"As a therapist, I am not Anna Blundy"by Anna Blundy / March 24, 2016 / Leave a comment
Published in April 2016 issue of Prospect Magazine
Obviously, it is possible to guess some things about one’s therapist or analyst—especially if sessions are in his or her home. A lot of anoraks on the coat stand—outdoorsy. Noises around the house during your session—not single. The smell of porridge and toast—family. Watercolours of Cambridge colleges—someone here has had an education. The house might be hidden down a cobbled lane near Hampstead Heath (mainly private practice or a rich spouse?). Or it could be off a main road near a big petrol station (mainly NHS and spouse also a therapist?).
Then, of course, there are the fantasies. The anoraks mean he is much less worldly than I am. The toast—he has a beloved family and I am just a patient to be cast out alone to his great relief after my session. The wife—how boring for him, how attractive and glamorous I must seem. He eats stodgy breakfasts but is thin—is he ill? He looks down on anyone who didn’t go to Cambridge. He is not rich—he must be incredibly honest. And this is quite apart from the deeper fantasies that, once conscious, will be interpreted—he sneers at my weakness, he is disgusted by my snobbery, he finds my work ludicrous, he pities my husband, he thinks I am a bad mother. I have never been one of those “he’s definitely in love with me” patients.
The idea is that you’re not supposed to know anything much about your therapist so that your fantasies about the relationship say more about you than about them—your stuff can’t be confused with someone else’s if you’re chucking it at a blank-ish canvas. When I started my own analysis I did already know a friend of my analyst’s and I also knew his brother through work…