How do we actually belong to each other?
How do men and women belong to each other?
Are you listening to me Clive? Damn it, you’re my therapist. You know me better than you’re willing to admit. You know my life has become unfathomable to me. I’m like Mr A, desperate to make my connection with love a truthful aspect of my life. I want love to be everything I answer for. What we make of each other when we love is what life’s about, isn’t it? It’s all we have. It’s who we are. How can I go on pretending that it isn’t so?”
The noise from Clive was neither a moan nor a sigh. He had placed his hands over his eyes. He asked no further questions.
Inventing Mrs X
“A king should never desire a princess, he should focus on keeping his kingdom in good order.”
Stefan had this statement tucked away in his archive and he knew exactly where to find it. He continued to think about Mrs X - dwelling on her attributes – while reminding himself that insistent suppositions about her probable psychology was unprofessional. But Stefan was doing more than this, he was inviting his curiosity to take an imaginative leap, inventing a story as a way of guessing what her character and personality might be. This was therapeutic suicide and he felt guilty about it; it could only add to his dilemmas. Stefan convinced himself that he was just day-dreaming; playing with words.
Inventing Mrs X
Mrs X is entranced by her own looks and the power she has over men. She yearns for an opportunity to enjoy an erotic love affair, but she keeps her emotional life secret, even from herself. She has a rational and highly structured methodology to hold her life in check. She diets excessively and hates to let herself go. She has no idea about improvisation and she refuses to get involved with anything that could threaten her delicate sense of freedom. Her husband, a successful man, is frequently away from home. The unspoken deal is that he brings social and financial values to the marriage while she attends to the values relating to family and home. Clearly, she must prove herself to be the matriarch of a perfectly happy family, free of conflicts, scandals or any gossip that could cast shadows upon them. Apart from such restrictions she is free to follow her fancies and inclinations.
It is impossible for Mrs X to allow any new love to threaten her delicate state of equilibrium, but since her survival would be intolerable if she ceased to be the focus of male attention, she has to bear the strain of this ‘double think.’ She’s not certain that erotic love affairs will provide her with the connection she yearns for, but she can’t conceive of any other fiction that could soothe her fantasies.
As a young girl Mrs X watched as infidelity destroyed her family. Her father, a strong and successful man, was broken when her mother left him. Her mother caused her father to lose his self-esteem and she hated her mother for this. Mrs X’s world disintegrated when her father ceased being the warm, funny man in her life. He was the man who made her feel like a princess, the princess of his kingdom. After her parent’s breakup it became her responsibility to ensure that her father continued to be a funny and agreeable man. With this new responsibility she ceased being a child. She lost her ability to engage with fantasy and she had no appetite left for day-dreaming. She was forced to become an adult too soon.
When Mr A came into her life, her world began to glow. It was full of new opportunities. She was no longer the isolated woman burdened with responsibilities. She was young, free and beautiful again. She even discovered that a great number of men found her attractive. Suddenly she was the princess of a man’s kingdom again, the innocent and beautiful little girl she had been before her mother, the wicked witch, instigated her fear and responsibility. With Mr A she found her father once more; she was again reigning supreme. He made her gloomy despondency disappear; he made her disenchantment with paradise melt away.
But it wasn’t long before Mrs X had to put an end to her brief interlude in this new paradise - Mr A had begun to fall in love with her and this was seriously against the rules. Her intuition told her that his love was the love of a hero; the love of a man who wants to conquer her. This unmitigated threat to her ordered and controlled world was beyond enduring. With his desire he had turned her new fantasy-paradise into a world of bewildering contradictions, a world that highlighted her doubts and aroused her suspicions. Now she glimpsed for certain that her shallow foundations were built on shaky ground. Her delicate structures had been undermined.
She had no idea how desperately she missed being the little princess in her youthful kingdom. She had no idea how to dream without her fantasy narrative being at the centre of her world. Mr A was to blame. Why couldn’t this hare-brained man allow things to continue in a simple fashion, in a way that allowed her to continue a life without threats and dangers? He was now the destroyer of her enchantment, the gangster who had wrecked her possibility of a second kingdom of delight.
If friends had informed Mr A that she couldn’t survive unless she was allowed to be the ruler, the sovereign of all territories, he would not have listened. If friends had told him that being a princess was the most important component of Mrs X’s fantasy existence, Mr A would not have believed them. He was in love with her. No-one could have guessed the extent of Mrs X’s vulnerability. No-one would have imagined that her little princess scenario was the only survival technique she had. Not even she would have known that this was the only foundation on which her contented fulfilment was built. She had no idea how to look for a substitute paradigm, but she knew how to control Mr A. She gave him a new role. He was to be reincarnated as her impotent friend, her faithful and chased knight errant who must forever wander the furthest reaches of the earth in search of adventures to prove his chivalric virtues to her, the honourable lady.
Poor Mrs X, longing for an impossible love, a pre-sexual love that she could only have received as a girl from her father. In the beginning it probably seemed possible that Mr A might succeed at this seemingly impossible task - he was, after all, as passionate about romantic feelings as she was - but sex had broken the spell and eliminated all future possibilities of enchantment. Their collective craving, their shared libido, happened in a virtual world, but with Mr A’s desire for explicit sex, the reality suddenly threatened this simulated paradise. He wanted to take a bite from an apple she had never offered him. He introduced shame into the game, so the fantasy world had to be abandoned. From now on Mrs X was hopelessly disconnected from her future. She had to remain in a stilted maturation process, inhabiting the world with the same impediment she inherited as a girl. No one ever again would offer her the opportunity of keeping her fantasy-world intact. Never again could she become the beautiful princess of her father, the ruler and the king.
Unless he lacked any inkling of romantic ambition, it is possible that Mrs X’s husband offered her a brief hint that he could become the desired new king, but before long he must have displayed his missing parts. Poor Mrs X, her last chance was over. She must have cried for her little girl self and she must have hated Mr. A for betraying the promise she had envisaged for him. He had destroyed her paradise. He should have known that insisting on sexual intimacy can only mean incest. A king should never desire the princess. A king’s job is to ensure that his kingdom is in good order. He should do everything to preserve the sovereign territory of the princess.
Poor Mr A, the lost little boy in a man’s guise who dared to aspire to the role of hero. Instead of being the king in her princess dreamland he had become the villain who needed therapy. He now had to understand and atone for his wicked desires, for his insistent destructiveness. No wonder he was completely bewildered.
Stefan read through his invented scenario. He considered the tale to be overstuffed with clichés and he also saw in it too much of his own fear. He made notes on the text.
I’ve made Mrs X out to be dangerous. I don’t think of all women in my world as dangerous, but I feel threatened by my fictional Mrs X. She puts my manhood in question. Any man would lose their confidence in her company. I sho
uld try to think of her in a more positive light. Is she dangerous because she arouses feelings? Is this why I’m nervous with some women? Is this why the fear sets in? I must get the balance right. I like women. I’m probably over-enthusiastic about them, honouring them with all sorts of qualities they might not possess. I must stop all this analysis; it’s getting me nowhere.
Stefan read The Rain of the Dancers before going to sleep and idly dreamed of being in the Sahara desert.
Accepting incomprehensibility
In a file marked ‘Alternative,’ Stefan found a text by a Rwandan community worker. He was writing about his experience with western mental health specialists.
“We had a lot of trouble with western mental health workers who came here immediately after the genocide and we had to ask some of them to leave. They had a practice that did not involve being outside in the sun where you begin to feel better. There was no music or drumming to dance to, nothing to get your blood flowing again. There was no sense that everyone had taken the day off so that the entire community could come together to try to lift you up and bring you back to joy. There was no acknowledgement of the depression as something invasive and external that could actually be cast out again. Instead they would take people one at a time into these dingy little rooms and have them sit around for an hour or so and talk about bad things that had happened to them. We had to ask them to leave.”
Stefan, in the mood for an argument, read this to Clive. It confirmed for his therapist that Stefan was developing an inappropriate attitude towards psychotherapy.
“It’s a question of balance,” Stefan insisted. “The spiritual ecology expressed by the Rwandan is singing to my ears not food for my professional protocol. I like to think of myself as someone who could invite communities to come together, bring back joy and help get the blood flowing again. It’s why I became a therapist. I may even start to look for a place for this kind of activity in my practice.”
“Stefan, you are adding to my suspicion that you should take a sabbatical. Please tell me you are winding me up.”
“I’m doing no such thing. Such a practice would benefit me and Mr A. It is how the man with the broken nose made his realisation; out in the sunlight.”
“Given the ambiguities that are currently clouding your thinking, I am grateful that you’re not dealing with Mr A.”
“Who have you referred him to?”
“Kathy Wiltshire. You’ve worked with her before haven’t you? A very capable woman and a safe pair of hands.”
Both Clive and Stefan were concerned that the therapy sessions were dwindling into a series of arguments. Stefan left with a secret ambition to discuss Mr A’s case with Kathy, but even he, in his current belligerent mood, didn’t act on it. He had supper with friends, drank too much wine and could not remember how he had managed to get home. That night his tricky unconscious created a little pair of dreams about Kathy and Mr A. Stefan, with a morning headache as companion, hardly knew how to think about them. He nevertheless wrote them out with his usual care.
Dream One
Mr A is my client. I’m feeling guilty about breaking a very important rule. I should not engage a client if they are involved with someone I have treated before. My guilty secret is that Mrs X was a patient of mine some years back. I was too scared to mention her to Clive at the referral stage, because I was trying to deny her existence. She had been a disastrous client. Now that I have Mr A as my client, I can’t resist talking about Mrs X’s bewildering attributes, but having Mr A in my consulting room is like having her close to me again and I can’t seem to do anything right. I realise I’m living dangerously, but I am so far from adopting a reasonable position, my common sense voice cannot reach me. I wake up, full of fear and guilt about not telling the truth.
Dream Two
I am trying to discover why I am suffering from high anxiety. I know I should go to my therapist for help, but I am reluctant to see him. Suddenly, I am entering his office, but it is Kathy I see sitting in his chair; she has taken over his consulting room.
“I know you are jealous about Mr A loving Mrs X,” she tells me, “but don’t worry, I am here to help you. Please sit here in this chair and I will lie here on the couch.”
“How do you know about my feelings for Mrs X?” I ask.
“Mr A told me. Clive and I know you’re feeling guilty about her. Did you know that Clive has offered me a research position? I can’t take it; the extra work is too much. Will you help me explain to him that I am preoccupied with looking after my sick mother? He’s so worried; he’s bound to take it the wrong way and then he’ll feel rejected. He’s so vulnerable; he relies on me too much.”
“Why don’t you get a professional nurse to look after your mother? Surely the research post would be more pleasurable.”
“I can’t, my mother is so demanding. Her success and glamour have gone to her head. She treats everyone like a worthless minion. It doesn’t stop them wanting to be with her though. She spends hours each day putting on her make-up. Without me there to help everything in her world will fall apart. Can you imagine how impossibly difficult it is for a woman with Parkinson’s disease to put on make-up? You must help me Stefan. You are a good therapist.”
After writing out these dreams, Stefan made a copious set of notes, to avoid, what he feared most; incomprehensibility.
They are mixed up. The characters are interchangeable, they are in the wrong place, they lie down when they should sit and the good attributes become bad ones; there is even the impossible notion of an old woman with Parkinson’s putting on make-up. The bit about Kathy and her mother is partially true, but it is nothing more than a red herring. Maybe the dreams are just that; red herrings. Can’t be too hasty in presuming irrelevance though, especially when guilt and lies figure so highly on the agenda. I’ve no idea what I will say to Clive; I’ll have to discuss them with him. Maybe he’s having an affair with Kathy, which is why he made the referral in her favour. Why do I continually entertain farcical notions? These dreams are not bringing out the best in me. Why is my unconscious making everyone slightly crazy? Maybe to confirm that we all share the same problems. We all cook with water no matter what our status is.
Love figures highly; it’s the common denominator. Despite Clive’s critical view of my current practice he has never displayed any confidence in talking about love’s problems. We all want it lightly touched, yet love offers the most dramatic forms of adverse polarities. What can be more dynamic than acceptance and rejection or pride and envy? These things belong in love’s territory. I should also think about love’s associated polarities; ‘I want’ and ‘I don’t want’ are so important. We want both possibilities and we want them simultaneously. We want to be accepted and rejected at the same time. Mr A probably wants this also. I must think more about polarities. Problems arise when we advantage one polarity over another; we feel guilty about prejudicing the disadvantaged polarity. The secret is to learn how to accept both polarities and play generously between the two. Accepting the down side is never easy.
There is very little poetry in these dreams, but there is something intriguing about the objects and events masquerading in the guise of another thing. In language, a metaphor does this. It substitutes a new word for an existing one and drives the subject in an unexpected direction. This is interesting. Dreams also present themselves to us in a metaphorical guise. This dream, even if it expresses nothing in particular, just a shade of thought I can’t quite formulate, could still, like a metaphor, hold some kind of secret that is worth unlocking.
If good and bad is the presiding relationship and I’m worried about my goodness as a psychotherapist, then maybe I should look more closely at appreciating my goodness. If the two dreams are telling me that I’m a bad therapist, who is being asked by a good therapist to help her save our shared therapist from feelings of rejection while she looks after her bad mother, then this could it be a metaphor for saying I’m a good therapist. Kathy says I’m a good the
rapist at the end.
I could presume that my friendly unconscious is inventing an instructional allegory for me, that it has a benign desire to help me resolve problems that I’ve not yet voiced. Maybe it is presenting me with a series of complex, disconnected events in the hope that I will realise the need to make connections. This could be the spark that ignites recognition. Detective work is an exciting business. I was told once that I should not find my work too awe-inspiring. I never understood this. Maybe the dreams suggest that I might accept incomprehensibility and attempt to put my preconceptions in abeyance until the various complexities have joined together of their own accord. It’s a thought, but it’s hardly eureka.
Stefan sent Kathy a text message asking if they could meet for lunch.
Party with a comedian
Kathy replied to Stephen’s lunch request with an email. She begged forgiveness for being so busy and promised to give him a date for meeting soon. She attached a story to the email and introduced it with this sentence.
“This little tale was told to me by my new client, Mr A. He said it didn’t matter what happened to him as long as he had his story. For me this is the beginning of art (literature and filmmaking etc.) Is it also the beginning of psychotherapy?”
The Analyst Page 3