Park Bench Therapy

Getting lost in the onslaught of streaming services and TV offerings is easy. I guess that’s my excuse for being late to the game for Apple TV’s Shrinking, the latest from the Ted Lasso producing team. Set in sunny California, the story follows a community of therapists and their friends in the aftermath of a tragic drunk-driving accident that killed the wife of Jimmy Laird, the show’s protagonist. Shrinking’s exploration of grief and forgiveness within the context of sunny California seems like an intentional nod to the complexity of life. It’s disorienting not knowing if an episode will make you cry or laugh. Oftentimes it’ll have you doing both. In the show’s intro, Death Cab for Cutie’s front man Ben Gibbard sings,

Help me carry this weight that’s dragging me down
Pull me out of the drink before I start to drown
Let the wreckage all sink
To where the fishes are frightening
I wanna hear myself think again
I wanna hear myself think again

It’s within Gibbard’s six lines that the story unfolds, and its layered characters sort through their respective wreckage together. Each has their weight dragging them down. For some, that weight seems apparent. The show begins with recently widowed Jimmy in a tailspin. The weight of his wife’s death causes him to numb himself with booze, drugs, and sex. But quickly, his coping takes a different form when he decides to become over-involved in his patients’ lives. This transition is markedly more healthy; most of his patients benefit from this unorthodox approach, and Jimmy reclaims some meaning in his life. On the surface, Jimmy thinks he is a “healthier” version of himself. But his grief still drags him down; it’s now just more disguised and justifiable. As his mentor and fellow therapist Paul tells him, “You’re not grieving, you’re numbing.”

Paul functions as the flip side of the same coin. His therapy approach is textbook, his boundaries are clear, and the separation of work and life are defined. He prides himself on living within a “fortress of solitude.” But when Paul is diagnosed with Parkinson’s, the fortress starts to crumble. Paul now contends with tremor medications. A coworker has to drive him to work due to his waning fine motor skills. The diagnosis also brings to the surface the pain of his divorce and estrangement from his daughter.

Each character in Shrinking is an example of the subtle ways we numb our buried pain. Liz, the overinvolved and empty-nested neighbor, attaches herself to Jimmy’s daughter, Alice. Gabby, the fellow therapist who carries the burden of family responsibility, dates needy guys. Brian, Jimmy’s best friend, hides a broken relationship with his father behind nonstop positivity.

Gibbard’s opening song wishes to be rescued from this kind of wreckage; that all of the weight would sink to the bottom of the sea. But what’s ironic is that the relationships throughout the show actually strengthen amidst the wreckage. They are forged in the depths when the characters work up the courage to descend. There is an echo here of when a certain carpenter from Nazareth told the unsuccessful fisherman that they need only to “put out into the deep, and let down their nets for a catch.” That amidst the shipwrecks, there is life that longs for the surface.

The characters’ unique stories of grief establish a common bond. And with it, the lines and roles of patient and therapist quickly blur. No longer contained to curated Scandinavian therapy spaces, sessions happen on pickleball courts, in front lawns, and at food trucks. Jimmy and his daughter Alice have most of their sessions in their kitchen. Often the heartbeat of the home, the Laird’s kitchen is lifeless in the wake of Tia’s death. But as the show progresses, the two hash out their pain in this space. There is yelling and crying; hurtful words are lobbed like grenades. But there are also unprompted takeout meals and dancing and overnight oats made for the undeserving. And with these sessions, heaps of forgiveness.

As life returns to the Laird home, Paul learns to unlock his for the first time. Reclusive and gruff, Paul begins opening up; he makes a friend, gives a hug, and learns how to ask for help. As a man who prefers alcohol over water and candy over vegetables, Paul gives these up (mostly) in hopes of curbing his incurable disease. As an unmarried man in his 70s, these new habits and relationships are no small thing. No longer an island of autonomy, his life decisions affect his doctor-turned-girlfriend, Julie, his now-present daughter and grandson, and the friends who continue showing up at his front door. Paul’s relinquishing of control is often begrudging and almost always beautiful. In the Thanksgiving episode, Paul stands and, voice quivering and hands shaking, admits his own mortality. And like the best shrinks, his audience listens, tears in eyes, as a calloused man asks to be surrounded by those he can lean on.

In the children’s book The Rabbit Listened, a boy named Taylor gets his tower toppled by a flock of crows. Amidst the wreckage, the boy is devastated. One by one, different animals come by and tell him what he should do. The bear thinks Taylor should get angry, the kangaroo thinks he should throw everything away, the ostrich thinks he should hide, and the snake wants him to go knock down someone else’s. But Taylor doesn’t heed their advice. He can’t in his pit of despair. That is, until the rabbit comes. The rabbit inches his way through the tower’s rubble towards Taylor until “Taylor could feel the rabbit’s warm body.” In proximity, Taylor asks the rabbit, “Please stay with me.” I’m not sure I’d connect any of the characters in Shrinking to the serenity of Taylor’s rabbit. But I also can’t think of a better example on television right now, of a community collectively tending to their broken hearts.

Towards the end of season two, Jimmy’s numbing has become too much. While improvements and amends have been made relationally, he is dangerously close to spiraling to the place he was in at the show’s onset. As he staggers through the city, he calls Paul. Paul answers, blurring the lines between personal and professional, puts on his bathrobe, and meets Jimmy on a park bench. Paul slides towards Jimmy until Jimmy can feel his warm body and holds his friend as he cries; pulling him out of the drink before he starts to drown.

There’s a well-known story in the Gospel of Matthew, where Jesus walks on stormy waters toward the disciples’ sinking boat. And even though Jesus offers words of assurance, “Take courage, it is I. Don’t be afraid,” the disciple Peter still needs more proof. So Peter hops out of the boat to meet Jesus. And, as humans are prone to do, he begins to sink. When Jesus pulls him from the squall, he says, “You of little faith … why did you doubt?” And for the longest time, I thought that this was an admonishment for taking your eyes off Jesus. But the older I get, the more I think the doubt Jesus is curbing with Peter is not believing that the rescuer is already heading towards us. Ready to reclaim us from the depths and the frightening fish that circle our wreckage. Rest assured, Jesus will find you; on a park bench in the dead of night or on your stormy sea.