Misstatement? Misheard? Mississippi?

My dad called me the other day and left a serious-sounding message. I immediately knew that he wanted to talk about my thera-blog. Felt it in the gut, thought about not calling back and then manned up. I'm an adult, I told myself, and I'm ready to stand behind what I wrote.

Got his voicemail. Sweet.

He called again and left another loaded message. Though his words were only "Call me when you get a chance," it was not the "Call me when you get a chance" of casual phone decorum. The tone indicated purpose, agenda; Call me when you get a chance so we can discuss this specific thing that is bothering me.

Don't run away, I told myself. I called again.

One ring.

Two rings.

"Hello?"

And it's on. I brace myself for a moment as he starts.

"I just want to clear up a mis...a miscommunication. No, that's not the word," my dad says.

"A misinterpretation?" I ask knowing exactly what we are talking about (and confirming my initial reaction) despite the fact that the word blog hasn't even come up yet.

"Yeah, it's a misinterpretation, I guess, but that's not the word...Anyway, I just wanted to say I don't have anything against therapy. I just happen to have met a bunch of crazy psychologists."

He's tense and firm and a little aggressive, but he's not curt. He sounds like he's trying to get a well-thought point across, is (understandably)defensive for having been misunderstood and is sort of worried that his stubborn (principled?) daughter is going to respond with her own signature brand of defensiveness.

And I do.

"Dad, I didn't say anything that I didn't think was true. You've said all those things. I mean you've said that only a "magic wand" could help people."

He explains that the "magic wand" comment (which is a line which has come up more than once in our conversation regarding psychology) refers to his days as a psych resident when person after person would come in with a terrible story from his/her past and he felt like only a magic wand could help them. (Perhaps, this is why he went into emergency medicine and not psychiatry.)

"Dad, the entry was written, the reason I started it, was because I felt silly about lying to you. I lied because I was embarrassed because my whole life this is how I thought you felt about therapy."

"Well, isn't it cool that I can call you and clear this up?"

And the tension lifts.

The conversation continues but neither of us is worried about a fight. We're communicating.

"I think therapy works for some people," my dad says. "But they have to be willing to change their circumstances and not a lot of people are willing to change their circumstances."

(He recommends that I see the movie "The Soloist" for an example of this point. I'll see it, but I think that the changing of circumstance is not the answer for every "problem." The things that people need to "change" or improve or realize or learn or understand or simply say out loud are infinite and can often pertain more to internal struggle and thinking patterns than circumstance. Changing of circumstance is not always a fitting remedy. It's like saying that a person with a brain tumor needs to be willing to eat right and exercise. I will see the movie though and I get his point. You have to participate.)

"The gist of it, Dad, was that I don't want to lie about it."

"There are better things to lie about," he says.

"No, it's not just that I don't want to lie. It's that I want you to know me. To know who I am."

"I know you as well as I can and I love you."

'as well as I can...'

I've been thinking about those words in the hours since we talked. It's an interesting choice of words---from a man with a very extensive vocabulary---and I could interpret it many different ways. (Does he think I'm cold and unknowable? Has he stopped short, feeling he knows enough? Is this just a man/woman thing?) Thinking about it now, I choose to think of it as a profound and honest look at relationships. Even in families---fathers and daughters, husbands and wives---your knowledge of another has limits. You can know a person for a lifetime, but you only ever know a person as well as you can. Never completely.

When I got that first message from my dad and knew something was up, my brain went to the worst case scenario. I thought about him feeling disrespected and possibly asking me to take the post down. I wouldn't have been able to do that and I knew that would lead us into war. Maybe we'd not see each other for a year. Maybe my siblings would be upset with me. This is how far my brain went down that path.

Instead, we just talked.

And then hung up the phone with "I love yous" and in peace.

So, for the record, my dad is not as opposed to therapy as I thought he was (though I had every reason to think so and I'll stand by that).

I.

Was.

Wrong.

Ish.

But he was wrong, too. Neither of us knows each other as well as we could.

This conversation could be a start to that.

P.S. My dad said my mom hasn't read the thera-blog entry. She still thinks I was at the dentist.