill looks at me. “But when we go home,” he sighs, trailing off. “It’s just hard to know what she wants from me.”

“I know,” I commiserate. “This isn’t easy. But you have a wonderful source of information sitting right next to you.” Then I turn to Lydia. “Of course, you’ll have to do things differently, too,” I tell her. “At this stage in the game, you’re more comfortable giving Bill feedback about all he does wrong than vulnerably asking for what he might do right.” Like many of my female clients, Lydia had spent most of her marriage vacillating between stuffing it and losing it. For the most part, she was silent and resentful, so Bill brushed off her occasional rants as hysteria. “You told your truth when you were ready to fight with him, but you did it in a harsh, critical way, which people in general, and men in particular, won’t listen to.”

“Listen,” she says, revving up, “I tried everything under the sun to get him to hear what I was saying.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” I say. “But Lydia, that was then, and this is now. I have a saying: an angry woman is a woman who doesn’t feel heard. But pumping up the emotional volume doesn’t work. However, I think I have good news for you. I think you’ve been heard today, by Bill and by me. I understand what you’re saying I get it, and I’m on it. I want you to let me work with Bill now. I can get through to him in ways you’re not positioned to be able to do. I’m an outside party; you’re his wife.”

Over the years, I’ve found this to be an enormously helpful position to take in therapy, no matter if the therapist happens to a man or a woman. I often say to female clients like Lydia, “I’ve got him. You don’t have to be his relational coach or teacher anymore. Give that job to me. You can afford to relax and start enjoying him again.” By stepping in, acknowledging the asymmetry in their relational skills and wishes, and explicitly offering myself as her ally, I hope to help women like Lydia resign from their role as their partner’s mentor. “I’ll coach Bill,” I tell Lydia. “You breathe, relax, let your heart open up again.”

Earlier in the session, I’d said I was excited for Bill. But with Lydia at the threshold of her own relational learning on how to break the traditional feminine role of silence and anger, I’m thrilled for her, too. I’m eager to teach her how to stand up for herself with love, how to switch from statements like “I don’t like how you’re treating me!” to ones like “I want to be close to you. I want to hear what you’re saying. Could you be kinder right now so I can hear better?”

Both partners need to learn how to be more skilled. But moving each toward increased intimacy requires leaving behind the old roles for them both. Real intimacy and patriarchy are at odds with each other. To the degree that a couple approaches the former, they move beyond the latter. As the old roles seek to reassert themselves in our society, it seems more important than ever to take a stand in favor of new ones, new configurations that provide more openness in men like Bill and more loving firmness in women like Lydia.

AGENTS OF CHANGE

For years, I quipped that, as a couples therapist, I was a medic in the vast gender war, patching up men and women in order to send them back out into the fray. But in the age of Trump, I don’t want to be a neutral medic anymore. I’d rather take a stand for healthy marriages. Pathology is rarely an aberration of the norm so much as an exaggeration of it. The way Bill had routinely controlled and savaged his wife, and the way she’d reacted, with distance and occasional rage of her own, were right out of the patriarchy playbook. Could I have done the same work with them without ever referencing gender roles, or masculinity? Perhaps, but why would I want to, when silhouetting a couple’s issues against the backdrop of gender roles in transition makes so much sense to people?

In 2013, sociologist Michael Kimmel wrote Angry White Men, about a group of people many now claim make up a large part of Trump’s base. Central to Kimmel’s findings was a sense of what he called “aggrieved entitlement,” which, from a psychological perspective, looks to leave the person they’re with as much as they want to leave the person they themselves have become. And it’s not that they’re looking for another person, but another self. But even happy people cheat, and affairs aren’t always a symptom of something wrong in the marriage or in the individual.

A lot like the fusion of shame and grandiosity, a perpetual sense of angry victimhood—in a word, patriarchy. In a new work, Kimmel looks at four organizations that help deprogram men who leave hate groups like white supremacists and jihadists. What he found implicit in all these hate groups was traditional masculinity: the more rigid the vision of the masculine, and the more fervently the man held onto such rigid beliefs, the more vulnerable he was to extremist politics and violence. Countering this vision of masculinity was key to the deprogramming.

With this as our cultural context, what we therapists are being called upon to do is what the WHO has already done—explicitly declare traditional masculinity a health hazard, not just to men, but to the families who live with them. We should continue to develop techniques for openly challenging toxic patriarchal notions like the one that says harsh inner critics are good for us, or the one that says vulnerability is a sign of weakness. We need to invite each gender to reclaim and explore its wholeness, as sexy, smart, competent women, as well as bighearted, strong, vulnerable men. We must check our own biases so as not to sell men short as intrinsically less emotional, for example, or to sell women short by not explicitly helping them find a voice in their relationships that’s simultaneously assertive and cherishing.

In these troubled times, what do we clinicians stand for if not the plumb line of intimacy? But we must remember that intimacy itself is a relatively new, and contentious, demand. Marriage wasn’t historically built for intimacy in today’s terms, but for stability and production. Under patriarchy, emotional intimacy itself is coded as “feminine,” as is therapy, for that matter. The intrinsic values of therapy—communication, understanding, empathy, self-compassion, the importance of emotion—these are all downplayed as “feminine” concerns in the traditional masculine playbook.

I want us therapists to put these concerns on the table, and stand up and be counted as agents for the historically new idea of lasting, long-term intimacy, and with it the increased health and happiness that study after study has shown it leads to. I want us to be more explicit—both in public discourse and in the privacy of our offices—in articulating the painful psychological costs of the old, patriarchal world order, which is asserting itself again in our lives. Democratic relationships simply work better than hierarchical ones in marriages, and both sexes are better off liberated from the dance of contempt. It’s healing for all our clients to move beyond the core collusion and speak truth to power. It’s healing for us therapists to do the same in the presence of those who want our guidance.

We’re the people who are being turned to for help when the old ways no longer work. We can merely patch things up, or we can aim our sights on transformation and offer an entirely new vision. The path toward sustained intimacy can’t be found in the resurgence of a patriarchal past. It’s part of our job and responsibility to point our clients toward the future. If we therapists are to be true agents of healing, we must first be true agents of change.

Terry Real is a nationally recognized family therapist, author, and teacher. He is particularly known for his groundbreaking work on men and male psychology as well as his work on gender and couples; he has been in private practice for over thirty years. Terry has appeared often as the relationship expert for Good Morning America and ABC News. His work has been featured in numerous academic articles as well as media venues such as Oprah, 20/20, The Today Show, CNN, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Psychology Today and many others.

This blog which originally appeared in the Psychotherapy Networker, was republished on NCCT with permission from the author.

Author: Terry Real

Check out a 2-Day Training with Terry Real of The Relational Life Institute

#Couples Thearpy #Couples Therapist #Marriage Counseling #Couples Counseling #Northampton Center for Couples Therapy

0 notes