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panic. I had gone to bed one night feeling entirely well but restless. While
I lay in bed, waiting for sleep, I was all at once overwhelmed with terror.
This is to say that I now realize I was in the grip of terror. At the time I
would not have thought to describe what I felt as fear - until one learns
that terror can take so extravagant a form, one does not readily connect
an experience of panic with anything so commonplace. I was unable to
speak or move, unable to tell Lionel what was happening to me. I clung
to him, praying for release from whatever awful thing had attacked me.
Finally, the panic subsided. In my ignorance of psychic illness, I attributed
the episode to indigestion: I had perhaps eaten a tainted food whose poi–
son penetrated to my brain. But the attack recurred several times in the
next weeks, and I began to be afraid to stay home alone or to go any dis–
tance from home without someone with me, preferably Lionel. I could
no longer be persuaded that I was suffering from a physical disorder, and I
decided to consult a neurologist. Neurology was my closest approach to
psychology or psychiatry. It was my bridge between body and mind. The
neurologist I consulted was Dr. Israel Wechsler. I think he was recom–
mended by some connection with the
Menorah Journal.
Dr. Wechsler was
not a voluble man. He checked my blood pressure and reflexes. Then
quietly, almost timorously, conscious of the treacherous waters into
which he was heading, he questioned me about my sexual life. Did I have
normal sexual desire, normal gratification? I thought him rather silly: even
a child of my benighted generation had to wonder how a doctor defined
the normal in sexual desire. Dr. Wechsler's next question to me hangs in
my mind like a balloon in a comic strip. Why, he asked, did I want
Lionel always to be with me? The question implied an element of choice
in my symptom, as if I had been presented with a list of fear-provoking
conditions from which I had chosen this as the disorder to inflict upon
myself If there was indeed purpose in a symptom, was there not also ac–
cusation in bringing the choice to my attention? Vaguely I was annoyed,
yet I responded unhesitatingly: I wanted Lionel to be with me because I
wanted to be more dependent upon him than he was upon me. I am re–
porting a conversation of many years ago, and over time I have frequendy
pondered this reply which I made to Dr. Wechsler. Although even today
I am not sure that I fully comprehend what I was saying, I think I do un–
derstand what in essence I was revealing about a hidden motive in my
burgeoning neurosis. Lionel was little dependent upon me. He was con–
siderably less dependent upon me than most men of my acquaintance are
upon their wives. He sought and usually took my advice and, like any
partner in a working marriage, he relied on me to be in his corner. He
would corne to depend upon me for help with his writing, although at
the time that I saw Dr. Wechsler this had not yet begun. I was using the
