Bob Kevorkian was an unconventional therapist, to say the least. Entering his office I was surprised to find it decorated like a formal drawing room. The dcor created an atmosphere of unabashed eleganceTwo oversized high-back chairs were centered in the spacious room, their cushions of red velvet. They reminded me of thrones, which is what he called them.
I felt small and insignificant sitting in the huge chair, my feet so far from the floor he graciously placed a matching stool beneath themI consider this to be a birthing room. It is holy space. When people come here they are looking for new life. If you come back you will discover who you really are. Just as physical birth takes nine months; new birth will take nine months to a year. You are expected to come once each week and make this appointment first priority in your life. If youre willing to do that, Ill be here for you. If youre not willing, Im not interested in spending time with you. Ill expect a commitment before you leave today.
Id never encountered such candor. His honesty kindled hope in the depths of my heart. As we sat in silence for several long minutes, I felt engulfed in a presence I can only call Love -- a sense of being accepted just as I was. There was no question about trusting this strange man, and the promise of new life, like a spark buried under the cold ashes of disappointment, was ignited into flame by the breath of his words.
Finally I whispered, I will do as you say!
Then let us begin, and with these words he rose to his full stature and slowly, with deliberation, strode across the room and picked up a large, ornately carved full-length mirror. He set it in front of me, carefully adjusting the angle so it reflected my full body and the throne upon which I sat. Without words, he returned to his regal seat and, with deliberate, focused motion, lowered his long torso into place across from me, his face discernable next to the mirror.
I watched every move he made; no word was spoken. With great effort I moved my eyes to the reflection in the mirror. Why is this so difficult? I wondered. But once I focused on my own gaze, I withered, right there on the spot. In horror, I seemed to become smaller and smaller, seeing myself as a cringing old woman, slouched into the corner of the huge chair -- filled with self-loathing. I could hardly breathe and still he said nothing. I tried to form words but all that came from my throat was a pitiful cry. Closing my eyes, I wept. When I finally opened them, he had moved the mirror to its place against the far wall.
Finally he spoke, When we finish, you will look at yourself in that mirror with awareness and acceptance. In the meantime, we have work to do.
He asked if Id had any previous therapy; I told him about the psychiatrist Id seen in 1958 when I had Menieres disease.
Tell me about it.
I remember telling the doctor that I felt guilty, but I didnt know why. It was about this time that I quit going to church. I didnt feel worthy; I didnt seem to belong. I had some questions about why Negroes were discriminated against and my father took me to see one of the General Authorities. He told me it was Satan who was making me doubt the teachings of the Church. He commanded me to go home and be a good wife and mother and let my husband, who had the priesthood, do the thinking for both of us. My questions would only lead to more sorrow.
Bob again was silent. And then he asked, Bonnie, do you ever pray?
The question might have come from another planet. Stunned, I had to admit I hadnt prayed for years. In a flash I realized that in my mind, the Mormon Church was God. I had taken vows to believe in and obey the Mormon Church. If I was so sinful that I couldnt be comfortable in a Mormon ward, how could I possibly pray? Id never thought about people who were not Mormons praying. As I verbalized these insights to Bob, I realized how stupid I was.
Youre not stupid, he thundered. Youre a very intelligent woman. But you are misguided. God is not the Mormon Church. Other people pray -- and theyre not Mormons. Some pray who dont even believe in a God they can describe -- but they know the power of prayer.
Leaving his office was like sleepwalking. The interview had been so intense I hardly knew what to think of it. But I felt such hope. What he said made much sense! Why couldnt I look at myself in the mirror? Why had I stopped praying?
The house was quiet; no one was there. I went into my bedroom, closed the door; knelt down as Id been taught as a little girl, and all I said was, Heavenly Father, and the tears came. I sobbed and sobbed -- right there, kneeling beside my bed, I cried my eyes out. Finally calmness came over me. As the tears ceased I became aware of a presence more tangible than anything Id ever felt. It was more tangible even than Death, who had become my friend. It entered my body and filled my whole being, at the same time it encompassed me. It was both outside and within. It even swallowed up Death. I was one with the presence, but it was more than me. I knew it was God, and I knew I was loved. It was as though God had wrapped arms around me and entered my body in a union beyond sexual intimacy.
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