Published in February 2014 issue of Prospect Magazine
Even thinking of myself as a stuck record makes me feel ancient. My children have never heard a stuck record. I lie there on the couch (turntable?) at my therapist’s house, staring at the bookshelves—Bion, Winnicott, Klein, Freud in all his many-volumed magnitude—the dusty, blunt needle crackling against the scratched vinyl. “I hate lying here. I can’t afford it. I don’t know why I come. I hate the area you live in. It’s depressing. I’m depressed. I need coffee.”
I see patients myself and I can hardly imagine how disheartened and bleak I would feel if one of them said this to me even once, let alone everyday. My analyst “takes it in the transference” (listens to how I make him feel) and says something like—“I think you feel disheartened and bleak this morning.” My reaction to this is, “Of course I bloody do. It’s 7.30am. It’s dark. I’m in an attic off the A1. My windscreen wiper just broke under the onslaught of grey rain.” Crackle, crackle, crackle.
You might think that someone who has chosen psychoanalysis, someone training in the field, knowing the cost (financial, emotional, temporal) and gains (emotional) would want to go to sessions. But maybe, I think, rigid as a corpse, analysis isn’t really for me? Horseriding might do me more good! Fresh air, soft noses, mastery! I mean, I get the idea—early life and its consciously forgotten but long-lasting effects blah, blah, blah. And yet, my analyst reminds me, I know it’s done me good.
“But,” I say. “I feel awful. It’s like chemotherapy. The hair has to fall out before it grows back. I don’t know if I can stand it.” He argues. Sometimes it feels brutal, he admits, but at other times don’t I feel contained, thought about, held? “Just because the chemotherapy is administered by someone affable doesn’t mean I’m not flattened by it,” I snap. “I’m not saying it hasn’t been transformative, I’m saying I’m not sure I’ll survive it!” I m…