Tag Archives: psychoanalysis

Happy endings/beginnings

Happy Star Wars week! Have you seen it yet, the supposed last installment of the franchise? I haven’t. Is it uplifting? A downer? My first question will seem strange in the future, when I imagine more readers may be giving these entries a look than they will right now. Time will obliterate this moment of wondering. In time, as in the next week or so (an eternity in my present circumstances) I may get around to seeing Star Wars: The Rise Of Skywalker (think that’s what it’s called). Forty two years after the first film came out, I am far removed from the excitable state that had me seeing the first installment back in the day. Like I shall be on Christmas day next week, I am a jaded adult wanting to sleep in rather than get up early to see if Obi Wan—sorry, Santa—has brought toys.

If I’m excitable or indeed compulsive about anything then it’s about corrupting things like the Star Wars mythos with sexualizing commentary. At least, that may be the view of clients and a few others who have been on the receiving end of my associations recently. One moment a man is innocently speaking of holiday plans, a weekend outing to see the new Stars Wars movie with his kids, and soon enough there are links in the air, connecting his idle thoughts with exercise routines and sexual fantasy. A languid sharing had undercurrents of arousal, I said: the plan to visit a gym would stir energy, place him in mixed company, with thoughts of improving his condition, building up his body…for what? The man caught my drift but perhaps didn’t like the suggestion. He’d wanted to keep things light and wholesome. I can tell because a compliant but begrudging man lowers his voice, starts to sound like a grumbling bear emerging from hibernation. He doesn’t like the talk that threatens to stir something threatening and I feel a bit like a fly that might get swatted any moment. Anyway, he insisted on lighter matter, turning back to the plan of taking his kids to see Star Wars and reminiscing about the first series of films that he’d also seen as a kid. A New Hope, the first film, released in 1977, is still his favorite he declared. A gratuitous recollection of trivia followed. The first Star Wars film was actually episode four, he recounted—suggesting three prequels that would not emerge for another generation. The first film had the best story, he went on to pronounce, and the most triumphant ending.

Not like the second (or fifth) film, The Empire Strikes Back, I suggested, colluding with the sublimated flow for the time being. That’s right, he agreed, adding that despite the deeper story-line, the eloquence of Yoda as he tutors young Luke in the ways of The Force, the ending is a downer. Depressing. Luke gets his hand cut off by Vader’s light saber and the future of the rebellion is uncertain.

Bummer.

Not the happy ending of Star Wars, the first film, I remarked. Exactly, intoned the man, thinking (briefly) that we were on the same wavelength. Strange term—happy ending—I then ruminated. Strange that for most recovering (or not) sex addicts the term happy ending has been co-opted and given a sexual meaning, pertaining to manual stimulation and illicit massage parlors, even sex slavery. I detected a slight sigh in my listener as I extended my comment, pointing out that happy endings in action films are usually orgiastic. For a spell I indulged my own tangential reminiscing, thinking that such endings were few and far between in the seventies. Star Wars, if the reader recalls, has often been described as a revitalization of the western ethos, only in space. See, by the mid-seventies the western, or at least the kind of playful, serial westerns that my father will have once enjoyed, were in decline, replaced by serious, socially-conscious action fare—stuff like The Godfather, or Taxi-Driver. The remaining westerns of that era—the odd, residual John Wayne flick, for example—were tired and unoriginal. Or there were good films that were complicated or too thought-provoking, like Robert Altman’s McCabe and Mrs Miller. Not as much fun. Star Wars, todays’ kids won’t know, was a throw-back to a time when it was okay to like a simple action story with good guys and bad guys and not worry that Marlon Brando would tell you off for enabling stereotypes and oppression.

Come to think of it, maybe the culture hasn’t changed so much since the seventies in that respect, so maybe Star Wars still serves the same function today as it did then. Anyway, so why did I have to go and stir the pot and spoil the fun with my weird evocations of unconscious process? One moment, this poor man was having a nice moment, thinking of the happy ending wherein Han and Luke are getting medals hung around their necks by the lovely Princess Leia, with the cute and comic support characters Chewbacca, C-Threepio and R2D2 looking on, grunting or else making their funny electronic noises; then suddenly I’m making more comparisons with Empire: in the first film, the darker back-story is under the surface. As viewers of the light-hearted space western, we don’t yet know, though we might dimly feel, the Oedipal crisis that awaits Luke—that he will be tasked with fighting Darth Vader (a play on dark father, according to Robert Bly in Iron John), who will symbolically castrate Luke before finally succumbing to his son in the third film, Return Of The Jedi (the third film also resolves the near miss on the incest between Luke and Leia—whew, that was a close one, says the ego!). Then I conjure the climactic scene of Star Wars, with Luke as the lone fighter/sperm diving in his spaceship at the giant death star/egg; then he shoots his last shot, his precisely-aimed photon whatever/wad that strikes at the hard-to-get-at slot, leading to a giant blast explosion while—I swear to God—it looks to me now (okay, not so much when I was eight) that Luke hangs his head back, breathes out and pulls back like a man who has just…well, you know. But enough. I’ve surely done enough harm with my words.

“Great shot, kid. That was one in a million”, exults Han Solo, affirming the risen hero, Skywalker.

Indeed it was. Now that’s a happy beginning/ending.

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Life weans the giraffe

Not so randomly placed in mine and Joe Farley’s book, Getting Real About Sex Addiction, are the ontological issues surrounding the term sex addiction. It’s in the title, even, this suggestion that what we’ll be doing is examining the term sex addiction more than any other mental health abstraction and therefore addressing the problem of problem sexual behaviors: is this a thing, a variously skeptical public asks? The members of Sex Addiction Anonymous (SAA) have of course made their decision on this question. Committees of The American Psychiatric Association and The World Health Organization have not quite made theirs, rejecting the proposed diagnosis Hypersexual Disorder in the case of the former body, and recently (and provisionally) accepting the diagnosis Excessive Sexual Drive in the case of the latter organization. To be clear (or not), neither of these terms are synonymous with the construct of sex addiction, but we’re in the same ball park here. The issue is complex. It is medical, psychological and meta-psychological, as in ontological: is a human being’s sexuality a function of biological drive and are problem behaviors therefore a matter of excess desire? And even if that natural conclusion is drawn, where is the role of nurture in the matter of etiology? Are we talking about an interpersonal versus an intrapsychic event, as in a phenomenon derived from early childhood development—a weaning that went awry versus a web of innate fantasy (or phantasy as Object Relations terms it) within an infantile mind? Or is the broader social and cultural environment the more prominent accomplice in a dysfunctional sexual development?

We’d prefer to think so, at least. And so we hear weary chestnuts that even the most progressive-minded observers must be tired of hearing by now: theories of pubescent or post-pubescent development wherein boys are subject to mores that encourage their essentialist aggression, their concomitant sexual freedom, with consequent pressure to conform and therefore perform when being so deterministically sexualized. Meanwhile, girls are discouraged by societies across cultures from expressing freely their sexuality; they are raised to be demur, ashamed of their sexuality, and therefore passive or possibly manipulative in their sexual expression. And even if this is changing somewhat in a millennial age (really, have you noticed?), then it is surely a reaction to those previous oppressive norms, yielding a confusing transition phase wherein girls, boys, or those along the gender fluid continuum (suggesting a flight from binaries) switch roles at times, thus conforming to a newly burgeoning if less-defined ethos. And so we observe a faction of diffident men and boys who speak of respecting the feminine as if they are resisting in their stance a combined biological and social force upon their being. And we observe women and girls who seem increasingly aggressive and entitled in their sexual freedom while proclaiming the lack of freedom that is afforded them by an arbitrary social reality. In analytic terms, this is the realm of the unconscious but not the repressed, these habits and mores that we download from the culture. By unrepressed I mean something that is not kept away. Isms and other mores may be unconscious, but as we routinely observe, they are hardly kept away. They leak and make a mess, pervading our experience.

The premises of these positions must be difficult for the average mental health professional to sustain given the contradictions of theory and life itself. Firstly, within our profession’s demographic map, that average person is likely female, white and therefore privileged in terms of race, at least. She has been raised and subsequently educated within an atmosphere that encourages or affords (not privileged—we only use that word in this context if we’re feeling critical) a social justice lens, which means supporting narratives that advocate for the underprivileged. In Getting Real, I argue that within the niche field of sex addiction treatment (and perhaps psychotherapy as a whole), this demographic phenomenon of recent generations results in a skew that targets a privileged (non-ironic diction) client population–heterosexual men—for devaluation. The aggregate of thought suggesting how males and females are socialized towards sexual behaviors and identities emphasizes the post-pubescent experience, which for some might imply agreement with an embattled psychoanalytic idea: that pre-pubescent and certainly pre-verbal sexuality is repressed, as in kept away, and for the most part is not leaked and is therefore a lesser factor in pre-teen childhood development. There is no scientific evidence of an Oedipus Complex, say critics of psychoanalysis. There is evidence of pre-verbal attachment styles, the capacity to communicate and comprehend on a pre-verbal level, thus children’s psychological development is profoundly impacted from birth onwards by events, both benign and traumatic, that occur perpetually.

The onset of sexuality is a function of hormonal development, says a medical argument—not some manner of release from childhood repression. Puberty is the psyche’s sexual alarm clock, indicating that it’s time for play of another kind; an incipiently adult kind. Feelings like joy, excitement, wonder, fear, shame, and guilt may all be observed in small children, some pre-verbal, some not. Emotional expression, proximity-seeking, may be developed or not, contingent upon the presence and consistency of a capable adult. The nature of a child’s attachment to a parent (or primary caregiver) will be internalized as a working model of attachment that will further shape development and relationships, possibly over a lifetime. That was John Bowlby speaking and writing over fifty years ago, saying something similar to what D.W. Winnicott was teaching, only with more attention to physical need than the fostering of a distinctive, creative mind. If you the reader are silently nodding in agreement, then you’re joining at least two generations of mental health providers who generally agree with these principles while implicitly thinking that sex is not part of the early attachment equation. You’ve likely been taught to believe that proximity or object seeking, plus patterns within those relational drives, are shaped interpersonally and by broader environmental norms; that we have implicit (neurobiologyspeak for the unconscious) memory of early attachment patterns, whether they were traumatic or not; that we have implicit bias (appropriating social justicespeak for the unconscious but not repressed) in relationships, yielding prejudice directed at distinct social groups. Yes, joy, creativity, and some of that bad feeling stuff is indeed fostered in a child’s development, but not sex. Not arousal, or longing. That potential is activated later…when it’s appropriate, of course.

So, why are there excesses? Why this untidy disorder, this chaos of spillage, as if life were some kind of cosmic dumping. There, says…something: here are your tools in a pile and a flood. Do with them what you will. Is addiction, for example, a blend of natural hormonal excess negatively complemented by an insecure attachment style, of weak or failing repression barriers? And if this shaping does occur both intrapsychically and interpersonally, shall we break with our profession’s current theoretical orthodoxy and resolve that sexual nurturing largely coincides with biological schedules and is dominantly imparted with the help of the cultural village? A village that also fails, perhaps. Because if this isn’t the roughly hewn plan then we must revisit what our developmental theories otherwise imply: go back to society with ideas it doesn’t want to hear and consider taboos, as in pre-teen or even pre-verbal sexual exposure, as the original source of sexual development. We’d have to imagine that arousal and longing are part of the same dyads or village-child-passing-around norms that bring food, enable good sleep, play and a spark of imagination. We’d have to imagine that breast-feeding, or the bathing of infants’ genitalia, or the physical control of their evacuations are truly antecedents of sexual desire, or that excesses in this private realm nurture later distortions of sex as much as any unconscious yet unrepressed social message conveyed via so-called modeling to a conscious mind.

Though it would likely elicit thought-blocking accusations of misogyny or homophobia, we’d need to re-think child-rearing in a way that might stir panic; contemplate sexual orientation in a way that would challenge etiological assumptions. If the excesses of sex addiction are rooted in early childhood development, trauma specialists sometimes suggest (but don’t prove) that childhood sexual abuse is an accomplice to later sexual acting out. In this way, modern psychology comes full circle, revisiting Freud’s original Seduction theory, only with a significant permutation. Instead of conversion symptoms like the paralysis of limbs, patients present with compulsive behaviors, what Freud described as repeating versus remembering, or the shorthand, repetition compulsion. Sandor Ferenczi later gave us the term and concept “Identify with the aggressor”, attempting to rescue Seduction theory from its then-exile, to denote a relational identification between victim and abuser—to indicate a kind of psychic hostage-taking. If the vast majority of sexual abuse perpetrators are male, as a mother-idolizing culture would have us presume, then why doesn’t a corresponding majority of male molestation victims report or manifest ego-dystonic feelings of same-sex attraction? Or perhaps they do and are therefore, in keeping with analytic thought, manifesting the defense of reaction formation via a false heterosexual identification. Does it seem complicated, this human development?

And what of those who mooted, like Freud, that infantile sexuality is a thing; that attempts to seek pleasure and reduce drive tension happen from the outset of life, stimulated through erotogenic zones: the oral, anal, and the genital. With odd references here and there in Getting Real, I suggest that sex addiction is derived from a period of oral excesses, a pleasure-seeking yet tension-fraught jouissance, as Lacan put it. The mother brings her eroticism to the table, some have said–no, that doesn’t mean sexual molestation. But it might mean excess arousal–something that is then repressed. Necessary, it seems. It seems to be taking longer and longer for children and young adults to grow, with the meta-tasks of an internal, interpersonal, and collectivist set of systems to navigate. I understand that some animals in the wild are able to walk within a day or an hour of their births. They grow up quickly in less complicated systems, with simple brains that are mindlessly free of sexual neurosis. Are the plainer brutalities of nature—the ubiquity of predation, or the threat of being left behind if not ambulatory—the forces that force giraffes to their feet? Do their hormones help? Or do they “grow up” quickly in other ways? What if our life expectancies were less than a decade? Would we evolve a quicker, more expedient onset of the pubescent watershed, becoming unrepressed yet thoughtless, and actively or relentlessly sexual, all because it was necessary to survive?

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Objects don’t return

 

In Getting Real About Sex Addiction, there are several areas of ontological speculation, areas whose nature, existence, and organization are identified by the following terms: addiction, the mind, trauma, misogyny, misandry, and objectification. These abstractions, all made concrete to one extent or another by various pundits across intellectual disciplines, are discussed in mine and Joe Farley’s book within the intersecting frameworks of intrapsychic (one-body or instinctual), interpsychic (relational), or collectivist (broader social or systemic) models of thought. There. Take a moment to digest that mouthful of words before you move on, else you might get psychic indigestion. The terms presented for our offhand yet meaningful scrutiny—these things about which we ask, “is that a thing?”—are listed in no particular order of importance. And it’s not just their importance that seems arbitrary, so too do their meanings. Take, for instance, the term objectification, placed above in a fashion that is fittingly unfitting: a random sixth amongst a list of variably meaningful abstractions.

My passages in the book on objectification don’t so much present an etiology of this term as comment on recent research on the subject. In my reading of studies about porn use, for example, I found that some researchers are revisiting the question of objectification, especially as it pertains to gender. It seems that trends are shifting and that porn use is becoming more, shall we say, egalitarian. Meaning, women are quietly using porn in rates that are starting to rival those of men, according to numerous self report studies. This has led researchers in Amsterdam in the Netherlands to question whether the porn industry has adapted its depiction of men and women in porn scenarios to reflect this shift in viewer demographics. Specifically, they sought to determine whether contemporary porn objectifies men as much as it does women (or approximately so), which would be contrary to accepted social narratives. I’d suggest that what prevails currently is a tautological, as in circular polemic wherein men who use porn or prostitutes are said to be objectifying women, while women who use porn or act as prostitutes are said to be objectifying women. This latter phenomenon is explained by the concept of internalization, an object relations and psychoanalytic theory. The popular rhetoric suggests an underlying ontological issue relating to both porn and addiction and so I canvassed literature to see how the concept of objectification was being defined. Though I found some variance, the most common meanings attached to objectification indicated a reducing of a person to a thing; an implicit demeaning, at least. In Getting Real I don’t contest this meaning though I question its selective application. With respect to the aforementioned study, the researchers designated numerous criteria for objectification and found in several categories equitable instances of objectification from women to men as from men to women. This was especially true with respect to what is often dubbed performative sex.

My own critique extends beyond this kind of forensic examination of porn, though I shall use as a springboard to my idea a convention that I have observed more than once within the porn medium. With apologies, I ask the reader to conjure the following: a man standing, or lying flat, erect in every sense, and appearing soldierly. Physically, he is at attention, but he is not gripped by ecstasy; rather he is gruntingly stoical, or blasé, or—one might consider—dissociative. For the viewer, he may be faceless, as in off camera from the waist up. Whether this is to protect the performer’s identity (especially in amateur porn) or results from his irrelevance to the pleasure of a presumably heterosexual male viewer is debatable, but regardless, he is not exactly personalized. The soldierly pose of the male performer is further apt because it presents a subliminal link to the role that has traditionally (and still does) “objectify” men of this type. In this militant role, they put their bodies on the line, sacrificing themselves, becoming objects of violence or symbols of civilization’s defense. Now then, patriarchs and feminists might ally with one another on this point, bristling against my comparison and the implied moral equivalence between this historical subjugation of men versus the sexual humiliation of women. Firstly, feminists in particular might point out that today many women are also soldiers, thus sharing that sacrificial burden, though on the whole the military remains dominantly masculine. Secondly, they might argue that soldiers, or even their symbolic gladiatorial substitutes, athletes, are treated as heroes, not mere objects to be used by a lustful society.

Really? I would think that even a casual glance at that last sentence would cause dissenters to pause. After all, on the sports front, not all or even a majority of participants become celebrated, or even achieve a lasting or lucrative career (even if they did, does one become less objectified if making lots of money?). Some of them, especially football players, experience chronic health and even mental health problems relating to their playing careers. How much do we really care? Meanwhile, history and even contemporary reality shows that while society and media pay regular lip service to the heroism of veterans, a darker truth lies in the legacy of neglect that survivors of combat have long known. The legendary British analyst, Wilfred Bion, a World War I veteran, felt invisible and used by the military command that recruited him and thrust him and his comrades into no man’s land. My grandfather, a veteran of both Dunkirk and D-day, never acted like—nor was he treated as—a hero. Thomas Childer’s book, Soldier from the War Returning, likewise debunks the myth that WWII soldiers were revered as much as our sentimentalized histories suggest they were. Instead, they endured long-standing economic and psychological struggles, misunderstood episodes of PTSD, and even social backlash from a misunderstanding public. And what about today? How many stories of unattended veterans’ disabilities, or of veterans’ struggles to find jobs or housing do we have to hear before we drop the pretense that we have privileged their lives and service? I don’t begrudge feminist scholars for having drawn attention to the ways in which the sisterhood has been and still is being demeaned. Furthermore, I’m not sure how much any movement is responsible for its menu-minded consumers. But the myopic, femicentric bias invested in the objectification concept merits the critique and satire that I bring to mine and Joe Farley’s book. So there. The reader has been warned, and consumers should be reminded of what they habitually do and what our surviving soldiers weren’t prepared for—that ancient warrior’s tacit sacrificial bargain with his original commanders. We throw our things, our objects, away. They were never meant to return.

Graeme Daniels

 

 

 

 

 

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Graeme presents Tommy in Santa Fe…at last

From August, 2017, this presentation was part two of a project that culminated in my book, The Psychology of Tommy, published in May.

 

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Kirkus reviews Blended

Finally, a Kirkus reviewer likes one of my novels. Take a look:

 

https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/graeme-daniels/blended2/

 

More later. Let me take it in…

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More things in heaven and earth

 

I am watching it. I am compelled, and I should not be writing of this while I know so little, while so much is unexplained. But that is my life, my “subjective” reality: the unknowing. And not knowing doesn’t stop me from writing or doing my job.

I am four episodes into The Leftovers, an HBO series adapted from a novel by Tom Perrotta which is set in the aftermath of a rapture-like event in which 2% of the world’s population has inexplicably disappeared. October 14th of 2011, is a 9/11-style shorthand for a mass “departure” that scientists can’t explain. This results in a social malaise that recalls P.D James’ Children Of Men. In that novel (also made into a film), the world’s population has become sterile for similarly mysterious reasons, and in the aftermath an aging (and therefore dying) population is variously depressed or psychotic. Cultists speculate that mankind is being punished; that its hubris, perhaps manifest as a privileging of science, is to blame.

In Leftovers, the focus is not so much on a failure of science as it is that of mainstream religion. Major denominations are nowhere to be seen. A baby Jesus replica is stolen and later desecrated by the acting out daughter of a local police chief of a grim, middle-American town. Baby Jesus is later returned, but significantly, the response is indifferent, and the police chief ultimately dumps the rejected figure on the side of a road. Meanwhile, cultists are represented by a group call the Guilty Remnant, a name reduced to the letters GR until episode two. This tidbit of withholding is typical of the series thus far, which parallels the air of unknowing by minimizing exposition, thus keeping viewers in the dark, and not just about the headline departure, but also about personal details. I am gripped, but optimally frustrated—the essence of suspense, I suppose. Four hours in, I am yet to understand the following: why do all the followers of GR smoke (an ironic play on ‘don’t waste your breath’?) Have the departed transformed into dogs or birds, creatures of either violence or passivity, as is also suggested? Why do the dreams of some enter those of others, as indicated by the profusion of nightmares featuring strangers and foreshadowed events? Why is the police chief estranged from his kids and his wife? It seems implicit that something happened, and whatever it was, it happened before the departure.

It’s just a story, after all: a good one that promises more about meaning; perhaps how religion, ostensibly exiled, has a defiant, parting comment on humanity. The stories of those who enter therapy are good stories also, and the details are likewise often obscured; divulgence of truth, not to mention meaning, is delayed. It is a feature of projective identification, a primitive defense yet more ubiquitous than most imagine, that individuals communicate in fragments: through play, language that is reduced to slang, idioms and inside jokes; by ‘acting out’ infused with terse revelations; by somatic displays that medicine can’t explain. Symbolic expression, via the articulate, coherent use of language, has broken down, though it may repair and unfold over time. Unpleasant emotion is dissociated, replaced by a standard of flatness and baffling obsession. When something has happened that is traumatic and not understood, life goes on, promise onlookers. It goes on with ritual, structure; with substitute things to do that mark time but also betray, in pieces, an epistemological drive.

The police chief of Leftovers loses his bagel in its inadequate incubator, and he’s not gonna take it lying down. He bemuses colleagues by not giving up on the search: for his bagels, for that baby Jesus. He finds the bagels also, eventually, through a semi-violent dissembling of machinery. They were stuck in back of the toaster, trapped in a secret passage, burnt. As the chief pulls them out, he sits back, moping over burnt food, dead…something. He is mildly relieved, having discharged energy from a nagging mystery. He is also depressed, aware that mysteries will keep coming, and that unfolding reality may yet be horrific. “Say it! Fuckin’ say it!” he later cries towards the wife who won’t speak, won’t explain. But she wants to leave him, she writes, giving an answer. It’s not enough. He pleads to know why. About everything.

 

Graeme Daniels, MFT

 

 

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Interruptus

 

A hypothetical dialogue (believe it or not) about a crisis:

 

“What’s the point in talking about it. It’s not gonna solve anything”

“What’s the point of checking out that person at the gym. You’re married, right?”

“Yeah”

“Well, that’s not gonna solve anything, either”

“Yeah, but…”

“What?”

“It’s different”

“How?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously, put it into words”

“Well…I dunno, it’s…when I’m looking at someone I’m…I don’t know how to say it”

“You’re blocking. You know but you stop thinking, and you act instead”

“Right. You’ve said that before. I’m…wait, acting?”

“You’re acting on something, a feeling”

“…yeah, you know what it is—this is interesting—I think I am solving something, in a way. I mean, when I do that stuff I’m taking care of business, if you know what I mean. It feels necessary. It’s…”

(pause)

“…you want me to say the rest?”

(sigh) “Maybe, I…now I lost my train of thought”

“Interruptus”

“What?”

“Forget it”

“Oh, I get what you’re saying, I think. Well, I mean—okay—I’m expressing my sexuality, right? Jeez, that sounds weird putting it like that. Finishing, I mean. I’m…(laughs) I don’t know why this is so hard to say. I’m used to…I guess I can’t control myself, or it seems like…I just can’t turn it off, ya know?”

(pause)

“Or on, in another sense. Again, it seems like—”

“Yeah, okay, I get it. You’re not gonna say it for me. I need to use the words, give it meaning because…Gawd, I wish you’d explain again why that’s so important. (pause) Awright, so again, I can’t just turn off my sexuality, right? That’s the problem. It’s there…all the time. Waiting”

“True”

(pause)

“Okay…(shrugs)…so?”

“But so is the rest of you”

 

Graeme Daniels, MFT

 

 

 

 

 

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Personality Disorder: the other way (part two)

 

I want to blame someone. James Masterson did also, I think. He will have argued with many over what comprises a real versus a false self, or a personality disorder—whether such a thing exists with some. Were he alive today I think he’d argue with proponents of trauma model, and possibly with authors of novels like The Woman in Cabin 10. Not that these people don’t think that personality disorders exist. They simply call them something else, because mental health services, like any commodity, ultimately, is not just something to be validated by research, or—sorry—evidence-based research. It is something to be sold to the public.

For the average consumer of psychotherapy, a diagnosis of trauma, whether that trauma is episodic, chronic, the result of fatefully aberrant events or an aggregate of quaintly termed little ts that shape development (the theorized etiology of personality disorders) is simply more palatable. The word connotes victimization by an external agent, and thus a diminished responsibility for the sufferer. Treatment encourages a present identity of a survivor (very popular), with a possible future of healing. It’s a meet-them-where-they’re-at-thing. Regarding etiology, the accent is upon recent, precipitating events, with an intellectualized nod towards distant antecedents, that complex internalization of others which blurs a simplified reality.

Trauma model practitioners pay lip service to the antecedents of trauma. Prominent authors even co-opt object relations theories without crediting them, and repackage (reframe in the jargon of the field) personality disorder as something like developmental or relational trauma. A good example is featured in Barbara Steffens’ Your Sexually Addicted Spouse, whose target readership is evident by the title. In her text, Steffens describes PTSD as “something that can last a lifetime”, and that relationship trauma entails “painful coping mechanisms ingrained in personalities” Study the work of Klein, Fairbairn, Mahler, Winnicott, Masterson or Kohut and you’d hear the echo of their theories in such pop psychology literature: that psychic pain is integrated into personality over time, generating a disordered self in which such pain is habitually defended against in relationship.

But again, while trauma model educators pay lip service to old patterns, they mostly ignore it in treatment. The reasons are two-fold: A.) Treatment doesn’t last very long in this model. It’s a two week stay in a group home of some kind, or an eight-week course at your nearby hospital. B.) Discussion of problems is intellectual, academic—therapy as education. You’re given homework, even, to solidify the association with school. This is organizing, some say. Stabilizing for the unsafe person who cannot, it is presumed, manage complexity, the uncertainty of not knowing more deeply why something is happening. They are unable to weigh or contemplate their own mind alongside those of others, which are similarly complex, and implicitly dangerous. This danger is cast as objective reality, and anyone who says otherwise is “gaslighting”. Thus, treatment prioritizes affect regulation techniques and procedures, not the contemplation of self and other; it advises the practice of coping skills, self-care activities—all of which is worthy, actually, as adjuncts to growth. Meanwhile, the model’s adherents suggest that the afflicted let go of the actions, opinions, even the feelings of difficult others, while attaching labels. Fuller contemplation is put off until some ambiguously later time, when the person may be deemed ready. I think that readiness is seldom achieved. Time passes. It doesn’t so much heal as fossilize thoughts about self and other. What’s difficult to let go of are the pat understandings imparted by practitioners who recycle the same lessons in one short-term treatment episode after another.

In a longer-term therapy model, individuals inhabit their adult roles and live their lives as opposed to dropping out of society and going to school. They are challenged to do more than learn how to self-soothe or calm down, or take time-outs when mad, or to leave that bad relationship that your friends all think is wrong, only to start another one that’s similar because you haven’t learned what you got from that bad relationship. Instead, some learn (or are challenged to learn) to hang out with confusion, the grey areas of day-to-day life; to tolerate discomfort, stay with the difficult, as Masterson was once quoted as saying. Reality is learning about one’s own mind and being open to those of others, especially those that are not so easy to detach from: bosses, spouses, children; the memory of those absent but still profoundly influential.

What’s your pain today? Who or what do you want to blame, talk about instead of understand; focus on instead of yourself? Do you really know what your pain is about, what it’s backstory is—it’s underpinning? Do you think you really know the story of others? I know. It’s not what you (I’m) thinking.

 

Graeme Daniels, MFT

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The old scripts

 

A man sits in a conference room, chatting collegially with a pair of co-workers, ostensibly leading a meeting. Technically, the man is in charge, but he prefers to keep things informal, not throw his weight around. Soon they will be joined by another man—everyone’s boss—who appears to not have such reservations. As a kid, he will have been a problem, this man: if not an out-and-out bully, then maybe just a nuisance; tagged as having attention deficit disorder, and needing a good dose of meds in order to follow directives, play well with others. Today, an observing psychiatrist might say he has poor audience; meaning, a blind spot keeping him from knowing where he treads. A less generous opinion would be that he doesn’t care. He walks into a room and simply expects people to drop what they’re doing and focus on him. It’s how he got to where he is, he might say. His turn to give directives, direct play. That is, if he notices.

The first man has had a different life. Until now, his once subordination to either bullies or the inattentive has been dormant. He’d worked hard, quietly achieved a certain status within the organization, and earned his graduation to civil society, mostly spared the obnoxious company of autocrats whom he’d suffered plenty enough as a younger man. When the boss walks in he begins talking louder than anyone else, instantly turning the heads of everyone present. That other collegial exchange is now relegated in importance, which immediately stirs in the first man a dreadful anger. What is this feeling? the man wonders…later. In the moment, his thoughts go blank as his adrenaline surges, followed soon by a chill sensation. Bad, implicit memories. Anxiety. The resultant compromise between states is a halting, passive, as in barely discernible complaint: “I guess we’ll postpone our talk until later.”

In models of psychoanalytic psychotherapy, espoused by the likes of James Masterson, treatment proceeds with the following assumption: that individuals develop self and other representations, based upon an accumulation of experience of ourselves in relationship with others, which in turn forms a psychological structure that is activated in times of stress. Our explicit (conscious) and implicit (unconscious) understanding of ourselves and others is an aggregate of our object relations (experience with caretakers), derived from early development, and nurtured over time. The task of therapy is to make sense of one’s own mind and that of a therapist, even though manifest content tends to eschew focus on the therapist, especially early in the process.

Self identities—meaning, strategies of being in relationship—are often fixed and rigid by the time therapy begins. They constitute a way of getting by, but not of growing, or of being happy. A kind of quantum phenomenon collapses time, disorienting the distressed patient, who experiences new stressors with an old psychological structure, and therefore people are dimly reminded of unfinished business, though presented with fresh choices. Though I am few people’s idea of an autocrat, I might tread on toes this day, and look into fleetingly bewildered, scared eyes; hear the opening strains of quickly defended selves. I wonder what they’ll say.

 

Graeme Daniels, MFT

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Sex addiction stigma debate (part two)

 

She spoke haughtily, which has a peculiar effect on me: I start questioning my right to think. “You’re speaking of men who acted out with their sexuality, and society is pushing back against that kind of privilege.”

“Acting out? Wait, are we now talking about something different than when you spoke of female sex addiction?”

“The men you indicated are compulsive philanderers, porn addicts, acting upon an exaggerated sense of entitlement. Women are no longer willing to tolerate that.”

“Whereas female sex addiction is…different?”

“Women are stigmatized for simply having sex before marriage. Men aren’t!”

“Okay, but women are not being assessed as sex addicts for simply having sex before marriage.”

She waved her hand in an expansive fashion. “No, but that’s part of the context, that generally lesser tolerance for their sexual freedom. It just makes it harder for women who do have problems to come forward and get help.”

I tilted my head, affecting skepticism.

“I can see you’re having a hard time accepting this.”

“You say ‘accepting this’ like you’ve already landed a truism, and I’m like a holocaust denier or something.”

“Seriously, you don’t think society has traditionally been harsher, more devaluing of women’s sexual behavior than men’s.”

“Traditionally is a key word there. Time’s change. Not sure I accept the conclusion based upon your premise.”

She shook her head. “You lost me,” she said.

“So let’s go back to the earlier point. You say that women feel a greater stigma around their sexuality than men, right? And this stigma, which is a societal phenomenon, is internalized by women, causing extra layers of shame?”

“Correct,” my colleague said cautiously.

“Well, consciousness leads to change. That’s the basic promise of our profession, after all. Now again, we’ve had at least two generations since the so-called sexual revolution, which sought to liberate men and women from sexually repressive values. I think many women now externalize the problem of that stigma you reference. They resent society’s traditionalist constraint of their sexuality, and therefore push back against institutions, including schools of thought like sex addiction treatment models, that would pathologize that newfound sexual freedom. It’s like when political outcasts used to get diagnosed with schizophrenia and other mental illness labels: I think some people think the term sex addiction is a sex police invention, and I think it at least one alternative reason why women especially, as well as the gay community, might reject sex addiction treatment.”

My colleague offered a soft utterance, one aimed at neither agreement nor concession, but merely diffused conflict. I think she wasn’t sure if we were saying different things.

“Interesting,” she said neutrally. “Still, I think the women that I see and talk to retain that traditional internalization, and they hold other women to the standard they believe in.”

“With respect, most of the women you speak to are over fifty, and their husbands are John Wayne-types.”

“Maybe. But I just don’t think men judge each other about sexual misbehavior as women judge other women who act out.”

I sort of rolled my neck, like I was straining to take this in.

“You don’t agree? You don’t think men encourage other men, even boys, implicitly or not, to be sexually active, to have as many partners as possible?”

“I’m not sure that matters with respect to the issue at hand. If women, traditionally or presently, stigmatize men for their sexual misbehavior, and you aren’t disputing that—merely justifying it, sort of—then men will have problems in relationships. Period. It doesn’t matter what the ‘patriarchy’ thinks today. If I cheat on my wife, for example, it’s not like I can say, ‘but my buddy Jay says it’s cool’ and expect everything to be all good with her. And that’s what matters to the men who seek treatment, who are mandated into treatment: they want to fix things with their partners.”

She shrugged coolly, apparently more at home debating this issue amid tangents.

“Seems to me it’s the same for women, only I think history and tradition lingers more than you believe it does. But if, as you suggest, it doesn’t matter so much—this matter of stigma, whether it’s directed by the same sex or not—then what’s this discussion about?” She shrugged again, this time presaging finality. Suddenly, she sounded weary, not so much curious, only I wasn’t done.

“Because it seems important, this question of why people go into treatment and why they don’t—why women don’t seek treatment, which is what you said today, only your bias suggests that women are being under-served, which implies women would choose sex addiction treatment if they were offered it. Like I said, it’s 2016. I think many, perhaps most women are shedding terms like ‘slut’ and ‘whore’, or trying to, anyway—and that places the problem in society, not in individuals. Meanwhile, I think men are internalizing what’s happening to some of their fellow alpha males. That lesser judgement, or entitlement, that you perceive? It has a flip side, one that’s center-stage now. Justly or not, the men I talk to take on board labels like ‘horndog’, accepting their comparison to animals, their compliant exile to the ‘doghouses’ when they’ve ‘strayed’. Then they sit with me, feeling incompetent and saying, ‘I was never raised to share my feelings’, having internalized that feminine critique also.

Joanne averted her eyes, like she wanted out of this conversation; it’s ambiguous agenda and questioning of trends. What would she do with this, I could hear her thinking. She finished her coffee, asked a passing waitress where the bathroom was. The epicene worker whom she stopped had an untroubled, these-matters-are-not-on-my-radar look about her. She (I think) wordlessly pointed to a door just beyond our table, concealed by a disorganized gathering. It was a tiny room, this bathroom—not big enough for the café’s throngs, and amongst customers, unbeknownst to café owners, it was controversially unisex.

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