It gets worse before it gets betterby Anna Blundy / May 22, 2013 / Leave a comment
Published in June 2013 issue of Prospect Magazine
It was about a year into my five times a week psychoanalysis (yup, on the couch Monday to Friday at 7.30am) that I stopped knowing what to wear. I couldn’t decide if I liked whoever I’d arranged to see and wasn’t sure what I wanted to eat, or if I was even hungry at all. I remember getting ready to have lunch with a friend and pulling some high-heeled boots on. “What?” I wondered. “Am I trying to seduce him? To intimidate him? Castrate him?” I looked at my face in the mirror. “Lipstick? Why?” My grip on the trappings of life, the way I would normally present myself to the world, was getting looser.
This is the trouble with finally facing reality after years of pretending to be coping marvellously—pretending not to be panicking, not to be lying awake all night, not to be drinking too much. Suddenly, in a classic reaction to analysis, without my missile-proof defences I wasn’t sure how to… well… be. Refreshing, in an exposed kind of way, but a catastrophic loss of my sequins-and-feathers excuse for an identity nonetheless.
Undergoing analysis is a compulsory part of my two-year training to become a psychotherapist. Last week I asked a patient of my own to fill in a background information form—basic questions about age, parents, siblings, major life events, sex, relationships, what brings you to therapy. She returned the form quickly, her answers thoughtful, her style excited. Then, a day later, she emailed to say that filling the form in had got her thinking and she had at last spoken to her partner about her issues. He had been so supportive that she no longer needed therapy.