Installments

I might, sometimes, be a good enough psychotherapist – although there are certainly those for whom I have not been good enough.

But I am most certainly a terrible business woman. I dread doing my professional accounts each month, my financial books are shaggy and unkempt.

And an interesting unconscious habit, a persistent black out, a fiscal “tick” has stuck with me from the moment I hung out my shingle: I spend hours making up bills – and I forget to hand them to my clients to collect my fee.

I have even (and this has happened repeatedly) written up a statement in the last five minutes of a session, for the client sitting in front of me, said “Goodbye! See you next week!” walked them to the door and listened to the elevator doors closing behind them – and looked down to find a monthly statement: the CPT code and session dates, any previous balance (from the month before when I also forgot to give them their bill) the total due and my license number – still in my hand.

I’m a shrink, right? I am trained to think about such things – so of course I do, and I have – for the past twenty years – and I still haven’t cracked it.

I’ve tried all kinds of behavioral interventions and mnemonics – set alarms, and organized visual reminders – nope.

I’ve set up rituals, which I adhere to, of reviewing the bookkeeping tasks for the day – uh-uh. Nothing penetrates the blank-out.

I’ve even held the remaining bills for the day in my lap, and forgotten to distribute them.

I mean, I get them distributed eventually. Some by hand, some electronically –but in fits and starts and herky-jerky – and in the end I feel very valued and valuable to my clients – and I am grateful that I usually get paid, and paid well enough to care for my family. But this odd billing disorder isn’t born of complacency. There have been many years where I was scraping by, or short on rent – and still found myself with a stack of undistributed bills sitting on my office end table at the end of the day.

I own my worth. I can set my fees at a rate that reflects my value and training and expertise. Sure, there are lots of therapists in NYC who have a higher average fee than I end up with as my sliding scale and flexibility with clients in crisis, and pro-bono cases drag my averages down. But that is not unconscious. That is my choice, those are my values, and that is what helps me to curate a healthy and diverse generalist caseload.

I’m not inhibited about talking about money, and I like getting paid. I can talk openly, and even enter into conflict about my fees – I make sure to manage fees in a way that protects my clinical relationships from resentment or overextension. My fees are high enough to require a significant, if proportional, commitment from my clients, and to meet my own needs for reimbursement for what I have offered up.

And so I dig deeper than that:

I sit in a room of my very own, and the world comes to me.

Seekers, from every walk of life, from every profession, from many different cultures, come to my door.

They bring with them, each of them, hundreds and hundreds of stories to tell. Thousands upon thousands of myths and dreams, narratives, of hopes and heartbreak are laid at my feet. The more still I sit, the more stories are offered to me. 

Like gifts. Like precious offerings. 
These stories, priceless and sacred, are left behind with me, a pile of totems, charms and  talismans to protect and instruct  me as I move through  my own story. 

Like a safe deposit box I am filled with other people’s treasures.

If I am very very lucky, and I have held still enough and said the magic words, whatever they may be, often enough (I am very very good finder of magic words) I may be allowed to become a part of these stories, and to help create their meaning and influence their outcome in some small way, and hopefully for the better (but you never know for sure with magic words, what forces you will unleash).

There are boring bits. Long periods of exposition or sometimes endless description of the landscape – but I’ve learned to rest during those patches because soon enough – the tale will pick back up and we will be facing demons and dragons and rescuing royalty and sitting on the edge of our seats and escaping by the skin of our teeth.

And each session there is a new and amazing hero, in a new story, and I am their trusty side kick, or their genie in a bottle, the village fool, the scape-goat, the ugly step-sister  the crone in the hut at the edge of the forest, or the princess they have yearned for, or the Queen on her throne or the wickedest witch of all.

And the protagonists move through their tasks so heroically, with such courage and fortitude, I am continuously stunned and surprised by each new trick, each riddle solved, and every feat of strength.

And the story is so engrossing, so compelling, and it offers me so much even as I play my delimited  part within it, that I am swept up and satisfied and filled. And like all big stories, big myths and dreams, I have been transformed myself by the tale.

And I think what happens – is that I just forget.

I forget, and sometimes it just makes no sense to me,

that I am actually supposed to be paid at this point in the  adventure, as I wait, dangling in suspense for  next week’s installment. 

Nothing More

I can’t write authentically about anything other than early bereavement right now. Except maybe compound bereavement, complex bereavement, working as a therapist while you are actively bereaved. After your toes have been curled around the edge of the abyss watching several loved ones slowly slowly fall into it every single day for a year or two.

How you think, but you have thought before, that it has stopped – that the dying has paused – and that maybe the universe will offer you a decade or two to catch your breath before you again lose someone who is part of your psychological and logistical infrastructure – but what if it doesn’t pause (last time it didn’t) and what if it keeps going – and swallows someone else up you love, or you?

What if lightening strikes repeatedly in the same spot? What if freak events, school shootings, car accidents, house fires, drug overdoses, aneurisms or just more cancer cancer cancer keep coming?

About the feeling of falling down a rabbit hole, the floor pulled out from under you, and having no idea when or if you will hit solid ground again.

About the terror of looking forward – because it means encountering the days, years, minutes ahead without someone who you might have assumed would travel through time with you but is gone, and not just gone for right now, but gone always. Never to be seen or heard again

I can only in this moment write about how it is also hazardous to look back – because if you calculate all that you have negotiated and all the heartbreak of the death and dying cluster you hope you have passed through (but who really knows for sure) you will feel a fatigue so great, so crushing, so heavy that you know your body actually demands three solid months of sleep to recover – but there are children to care for and bills to pay, and the unflinching and unceasing demands of life to keep up with.

And the past has other dangers – sometimes called memories – which can comfort and soothe and strengthen you but can also turn against you into a brutal accounting of what exactly has been taken from you, and what is no longer with you in the present moment.

About the strange alienation when you hear normal people talking about everyday things – and who, understandably try to engage you in conversation about everyday things, while you are actually still living in the crack between the worlds where every second is both sacred and terrible and as far from everyday as humanly imaginable – but you somehow – strangely- without understanding how – are still able to chat and smile and nod and act “as if” you are a part of this earth – when you haven’t really come back yet, and aren’t sure who you will be when you do return.

And the times when you do feel normal – uncannily normal – like nothing happened, nothing changed – when you go about your business, and again, kind and well meaning people treat you as if you are still altered (you aren’t are you?) but you feel regular and you just want to cash in on that for the time being but everyone’s concern disrupts the illusion and you remember you have just had a human being that you cherished amputated from your life.

The self-compassion that you have to cultivate in order not to push or shame yourself, when you feel nothing, or you feel totally fucked up, or you feel fine, or you feel the worst, searing burning pain, or you feel terrified, or you feel lost, or you feel a little manic-y in your love of life, your appreciation for what is good or kind or just or beautiful, or your slightly panicked need to say every positive grateful thing you feel to the people around you over and over again in case you don’t get to say it later, or in case the moment arrives where you will never get a chance to say it at all.

How you search for places to put your thinking – or behaviors to engage in – that comfort you for a second and how you hope that thought or that photo, or that song, or that peaceful spot doesn’t dry up on you and lose its ability to function as a balm for all your sorrows.

Gathering your thoughts before sleep, trying to court dreams which make this make sense, or which offer consolation.

And how, you go to work, and you want to go to work, to tend to and care for others who mean the world to you – and stand shoulder to shoulder beside other people who are contending with challenges and suffering, loss, illness, bereavements, alienations of their very own – and your power to take those in, take those on, and mirror it all back can make your own wound useful – but can also exhaust you and expose you to profound re-injury – the most painful kind of re-wounding when you work from your vulnerability and it is rejected or attacked.

And can you really withstand that right now?

Usually, yes, absolutely. The connection and the potential of intimacy makes it all worth it, and probably there is an internal mandate to keep doing it because what else can you do? What other way of working in the world will cook this stew into something  digestible?

But sometimes momentarily no. Not at all. It is not withstandable and why did I ever take on this fucked up job of absorbing other people’s aggression and confusion and wishes for me to be perfected when I am not I am not, I have never been and I am certainly not now, not at all. Who did I think I was? I suck at this, it is the worst and is there anyway to get out of this at this point?

Suddenly remembering that even your breakability is valuable because it connects you to the brokenness of others

Finding seconds of relief and stacking them upon each other.

Remembering you are grateful for the love that you are now grieving and for the love and kindness, and the attempts at kindness that are all around

Remembering what those you have lost would want for you.

Trying to see yourself as they saw you.

Arguing with them in your head. Giving them back the fucked up bits that they might not have accepted when they were alive.

Learning to speak to yourself in their healthy voice.

Recalling that everything  you are contending with that feels unnatural is natural.

That grief is part of the natural order of things, and allowing it to function in your life as a natural force.

And remembering  that it is all expectable. Necessary. Unavoidable.

That all this is just grief itself.

Nothing less. Nothing more.

 

 

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(For an accompanying discussion on the processes of bereavement and how you can support those in early bereavement please read this. )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Memorium

Recently I wrote a post entitled “Death Ed.” for a dear friend,  a chosen sister who was facing a terminal illness.

She died early New Year’s Day, peacefully, in the arms of her amazing partner. We received the call as we were eating ttok mandoo guk, the traditional Korean New Year soup that she had taught us to make.

It is nearly impossible to describe Ellie to those who have not met her. It is also nearly impossible to explain to those who do not know us how it is that we became a family. Her own words are more effective than any of my own.

She helped to raise my children. She helped me care for my sick and dying mother.

She fed my Korean children the food her Korean mother fed her as a child and taught them to cook it for themselves.

She was there on our worst and best days as a family.

She understood my children in places that I will never comprehend, but will always respect.

She made me laugh my ass off even in the darkest times. She stepped up for me, and permitted me to do the same for her.

She changed people’s lives who met her one time, for ten minutes and never ever forgot her.

It has always been easier for both of us to give help and harder  for us both to receive it. But somehow we learned to ask and accept and receive help from each other.

And because Ellie was such a supportive soul, and so encouraging about this blog:

  

 I will take what we learned together and ask my What a Shrink Thinks community to help us make sure that this loss generates care and consolation for others:

Before her death, Ellie spent time thinking about her legacy, the causes and the people on this planet that she most wanted to support – projects that would serve as extension of her core values and passions. She decided that her memory would be most honored by caring for LGBTQ youth in Korea. With the help of Astraea Lesbian Foundation for Justice we are able to direct donations made in her memory toward a shelter in Korea for LGBTQ youth, as well as other projects.

Please help her extraordinary and nurturing spirit continue to work for change, compassion and liberation in this world.

Please share this post and follow this link to the Astraea donations page, and be sure to indicate that your donation is in memory of Ellie Conant. 

Donations will be accepted through June, 2016–both the month of Ellie’s birth and the annual Pride celebration she loved so much. How fitting that we support her in spreading Pride into the world.

To my beloved adoption community:

So many people have reached out to us to ask how they can support  our children through the loss of their dear dear Imo.

This is how:

Please click and share this link and help us raise up and support multiracial and LGBTQ voices annually at the KAAN conference.

Our bonds as a family were forged & solidified there, it is an annual community/family reunion for us  and we hope you will all help us to keep Ellie’s generous spirit present at the conference so the kids can see that she is not forgotten. 

She left us with so much , and I hope that we can extend that abundance to others.

With a full and grateful heart,

Martha

Job Search

 

 

“I will say to God ‘Don’t just condemn me – tell me why you are doing it.”

The Book of Job, 10:2

 

Everyone writes about the Book of Job at some point – and maybe, every one who ever writes is really just writing about the Book of Job.

A lot of people really hate this story.

Not me. I find it relieving.  It tells the truth straight up, no bullshit.

The world is not fair or just. God is not merely moral. Life is feral. Fate is fickle. 

 If we are concerned about being “good” it better be for our own sakes, so that we can feel clean and proud of ourselves with few regrets when the shit hits the fan – because the shit will hit the fan someday, and often more than once, sometimes so repetitively that you cannot bear it. Because Life won’t be good to us just because we are so very busy trying to be good.
Being “good” protects you from nothing. Evil can win. And karma isn’t always the bitch you hope it will be.

So if you haven’t read it (just in case there is anyone who hasn’t read it) here is what happens: God bets Satan that his most faithful follower, Job, will remain faithful no matter how he is tortured. Satan takes that bet: destroys his crops and herds, kills all of his servants and children. Seven sons and three daughters in one fell swoop.

Job is traumatized beyond all imagining, but retains his faith in a just and powerful monotheistic God. So Satan asks to up the stakes: Illness? Physical suffering will surely break his faith: Sure, God says, just don’t kill him: Job is covered in boils from head to foot.

At first it seems like he is holding it together:

“Shall we receive only pleasant things from the hand of God and never anything unpleasant?”

But when Job finally speaks to his three closest friends – we learn that he is traumatized to the point of suicidal despair. He has lost everything that was ever comforting or meaningful to him. And he is grieving the destruction of a cherished fantasy that there is order and justice in the universe. It is dawning on him that whatever he thought God was, he is not an omnipotent parental God who rewards goodness and punishes evil.

And over the course of the next few chapters he will also learn how much his friends suck.

They all, one after another insist that God is both omnipotent and just. And therefore, Job is responsible for his own agony, a sinner who must repent.

None of them will stay with Job for a moment as he ponders these excruciating questions: What if God isn’t just? What if I didn’t do anything wrong, or certainly do anything wrong enough to warrant THIS – then what? What if God isn’t what or who I thought? What if I projected my own sense of morality onto an entity that is something else entirely? Does my blameless suffering, and the blameless suffering of others prove that I am more moral than a God who would torture me on a whim? How do I stay attached to Life, to a sense of meaning or purpose or beauty or awe if I live in a Universe that would allow dark forces to destroy everything I have ever held dear? If Evil is permitted to dwell in comfort and decent men are permitted to suffer – If I chose to continue to believe, what is it that I believe in?

And the God of Life comes to Job as a Whirlwind. And speaks of wild animals and the Big Bang, and the wind, and rain – of the firmament and lightening. And of instinct and intuition. The Sacred Whirlwind speaks of lions, of ravens, of mountain goats and wild donkeys and oxen. The Divine Hurricane roars about ostriches: who abandon their eggs without a thought, completely devoid of maternal impulse but who can run faster than the fastest horse. The Holy Tornado of Life goes on and on, about hippopotami and crocodiles (the crocodile actually gets seven or eight full paragraphs of speechifying). The most primal, powerful, lizard – a being designed purely to devour and survive – a creature that we would never dream of considering on moral terms, except in our most anthropomorphizing moments: “Oh that poor baby zebra! That terrible monster just ate him right up!”

A crocodile, a hippo, an ostrich or a hurricane are neither right or wrong, moral or immoral. They are. They just are. Beauty and horror swirl and twist together in the Awesome Cyclone.

Job and his shitty friends have it all wrong.

Once I asked my martial arts master about the role of aggression in all of the animals forms we studied: The Monkey, The Tiger, The Dragon, The Sparrow, The Snake.

“They will all kill, you ” he said “but it is not their intention to kill.”

These are the forces that the God of Job identifies with.

Life is feral. God is not in the business of justice. The Sacred is a wilder and more primal, more ancient force than Job or his cronies knew.

It is not our fault. It is not the Whirlwind’s intention.

The Whirlwind may strip us of all the things we have ever believed or loved. It may tear our lives apart. And it will be completely natural for it to do so.

The Cosmos is neither wicked, nor just. It is not fair or unfair. Life is not reasonable or unreasonable.

To ask “Why?” is simply a wrong question, and mistakenly assumes a reasonable, moral explanation.

And there is a worse question, one that will lead us to wish we were never born and to yearn for the grave. A question that compounds trauma and impotence with rage and shame:

The most destructive question we can ask, with our fists raised to the heavens:

“Why me?”

A question as senseless as asking Why matter? Why anti-matter? Why ostrich-eggs? Why crocodiles? Why hurricanes?

When we expect that the Holy Tempest is supposed to operate within the parameters of human morality, when we imagine that we deserve justice from the Hands of Fate – we have set ourselves above nature. We imagine that we should be able to command The Storm of Life to unfurl itself neatly even though there is nothing tidy about a storm. It assumes that the balance of Nature is morally ordered. 

To ask “Why me?” in a wild amoral universe – is a dead end proposition: The only possible answers – explored all through out Job – lead to the depths of despair: 1) Trauma and clusters of cumulative trauma are the fault of the individual due to sin, foolishness, or error. Or 2) The Universe, God, Fate, the Powers-That-Be are intentionally, purposively sadistic or criminally neglectful.

Fairbairn says that in this circumstance most of us will turn trauma in on ourselves – that we would prefer to eat the sin and take the blame than to live to in a universe steered by the Devil’s whims.

The only psychologically tolerable answer to “Why me ?” is this:

There is no answer. The laws of probability mean that some people will experience cumulative traumas and losses and some will not. In terms of moral explanation it is an inherently unanswerable question and any answer you attempt to extract can lead you toward suicidal despair.

The Book of Job suggests that you need to ask different questions entirely:

Questions like these:

Can you look squarely at the cruelty and beauty of life – at the awesome power of a Wild God, of a Universe which is not centered in anyway around you or your comfort or your goodness and still choose Life? Can you summon  the energy to find meaning in living when everything is taken from you? Can you still love a God that might strip you of your very identity? Can you feel awe for a primal force, for a Sow who will bear and suckle her piglets but who might also eat them? Can you withstand the horrors of living and stay committed to the miraculous precarious balance of the world? Can you cherish your own brokenness and suffering and the brokenness of others? Can you lose people you love, or many people you love, can you be profoundly harmed, and still continue to love?

Can you withstand the fact that living is in no way a secure proposition and be filled with awe at its power and fragility, even as it destroys you? Can you embrace this feral universe – with all its destructiveness and creativity – as surely as the God of Job loves the potent, dangerous, glorious, primal crocodile?

We may be sacrificed like Job’s children, as the gods gamble with our fate. We may shatter  like ostrich-eggs. We may also acknowledge that the fragility and destructiveness of all of nature lives in our own wild hearts. That, within us, lives the terrible crocodile and the frightened zebra that feeds him.

And that rather than shaking our fist at a Hurricane  –
Life demands that we find a way to embrace the Wilderness.
  
 

 

 

 

 

 

Down Stream

Each of us also inherits a second-hand social universe –

an organizing principle,                                         I didn’t know the

architectural design,                                    question before I                       

elemental philosophy,                                  learned the answer.

if you will – which

imperceptibly becomes yet another part of the total life-map.

In truth though, what you see

Is not what you get.

 

Sooner or later, that social universe –  

                  is going to break

                  under data-strain

 Then what will remain?

                         Sounds

                        visions,

                        insights,

                        questions,

                        exploding –

                                    light.                                                

 

~ Martin Bell, 1983, Sweeping Meditations #12 & 17

 

Earlier this week, I don’t know why, I woke up with the sudden certainty that Row Row Row Your Boat was a song about death.

I didn’t do any research, and still haven’t. I didn’t hunt down its origins or its permutations. Who cares? I just knew, that even if it wasn’t intended to be a song about death, and even if no one else in the world thought that it was or someone  could summon definitive proof that it was in fact, merely a song about boat rowing – I still would believe, utterly and forever, that row row row your boat, whatever it was meant to be, was also, simultaneously a song about death.

I mean, Ring Around The Rosey has that disturbing bit about ashes and “we all fall down!” And then there’s Rock A Bye Baby with its broken bough and fallen cradle. And so many of our lullabyes which we sung innocently to our children, as nonsensical clusters of unexamined word and rhyme, when you look closely are  haunting/soothing as we take on the role of psychopomp, luring our wide awake children, like the Pied Pieper humming a seductive tune,  over the cliff of consciousness down to the land of Morpheus.

So: yes, I’m sure that all these things are silly little transliterations over hundreds of years, and there is no determining what they originally were intended to mean or why. But can’t we also ask ourselves why these words, and images and variations stuck around, and why we keep singing them to our children, who, until very recently, were far far more likely to die in early childhood, and how terrified to our bones we are that even now, even with all our “affordable” health care and medical technology they still may not outlive us?

Constantly and everywhere as individuals we think we are doing one thing when we are also doing the opposite. We think we are being kind when we are actually being undermining or causing offense. We meant it as a joke and are shocked when the brunt experiences it as an act of hostility. Our conscious intentions are easily and often conscripted by an unacknowledged, un-conscious agenda which will have its way with us when it is activated and or when we have set our consciousness in opposition to it. Our unconscious will out, whether in dreams, or by acting out, or often by creating symbols which seem to contain both what we wish for: a loving, forgiving God, and what we most fear: a murderous, wrathful destructive deity – now molded together into a crucified human son of God who contains all of our ambivalence and terror and forgives us all our sins.

Or by singing haunting lullabies, or teaching our children creepy nursery rhymes.

So, imagine Charon, the ferryman guiding souls across the river Styx, leading his passengers in song as he rows:

Row row row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily merrily merrily merrily…

We sing in it a round, in sequence – groups together, one after another, one group finishing before the next, until the last group sings the  last line all alone.

Life is but a dream.

Life is a but dream which we will one day  wake from.  We might as well go merrily. 

No one gets to sleep forever, even if some of us are permitted take longer naps than others.

“Myth is society’s dream” said Joseph Campbell, talking to Bill Moyers.
We dream to allow content which is necessary but also threatening to our conscious functioning to pass into our awareness in way that are palatable. 

Religion and myth and fairy tales and nursery rhymes are the dreams of cultures, generations and societies.

And we don’t often know why we are collectively doing something, or what story we have written together and taken in as truth, we just know that it how it has always been done, or that is what everyone else is doing.

It almost seems as if these images had just lived, and as if their living existence had simply been accepted without question and without reflection, as much as everyone decorates Christmas trees or hides Easter eggs without ever knowing what these customs mean. The fact is that archetypal images are so packed with meaning in themselves that people never think of asking what they really do mean.  ~ C. G. Jung, Vol. 9, Part 1, paragraph 22, Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious

And this morning I had another thought that asserted itself in the space between dreaming and waking: That as our generational and social universe begins to buckle under extraordinary data-strain – as we tell ourselves millions and millions of stories and create hundreds of thousands of myths every day – many based in the realities of news-stories, events which begin as actual, witness-able events but which then become instantly told and retold and repackaged and re-edited and curated like a giant game of telephone (or more properly a game of internet) – we are all co-producing myths (and half-myths and incomplete myths – myths which split our ambivalences rather than contain them) at lightening speed and immeasurable volume. Collectively, culturally, societally, we are dreaming more and faster than ever before.  We are in the center of a veritable hurricane of societal dreaming and myth-making. If myths are society’s dreams then humanity is in the deepest, thickest, fastest REM state is has ever been in.

And we don’t really know what we are collectively dreaming, or why, or what dream we are caught up in or how long it will last before we are plunged into reacting to the next upswelling myth or when one myth begins and another one ends. We are just moving through a flood of myths and images and symbolizations, deciding some are real and some are true and some are right or wrong, that some activate our fear and others activate our self-righteous outrage and some make us sad, and some drive us into ill-considered action, and that some are good dreams and others are nightmares.

We forget that collectively we are sleeping and that we are dreaming. And we have no idea why we hide Easter eggs to begin with or why we are rowing our boats, merrily merrily as fast as we can down the rushing rapids of partially digested incomplete, unprocessed collective myth.

We are so busy making and responding to symbolic content wrapped and plastered all over current events that we have no idea that we are producing and reacting to symbols, and we aren’t even all that curious about it.

In reality, however, he has merely discovered that up till then he has never thought about his images at all. ~ C. G. Jung, Vol. 9, Part 1, paragraph 22, Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious

And every once in a while, I try to unpack a symbol that I see racing past me in the flotsam, and try to pause for a moment to examine it and wonder about it – and sadly, more often than not, when I do that it is absorbed into yet another myth, a politicizing dream, a dream that says this is a stance which includes or excludes my dreaming and I object to it being examined or reframed at all. And I’m sure this same thing happens to others who become curious about all the symbolic content flying past in this not so gentle stream.

And when we wake? What, if anything at all exists underneath all of this collective dreaming and myth-making?

Then what will remain?

                         Sounds

                        visions,

                        insights,

                        questions,

                        exploding –

                                    light.                                                

Nothing else.

Merrily merrily merrily merrily, Merrily merrily merrily merrily, 

Life is but a dream. 

Merrily merrily merrily merrily, 

Life is but a dream.

Life is but a dream.

One Large Bottle

This didn’t really feel like a What a Shrink Thinks post somehow – more about writing itself than about psychotherapy – of course, as with everything, that gets all tangled up together.   I sent it out from my other site:  Subtext Consultations – and rebloged it here for those who may be interested.

SubText

I’ve been thinking about writing, about being a writer, about writing books, about how and why people write – the professional and psychological functions and processes of writing – and how each writer I’ve met or listened to or worked with writes for different reasons, is immersed in different processes.

Some experience themselves as servants to a sacred Oracle. Others write purely out of their daydreams with little insight or awareness of how the story is connected to their own lives and history. Some write to keep themselves alive. Others feel driven by a need to share their story with an audience. Some write for a living, even if it is a sparse living. Some write as a method of self-regulation, self-exploration, self-help. Some are driven by deep narcissistic injury. Some write to reach others, to persuade, to change the world.

Here is the story of the first book I…

View original post 1,452 more words

The Point

Shooting with a LEICA is like a long tender kiss, like firing an automatic pistol, like an hour on the analyst’s couch. – Henri  Cartier-Bresson

Maybe being an analyst is like shooting with a LEICA. Analysis has to shoot the truth, and open fire upon dearly held illusions. Love sometimes means engaging in aggressive assertive disruptive acts for the sake of the relationship, for another’s sake, for your own sake.

In session I notice that I’m pointing. The knuckles toward the ceiling, my thumb and three fingers curled under my palm, my index finger  out – jabbing, poking pecking at the resistance, at the defense, at the cherished illusion that has come between my client and me.  I am trying to perforate, to jab a hole in the obstacle between us, or maybe to insert a new reality into the closed off soul in front of me.

Our illusions can entrap and isolate us. We can live whole lives sidestepping the complex truths of who we are, and how we feel, and the impact we have had on others. We can construct false and comforting narratives that soothe ourselves and placate those we love. We can erect firewalls and moats. We can abscess an infection rather than tend to it. We can project distortions onto each other to avoid our own broken and fucked up bits. We can pretend that life is stable and manageable, rather than encounter  the inherent insecurities of living. 

And we lie.

And we can become lost in the lies that others tell us. We can spin status-quo justifying narratives. We can pretend we are okay when we aren’t. We can scream and aggress to divert from our shame and fear. We can cry and collapse instead of taking responsibility. We can shirk and ignore challenges that we should face and we can fling ourselves wildly at self-sabotaging risks. We can make problems that rightfully belong to others all about ourselves. We convince ourselves that we are the problem when it is outside of us, and we can blame others when the fault is ours. We can believe things that aren’t true, and we can convince others to join us in our false beliefs.

And sometimes all this needs to be pointed out.

Usually, it is better for this to be a gentle process. Our illusions and false beliefs exist for a reason, even the most destructive ones. Shame or dominance will only  make them more entrenched. You should never strip away a defense without knowing what it is defending against, without understanding its original purpose, what might get  much much worse if the security operation was not activated. Symptoms are sometimes the best available solution to an intractable illness- and to remove a mild symptom can allow a disease to cause greater harm.

So usually, the process of dissembling an illusion should be a slow, respectful cautious incremental process.

But there are times when the stakes are too high, or it has gone on way too long, when the costs are too great, and you’ve tried every subtle sensitive approach imaginable over months or years and both of you have had just about enough and its time for shit to get real. And often, it is seeing my own finger unfurled that points out  this moment. The finger in front of me is ready to puncture the illusion before I have consciously registered that it is time.

Sometimes an hour on an analyst’s couch is like being shot with an automatic pistol. Sometimes looking at a stark reality in black and white is like a long tender kiss.

Love is feral. It is not always civilized, subtle or domesticated. It summons us to wild spaces and demands that we look at our most uncivilized selves, or reveal them to another.

Sometimes our defenses need to be cracked. Sometimes our illusions need to be destroyed. Sometimes old covenants need to be broken for new ones to emerge. And sometimes we do this out of love, and for love’s sake.

Sometimes the most loving gesture is also the most violent: to show someone the truth as you see it. To demand that they encounter you, or encounter themselves or the effect they are having on others.

(These are often all the same thing).

And sometimes – disappointing, upsetting, frustrating, annoying or enraging the other is really just disrupting the illusion they have created that tells them that the status quo is sustainable. Sometimes the people we love are living in a dream about who they are or who we are – and attacking this illusion is really an invitation to leave their illusion behind and join hands with you in reality. An urgent, frightening invitation.

Authenticity is a wilderness. Reality is feral and untamable.

Sometimes, being an analyst for an hour is like letting other’s take stark, unflattering black and white photographs of you and holding them up for you to examine. Sometimes being an analyst is like being shot with an automatic weapon – absorbing aggressions that you did not instill or create but that you are called upon to survive and accept as your client’s reality, as the truth of where your relationship and alliance actually stands or fails. Sometimes being an analyst is like being surrounded and filled with a warm, dizzying tenderness.

(These are often all the same thing,  and all of these things can be love, even if it doesn’t feel like love at all.)

Sometimes when you feel you are being attacked you are actually being loved, wildly and more authentically than anyone has had the courage to love you before. Sometimes we need to point harsh truths out to each other for love’s sake.

And love can be an hour on an analyst’s couch facing realities that are too stark to encounter alone, that can be as terrifying as a gun shot, as tender as a kiss, as clear and focused as photograph.

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