On Therapy… Part V
The Lab gets moved. Cracks are appearing in many places. Fitness addiction to the rescue!
When we last left things, I was cruising along at 35,000 feet, metaphorically speaking, and I lost an engine. This happened in the form of a profound realization, around 2005-06, that no matter what I did, no matter how much money I made, how many gorgeous kids I had, how perfect of a house I lived in, my father wasn’t going to love me. Or, more accurately, was highly unlikely to express any love he did have for me in a way I could recognize and appreciate.
The little girls | December 2007 | © Copyright Audrey Wancket
Business at the photo lab was stagnant to declining. The digital world was rapidly advancing and the massive paradigm shift that I had rode to success was passing me by due to my insistence on having my hands on everything and maintaining boutique pricing when the business was moving to commodity pricing. As it turns out the digital photo lab was more of a transitional phenomenon than an enduring one. Certainly there remain numerous and successful labs that produce physical output of images. At the time, we thought growing internet access meant people would order more prints since they could easily do so online. On reflection, and after an explosion in the number of handheld screens in use, the only reason people ever got prints in the first place is because nobody really wanted to watch an actual slide show and the only way to see the images on your negatives was to print them! The explosion of digital cameras and camera phones meant that our clients were beginning to feel the pinch as the barriers to entry were lowered and everybody became a photographer.
Memories of home life and raising the girls are pretty blurry. I was taking at least 150mg a day of Zoloft. We integrated ourselves into the Oak Park River Forest community, from newcomers to Dads N’ Donuts at the library to preschool. I know I was continuing with regular psychotherapy appointments and, of course, had to do monthly “med checks” for the Zoloft. This required driving into the city, parking and going to a 30 minute appointment with the prescribing psychiatrist. This was a royal pain in the ass and I resented it. Amy & I also may have done some couples work; I can’t remember. I tried EMDR and pretty much just fell asleep (my normal response to things that were confronting in some way).
I do have a particularly interesting memory from the summer of 2005, when I walked to Lincoln Elementary School to register our oldest daughter, Marguerite for Kindergarten. For some reason, I felt very odd walking into the school. A palpable fear hung from my body. I was sweating. I didn’t really know why. In hindsight, I think it was a bit of PTSD brought on by entering a total of six new schools from K-12 as my family traipsed around the country in search of the Holy Grail. Very interesting….
Once again, looking back we were essentially living on credit for a large portion of our recurring expenses. The Denial of this was strong, as I had been in this position several times before; or so I smugly thought. I had left college with a chunk of debt, despite earning more as a database consultant while enrolled than probably 99% of college students. I paid this off in two years. We ran credit cards up and paid them down. We took out hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of loans to start and grow the business, paying them down as we went. Besides, the value of our house was practically climbing by the week. What could possibly go wrong?
Sometime in early 2007, we abruptly found out we needed to move the photo lab from it’s 5,000 square foot location in the West Loop, as our landlord had sold the building. The new landlord originally said we could stay and then changed his mind a month or two later, after we quit looking for a place. He wanted us out in six weeks. Hindsight being 20/20 I realize now I should have told him I’d move when I found a place. What was he going to do, throw me and all my gear out on the street? We found a place near our home in the village of Forest Park. The owners were contractors. They were rehabbing it. The move cost me several years of my life. The movers (Midwest Moving, yo) were atrocious. Somehow, with the help of a great staff, we made it. But it took a toll – financially, emotionally and psychically.
In the winter 2006 / spring 2007, we decided to join the River Forest Tennis Club, a quaint little club that, despite Frank Lloyd Wright’s oversight of the construction, bears a passing resemblance to a German prison camp (no offense to Col. Klink). It was founded in 1905 and located in center of the south end of the village, and consists of a clubhouse, a pool and ten clay tennis courts. It’s quite traditional (whites required for tennis), yet the tradition is rooted in purpose and is member-run, which builds camaraderie and reduces snobbery (to a degree). Despite having worked at a country club in Florida with 27 clay courts for three years, I had barely ever swung a racquet, much less played a match.
Amy & I (aka “Butterball”) at the NASCAR-themed cocktail party we threw for the Tennis Club | August 2007
The membership selection committee put a premium on prospective members who played the sport. Our big joke was that Amy had lettered in tennis in high school. This was not a lie – she was the team manager! We ostensibly joined the club so the kids would have a place to learn to swim. And yet, something about the green clay courts beckoned to me. I took a couple lessons late summer before joining. During one, I was a 200+lb of sweating, swearing, hideously-out-shape, scarlet faced, gasping, 38 year old dad pretending he was Roger Federer as I scrambled around the court trying desperately to make contact with the many balls gently fed to me by the pert, glowing, eminently patient high school varsity star young woman tennis pro who was lucky enough to draw me for a lesson. I had to call it quits after 40 minutes when my field of vision began shrinking, as I feared for my life. Talk about almost being on the evening news for all the wrong reasons….
But… a spark was ignited somewhere deep within me. I liked this sport. After my rough start, sidestepping an ambulance ride, I began playing regularly, whereby “regularly” I mean, all the fucking time. After all, Amy had been after me to exercise, right? Between leagues, lessons and self-flagellating masochistic sessions against the ball machine, I was on those courts five to seven days a week. How could she be angry with me for not being home? I was exercising! I honestly hadn’t thought of myself as particularly competitive before the summer of 2007 (as should be clear from this series of essays, self-awareness was not my strong suit). Now, I wanted to be the absolute best player I could be and I was angry about it. Angry that I had never played in high school. Angry the ball didn’t go exactly where I wanted it to go. Angry that I worked at a country club and never set foot on a court. Angry that my parents fucked up my life! On the plus side, I dropped at least 25 lbs that year. The next spring, the club president (and one of the more sardonic members) compared my former self to the popular brand of turkey upon seeing me for the first time in my newer, slimmer form.
In the winters, I retreated to my woodworking shop and sound-proofed media room in our spiffy remodeled basement. After the renovation, I dropped thousands on some high end audio gear – anything to keep my mind occupied. You might be wondering how all this exercise and not spending much time with my wife was contributing to our marriage. The answer would be “negatively”. We basically existed as ships passing in the night. While I shared in the household activities more than the average 1950’s-era father, I do regret not doing more. There was little to no intimacy between us. I made sure of it by keeping as busy as possible. There were few, if any, outright fights, arguments or battles. It was more like a silent and growing insurgency was invading. How long would the center hold?
