The Analyst

by Peter Stickland

  Apart from this brief period of intimacy we’ve not seen eye to eye with each other. We continue to meet because we live in a square where the property owners are bound by deed of covenant to attend meetings about the upkeep of the garden we share. She continues to be familiar with me and I react badly. We always argue. Being with her means rejection for me, so I’ve considered moving away. There’s no other woman in my life. I should like an ordinary kind of love, but there is nothing ordinary about my interaction with Mrs X; it’s a clumsy, frustrating affair. She teases me and it strikes me that she might be sadistic. Why would I want to be connected with a woman like that?

  I’m an expert in the exhibition of confidence, displaying it in great quantity, but like many people my display is a show; I hardly know what genuine self-assurance is. When Mrs X stopped her relationship with me I was devastated. I couldn’t accept her callous decision to end our joyous time together. For years I have tried to put our friendship back on an intimate basis, but she has refused to engage. She is adamant that loving affection is not something I can expect from her ever again.

  Mrs X doesn’t want our friendship to end though. I find this very confusing. Early on, when we were alone together, she allowed me to flirt with her a little. I called her ‘my flower’ and she felt flattered. These days, when I feel brave enough to express my feelings, she looks at me as though I’m a nuisance, some nasty bug that insists on buzzing round her. Embarrassed by my behaviour, and in an attempt to ward off my frustration, I started writing about my feelings. I never showed my words to her; the collection is a poor attempt to justify my unwelcome intrusions into her life. Here’s a text I collected from the film Adaptation.

  If I was an insect and I happened to spot my flower, I would have to make contact with it. It’s true isn’t it? Every flower has a particular relationship with the insect that pays it most attention. Do you know that a great many orchids look like the insect that most frequently visits it? Obviously the insect is drawn to this flower because it looks like its double and they are hopelessly driven towards it. Afterwards the insect flies off to find another flower to make love to. Neither the flower nor the insect understand the significance of their lovemaking. How could they? Why would they need to know that as a result of their little dance the world lives – that by simply doing what they’re designed to do something large and magnificent is happening? In this sense they show us how to live – they confirm the notion that the only barometer we have is our heart.

  I liked that bit about the heart. I added this little note.

  “When I look at you I don’t see myself reflected there, but my heart does beat faster and it instantly inspires the movement of my wings. You’re my luscious, red-hot flower; I have to move towards you, otherwise I’d have to stop reacting to everything.”

  As the years went by I began to hate my secret writing. I wanted and desired reality and for me reality was simple - I needed Mrs X to love me. Only she could give me the confidence to live, but how could I convince her of this when she hated my attempts to talk to her about my feelings. When I could no longer bear the provocation her presence inspired, I told her that I had to stop seeing her altogether. Mrs X said this was a betrayal of our friendship and stormed off in a huff. I stopped her, but I had no idea how to calm her aggression. Then my words about bees came to me.

  “If I were a bee,” I told her, “I would never complain or feel unhappy if a flower I often visited was no longer in my garden. I wouldn’t be capable of knowing that a flower was absent.”

  “What are you saying?” she asked. “You’re not a bee.”

  “No, but can’t you get my meaning? If you agreed to inhabit gardens I don’t fly around it would be a perfect solution.”

  “A solution to what?” she asked, exasperated.

  “Surely you know what I’m saying,” I replied. “I don’t want us to meet any more; and if we do you must accept that I have no option but to fly to you.”

  “Maybe you should see a counsellor,” she advised.

  I assumed she meant a therapist, hence my current application to begin therapy. Maybe it’s not before time. I have tried every other option I can think of and nothing shifts the misery of my attraction to her. I want to know how we belong to each other. I also want to talk about my cynical moods; they are entirely different to my pollinating insect thoughts. When I’m feeling really down I create a voice to speak for me. This inner voice comes from a crude bully who calls me boy and tries to be funny. He thinks the sensitive me is a gullible fool and insists that the reckless, self-seeking man is the one who gets ahead. Why have I created him? It’s as if I’m driving a cynical stake into my heart. I can only characterise him with this kind of language.

  “Time you dropped your theories and got real, boy. What a hypocrite, imagining you know about love. All your leaves are down, son. The hand you offer your muse has been wrenched off years ago. You’re a beggar grown to be nothing on account of love, that’s all you are. Time to change. You think you’re heading for depression? Forget it, that’s not the kind of going down you should be counting on; its sex you need. When was the last time you had good sex? Not forever that’s for sure. How you going to make plans for getting it then? You already tried following your heart and that’s a dead end. Let’s face it, if you’re ‘living on a prayer’ it can only end in weight loss. What we’re dealing with here is a complete failure to get laid and that’s down to laziness. The problem with laziness is that it turns out to be very gratifying. Don’t know why negativity is given such a bad press; it’s so uplifting. But you, my old son, you can’t afford this. You can’t wait around for things to happen, you must grab it. Eat your pride, wash it down with a stiff drink and make demands. And don’t rattle on about drowning sorrows either; your sorrows are already drowned. Just show some confidence, even if you have to bluff it. Call me crazy if you want, boy, but you know this kind and gentle business you’re always going on about is far too overrated don’t you.”

  Sometimes this inner voice spurs me to action and at other times it depresses me. I pretend to be in control but I’m not. I don’t even want to be in control and I certainly don’t want to live by playing games or pretence. I want to be left alone. I don’t have horrid dreams, so left to myself I’d be fine. When I dream of Mrs X she’s not a superstar model, she doesn’t wear a flimsy cotton wrap coiled round her like some seductive femme fatale. In my world she could be dressed in dirty old overalls; I wouldn’t mind. The most important thing is that she enjoys being with me. I get pleasure from the way she behaves with me. I imagine it promises so much more than friendship. The pleasure I could give her means everything to me; it’s my big ambition in life.

  There is more to this subject though; my internal mix-up is much worse than this. I get utterly lost in double bluff games about my guilt and my innocence. I want to possess Mrs X and yet I deny this. But why shouldn’t I want to possess her; I wish she wanted to possess me. I feel guilty about my fixation, so I try to convince her of the value of our friendship. I am over-enthusiastic in conversation with her, even if I don’t particularly care for her chosen topic. All I know for certain is that when I am with her I am so entranced, all my good intensions fall apart. The way she exploits her sensual body is heavenly; it fills me with an ardent fervour. Who can explain to me why I see her as my aspiration; the one I’ve been waiting for all my life? How is it that she’s my sole purpose in life when her purpose is to gain the attention of as many men as possible? This sounds far-fetched but I assure you it isn’t; she has an exhausting schedule. It’s probably all she knows. I’m sure it gets her into all sorts of trouble. She still takes the risk though; it’s probably all or nothing.

  I am always speculating why she has to give men a hint that she might be intimate with them. It pains me to think that she actually carries out these tacit promises. Men will always be attracted to a woman who flirts. I was hooked.

  You can imagine how much her rejection hurts me; how appa
lling it is that she cares nothing for me. Sometimes I hate her. When I hate her I imagine everything she does is self-seeking; even her claim on friendship is for her benefit. She only wants me around to drive me mad and reject me. She hates me. Could she be a sadist? Am I crazy? Can you do anything about the pain this causes me? Can you straighten out my bewildering, impossible to navigate world where I go round and round in circles? I am desperate to move forward.

  How we belong to each other

  Stefan had been writing all night and by the early hours he realised that it could not save him. In his business there is nowhere to hide. He spent the remaining hours rehearsing his position, attempting to define matters that could take him and his supervisor to the heart of his perplexity. He entered his supervisor’s room believing he was going to discuss The Rain of the Dancers. He knew what the story was telling him about himself and he was eager to share this. When Clive, his therapist and supervisor, invited Stefan to speak, Stefan described the story and the effect it had upon him.

  “I have made a new realisation. It could well herald a new beginning for me,” he said. “I think I can now begin to deal with the timidity and fear that has plagued my sensual life.”

  “What might you do to confirm this new revelation?”

  “For the moment I want to dance and sing for joy. Then I want to contemplate how I might put myself in that place where the nourishing rain can start to wash away the years of repression and fear I have lived with. I want to connect with my inner child as the young man did.”

  “That’s a good start and you are right to give this the space it deserves. It’s important for you, but I work with you in your capacity as a professional therapist and I would like to discuss your personal problems in relation to your professional obligations. We should discuss why you were reluctant to take up the case of Mr A.”

  Clive’s question took Stefan by surprise. The tremulous, faltering rhythm of his reply spoke volumes.

  “Maybe I was too keen to have him as my client,” Stefan began, studying his therapist’s frown. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I suppose I don’t feel confident about making his love for Mrs X the centre of our therapeutic relationship.”

  “Then why tell me you were too busy? Are you nervous about discussing your reaction to his distress?”

  “Actually, I got caught in a double bind. I wanted to see him and I didn’t want to see him, so I made the excuse about being busy. I also didn’t want anyone else to see him.”

  “Are you being serious with me, Stefan?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I was suddenly mixed up. Maybe I was too overwhelmed by my own realisations. I couldn’t think straight, so I decided the simplest thing was to hand him over to you.”

  “You are saying one thing and doing the opposite, which is dangerous. If you are deceiving yourself you should take a break from work or you will be looking the other way while your client’s deceive themselves. What is at the bottom of Mr A’s anxieties that cause you so much confusion?”

  “His confusion. He wants true love but convinces himself he wants passion. He wants unconditional love, yet he believes Mrs X will give him sublime deliverance. He is married to a fantasy, to a fetish, to a pipedream.”

  “And you can’t unpick these polarities for him?”

  “It’s not a question of unpicking; his polarities are in dire need of mediation, but his fantasy has too much influence over him. I doubt he will listen to reason. He can’t receive whatever it is that he calls love and he can’t make ‘the birds and bees’ scenario ring true. He needs to know the difference between what he invents and calls love and what love might actually be for him. I’m not certain I can do this.”

  “Mr A is lonely and listens reluctantly to a cynic who occupies his head. Maybe you feel sympathy for him; it would be understandable. Do you feel sympathy for him? Do you think you might be associating with him too closely?”

  “I suppose when I read his statement I was aware that his condition shared territories with my own. Well, not really, I’m not obsessed by a woman, but neither of us can trust love. Maybe it came upon me just as I was beginning to shine a light on my own issues.”

  “In your job you enable people to change their unhelpful thought patterns and help them manage their physical reactions to distress. Why did you lack the confidence to do this here?”

  “Because I was exhibiting the signs of distress I should be managing. We focus on fear because it’s the most common cause of suffering, but after reading Mr A’s statement I was the one filled with fear. It came at a time when I was dealing with my own fear. It came immediately after I read The Rain of the Dancers. It was a coincidence, that’s all.”

  “In normal circumstances, what you do is confirm what your client is fearful about, help elucidate the physical and emotional components of this fear and the structure necessary for a journey into well-being is, to a large extent, in place. You have always shown an astute ability to intuit the underlying motivations of clients, but suddenly, with Mr A, you don’t trust yourself or you make excuses about not being ready.”

  “Mr A made me ask how I actually belong to other people and this made me feel vulnerable.

  Also, Mrs X unnerved me. Is she innocent or is she the problem? Maybe she’s a wild thing.”

  “What do you mean by a wild thing?”

  “Do you remember the alluring Holly Golightly character in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany's’? She advised Mr Bell, an old guy who had fallen in love with her, not to love a wild thing. Maybe Mrs X is a wild thing and Mr A is as innocent as Mr Bell.”

  “Why should you be thinking about who Mrs X is?”

  “I shouldn’t. I’m sorry. By chance I found the ‘wild thing’ speech and it struck me... no, it’s a reckless presumption to make, sorry, but….well…Oh, I don’t know. I’m getting into bad practices aren’t it? But maybe I could read you the advice Holly gave to Mr Bell. It might say something about Mr A’s position.”

  Clive nodded his assent and Stefan read.

  “You can’t give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do the stronger they get, until they’re strong enough to run into the woods or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up Mr Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing, you’ll end up looking at the sky.”

  “Is Mr A looking up at the sky for his departed love? He sees no path to lead him on. He’s calling out to be recognised.”

  “Generally one can assume that the man filled with amour is in love with a mirage, not a living woman. So we are dealing with projection here.”

  “I don’t want to take this path. Why should I tell him its projection? Why should he believe his love has nothing to do with her? By virtue of habit, his love, or what we refer to as his need to be accepted, only rises to the surface when he sees her. How will it help him if I say she’s a figment of his imagination? He will still look at her and feel the desire that lights up his dreams and yearn for them to come true. How can you tell a man that the woman he loves is only his projection, the person who represents some abstract desire for connection?”

  “Stefan, calm down. You should not imagine that if he manages to free himself from her, he will never find another woman who might give him recognition and love.”

  “No, but it’s a huge leap for a man like him. He will need more than therapy, he’ll need a spiritual awakening.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? What do spiritual awakenings have to do with it? Do you doubt he could understand and work within the therapeutic process?”

  “I don’t understand it, let alone him.”

  “So you don’t wish to intervene? Are you saying that you do not wish to continue with your therapeutic profession?”

  “Of course I do. Look, I know it is much better to believe that our world can be moulded by a shaping hand than to hide in the mind’s corner as he does, but how can we trust this hand? Sometimes, and certainly in matters of the heart, hoodwinking ourselves is un
avoidable. When does truth kick in? We all project onto others, but what happens when all our desires coalesce around one person? Is that falling in love? Maybe in this instance, the hoodwinking gives us a little space; provides us with the modicum of confidence that enables action. Maybe it prevents us from wallowing in the endless round of prevarication that ends up persecuting us.”

  “Are you saying that love causes hoodwinking in all of us? You can’t possibly believe that love throws us all a problem about fantasy and identity no matter how well adjusted we are.”

  “Look, this guy hates being unable to move on, he recognises he’s obsessed with her, but he can’t stop believing he’s in love with her. He’d rather go on supposing there’s no prospect of connection in the whole wide world, no hope of tender affection at all, than tell himself he must ignore these profound feelings. He would rather sit listening to his voices, praying that some magic will occur, than accept she has no feelings for him.”

  “But he must come to terms with his inner voice; this is his Superego talking and it’s bullying him. His reaction to this is to allow his inner child to become very childish. That’s why he loses himself in a fetish scenario. These two opposites belong together and, as you pointed out, it is your job to help him mediate between these two positions.”

  “OK, let me explain it like this. No one can live like he does; with a Superego that tells him all his leaves are down. No one wants to listen to a cynic who insists that his hand has been wrenched off, but this man has to believe in love while he is doing battle with his Superego. He probably believes without doubt that he’s a beggar, possessing nothing on account of love. Even without this love he’s a beggar with nothing; he’s a man with little prospect of directing his life. He’s not psychotic – it’s neurosis we are dealing with here - and somewhere in the middle of this neurosis he has the presence to ask the really important questions in life.