Tag Archives: psychoanalysis

June 25, 2016 · 8:44 pm

The Trauma Currency, Part Two

(Continued from part one)

Cermak’s intent was to present codependency as a legitimate focus of clinical attention, applicable to a variety of contexts. And so we have the Co-Addict Model, which draws attention to problematic behavior as a function of an underlying, pervasive disorder. While RT adherents may agree with aspects the co-addict corollary, their clinical focus downplays the pathologizing accent. Coping strategies, such as keeping busy with tasks, are instead normalized, cast as affect regulating under exceptional circumstances. Certain behaviors such as indiscriminate sharing of a sex addict’s behavior with friends or family, including children, are discouraged; however, these behaviors are framed as products of social isolation and episodic trauma brought on by an addict’s behavior, not an underlying or even associated pathology. The notable literature that represents this position includes Your Sexually Addicted Spouse (Steffens, Means, 2009), and Facing Heartbreak: Steps to Recovery for Partners of Sex Addicts (Carnes, et al., 2012): the latter, in keeping with recovery tradition, outlines a healing process in stages: a pre-discovery stage, followed by phases of crisis/decision, and repair. In the crisis/decision stage the partner asks, “how did I get here?”, and comes to realizations like, “nothing in this marriage has been real”. Note the emphasis upon present or recent past events, not family of origin, early developmental or even adult developmental material.

The framework of RT appears to contraindicate a neutral therapeutic stance, becoming partner-centric, especially upon discovery of sexual betrayals, because the proposed de-pathologizing shift only applies to partners. There’s nothing in the RT paradigm that contests the assessment of sexual addiction. Indeed, the scope of questions for the revised version of the Sex Addiction Screening Test (or SAST) has widened in recent years, to address not only changes in technology—the broader means of acting out available to sex addicts—but also the impact upon partners of sexual betrayals. Notice, for example, a question on the 1989 version of SAST, “Does your spouse ever worry or complain about your sexual behavior?” (Carnes, 1989), versus a question on the revised 2008 version: “Has your sexual behavior ever created problems for you and your family?” Notice the slant has shifted to query problems identified by the would-be addict, instead of that which is externally identified by a partner whose perspective might be denied by the would-be sex addict, or distorted by a co-addict disorder.

The RT model calls for sex addicts or acting out partners to be identified as perpetrators of trauma, and this term—“perpetrator”—seems close enough to the connotations of “offender” that observers may be surprised that APSATS hasn’t called for the inclusion of more sex addicts on public sex offender registries. In the RT model, partners are validated as victims of a relationship-specific betrayal, and thereafter supported to integrate this experience in a way facilitates a healthy re-emergence in life, comprised of self-care, fellowship with a strong support system, realistic observation of sex addict behavior, but also renewed trust in humankind. The approach suggests that observation of predisposing pathology and validation of traumatic experience are mutually exclusive goals, which may lead to facile, short-term interventions, tailor made for practitioners presenting brief, intensive programs of care. While this may be an appropriate shift in the paradigm with respect to many partners or with all partners of sex addicts in the immediate aftermath of discovery, I wonder about the pathology that will be overlooked in the service of trauma validation, especially amid follow-up treatment episodes wherein identified-patient premises collapse over time.

In cases of sexual betrayal, a therapist working with acting out and non-acting out partners functions as a container for memories and emotions that cry out for expression, or disavowal in the case of those struggling to cope with the past. This Winnicottian task dovetails with reparation efforts—a Kleinian concept before a sex addiction treatment strategy—which hinges upon individuals’ capacity for mourning. Klein (1975) wrote that grievances we harbor towards parents for the wrongs they have committed, and for having denied those wrongs, elicit feelings of hate and desire for revenge. Durham (2000) has argued that the capacity for making reparations in the internal world is the basis on which empathy for others is established. When individuals defensively split, they attach to a narrowly defined narrative: therefore (borrowing the RT Model identifiers) a victim’s anger and hatred is rigidified in the face of a perpetrator’s denial, which represents an evil system built upon a primitive intrapsychic structure. A working through of splitting, into mourning, requires the perpetrator to own his destructiveness so as to experience mourning; then, if the victim is sufficiently open to an awareness of “good enough” qualities in the perpetrator, a re-internalization of that individual as a good object might occur, which in turn enables the victim’s own work of mourning.

Whether or not labels of victim, perpetrator, addict, or codependent are necessary, harmful, or inhibitive of this process seems ambiguous. Assessment and diagnostic nomenclature informs psychiatric intervention; enables the placement of individuals in appropriate levels of care, including hospitals when necessary; generates short and long-term treatment planning goals. Informing patients of their diagnoses gives informed consent to treatment based upon an understanding of conditions that are the focus of clinical attention. At the same time therapists know the stigmatizing risk associated with assessment and diagnostic labels, particularly those whose prescriptive measures are not clearly defined, or subject to a range of treatment alternatives, despite the attempts of some who promote protocols in response to diagnoses. The advisability of informing a patient or client that he or she has a substance dependence, for example, seems predicated on particular factors well understood across professional disciplines, and by the general public: that the problem can be accurately assessed in a short time frame; that prescriptive measures can be readily understood by those potentially receiving services (such as recommendations of abstinence, or attendance at 12-step meetings); that a person may be at grave risk of illness, injury, or even death if immediate intervention does not occur.

Are these factors true with respect to sex addiction, or codependency, or personality disorders? Maybe in some cases, but of the forty five questions on the revised SAST, for example, only one pertains to behaviors that place afflicted individuals in dangerous situations. In my training I learned to refrain from using diagnostic or assessment labels when addressing clients about their problems, unless the applicable term or terms seem critical for intervention, or unless prescriptive measures based upon the nomenclature can be articulated succinctly and concretely. Otherwise, confusion and/or resistance typically follows, with clients left thinly understanding conditions, floundering to make sense of new identities imposed by expert opinion. I often experience this when clients meet with me for the first time, having been diagnosed by a previous practitioner with, say, Narcissist Personality Disorder. They’ve been given an article to read, or a DSM criteria sheet to examine. Afterwards, they exhibit disorientation, manifest with awkward attempts to describe their freshly assigned disorder. When devising a plan, they offer that they need to learn to empathize with others more. Woodenly, they report feeling instructed, and branded, but not understood.

This is often true with individuals who are told they have a sex addiction, or a codependency problem, and while many can wrap their minds around the concept of sex addiction, the assessment still bears much explanation and holding of emotion. As for codependency: from an object relations point of view, that umbrella term represents a whole multitude of dynamic relational configurations, replete with intersecting projections and introjections. So no wonder partners of sex addicts are flummoxed and invalidated by the term, regardless of what betrayals they have felt. Aren’t many or even most shocked to hear that they may have enabled another’s addiction? Won’t many be confused to hear they may have contributed to another’s disorder by an overly close, or conversely, a distant involvement? Doesn’t it jolt the senses, the unconscious, one’s entire being, to hear that one might have a sex addiction, and that an important aspect of that concept is its impact upon intimate partners? Ultimately, what seems important is to hold the idea of a complex problem, brought to light by acting out behaviors, but not reducible to those habits, necessarily. Might it not render the divide between rival models of treatment moot to consider that our clients deserve to not be hamstrung by labels, or denied what is useful in our nomenclature? Rather, they should feel held by our open minds and fuller understanding.

 

 REFERENCES

 American Psychiatric Association (2013). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed.). Arlington, VA. American Psychiatric Publishing.

 Bergner, R. & Bridges, A. (2002). The significance of heavy pornography involvement for romantic partners: research and clinical implications. Journal of Sex & Marital Therapy, 28, 193-206.

Black, Claudia (2009). Deceived. Hazelden. Center City, Minnesota.

Carnes, P. (1989) Contrary to Love. Hazelden.

Carnes, S., Lee, M. A., Rodriguez, A. D. (2012) Facing Heartbreak: Steps to Recovery for Partners of Sex Addicts. Gentle Path Press.

Cermak, T. (1986). Diagnosing and treating codependence. Minneapolis, MN: Johnson institute

David J Ley (2012, September) “Abusing the Term Trauma”. Retrieved from https://www.psychologytoday.com/abusing-the-term-trauma/

Durham, M.S. (2000) The Therapist’s Encounters with Revenge and Forgiveness. In “Psychological Repair: the intersubjective dialogue of remorse and forgiveness in the aftermath of gross human rights violations”. Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association. Volume 63. Number 6. December 2015

Glass, S. (2003) Not just friends: Protect you relationship from infidelity and heal the trauma of betrayal. New York, NY. The Free Press.

Klein, M. (1975) Love, Guilt and Reparation and Other Works, 1921-1945. London: The Free Press, 2002.

Steffens, B. A., & Rennie, R. L. (2006) The traumatic nature of disclosure for the wives of sexual addicts. Sexual Addiction & Compulsivity, 13, 247-267.

Steffens, B. A., & Means, M. (2009) Your Sexually Addicted Spouse: How Partners Can Cope and Heal. New Horizon Press.

 

 

 

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June 19, 2016 · 3:34 am

The Trauma Currency, Part One

 

“You didn’t get here overnight,” writes Claudia Black in her 2009 book, Deceived. It’s a solemn lesson, aimed at co-addicts, partners of sex and porn addicts—women, mostly—who are raised in households impacted by addictions of various kinds. Their childhood histories are “training grounds” for adult dysfunctional relationships, wherein such individuals engage in so-called co-addict behaviors: tolerating hurtful behavior, avoiding conflict, taking care of others, accommodating. Black describes a woman named Katy, a “perfect candidate for partnering with an addict”, who becomes compulsive in busy behaviors, attending to her children, her job, avoiding seeing and feeling, the anticipated rejection and abandonment by her sex-addicted husband (Black, 2009, P.85-86).

Profiles like the one above seem conducive to interventions that draw attention to patterns of dysfunctional behavior; patterns that implicitly predate the discovery of addictive behaviors by sexually addicted partners—this is according to adherents of the co-addict model, which is based upon the Al-anon 12-step recovery program. Treatment based upon this model prescribes self-examination for partners of sex addicts: examination of and responsibility-taking for repetitively destructive or self-defeating behaviors; examination of trauma repetitions, reenactments of familial scripts with the unconscious hope of creating new drafts in later life. The idea recalls certain 12-step slogans, such as the supposedly Einsteinian definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result. This too is a derivative notion, echoing Freud’s concept of repetition compulsion, first published in 1914 at the outset of the First World War. The concept of trauma has gradually merged into the lexicon of psychology since then, reaching into or underlying our understanding of several mental health disorders, including addictions.

However, some practitioners and researchers might disagree upon the premises of partners of sex addiction treatment, and therefore differ significantly in therapeutic approach. In “From Victimhood to Victorhood” (published in the March/April issue of The Therapist), Alex Katehakis writes that a “major shift has occurred in treating partners of sex addicts”. The shift she describes is towards the Relational Trauma (RT) Model, in which practitioners emphasize that partners’ relational bonds are destroyed by betrayal, as precipitated by the discovery of sexual acting out—not a historical and ongoing pattern of destructive or self-defeating behavior by non-acting out partners. In the RT approach, practitioners eschew the implication that partners contribute significantly to an addiction by an elaborate, conscious or unconscious pattern of enabling. Such suggestions are misplaced and hurtful, if sometimes accurate, assert the proponents of the RT Model, while their interventions are by contrast comforting and affirming, emphasizing the depth of betrayal by a perpetrating partner. The champions of this position are The Association for Partners of Sex Addicts Trauma Specialists (or APSATS). Their members, as well as those of the hegemonic Certified Sex Addiction Therapist (CSAT) network refer to “sex addiction induced trauma” as a specified subset of a PTSD-like condition.

PTSD-like because while discovery of sex addiction has been deemed a life altering event and has even been demonstrated to be a traumatic event for partners, according to numerous researchers (Bergner & Bridges, 2002; Glass, 2003; Steffens, 2006), each stops short of applying the PTSD diagnosis, suggesting that many or most partners of sex addicts do not meet full criteria for the condition. A resulting controversy seems partly attributable to conflicting language in the DSM-V. Psychologist David J Ley argues that typical partners of sex addicts do not meet criteria of section C of PTSD code F43.10, “persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the traumatic event(s)”, by pointing out that these partners often demonstrate “obsessive, ruminating fixation on the details of their partners’ betrayals and actions”. He states that the essential features of sex addiction—sexual betrayal, infidelity, lying—do not constitute trauma for partners, however repetitive these behaviors may be, and that describing them as such does disservice to those who need services relating to life threatening events. With respect to the diagnostic question, I observe that language in section E of code F43.10 indicates that “marked alterations in arousal and reactivity associated with the traumatic event(s)” do meet criteria for the diagnosis of PTSD. This includes hypervigilance, which would likely describe the partners Ley discusses in his writing. Perhaps at odds with the criteria of section C, this language of section E suggests that a more concrete understanding of “avoidance of distressing memories”, versus hypervigilance, is called for; or that alternating or interwoven patterns of avoidance and hypervigilance merit further discussion as features of partners’ clinical presentations.

Ley’s position is interesting in so far as it challenges the premise of the RT model, the sex addiction-induced trauma assertion. While the assignment of trauma to sex addiction may be debatable, it might lead us to consider what life altering events are brought on for partners by other addictions. Alcoholics and gambling addicts also engage in patterns of deception and blaming alongside their destructive behaviors, yet we do not hear of “alcoholism induced trauma” or “gambling addiction induced trauma” as it might pertain to partners or families of drinkers and gamblers. With respect to sex addiction, I’d suggest that it is not so much the presentation of PTSD-like symptoms that warrants a specialized assessment label, or the pervasiveness of deception, or even the ongoing denial of partners’ assertions that sex addicts often exhibit. Rather, I think it’s the nature of the behavior, the context of the lies and deflections—sex—that hurts so deeply. After all, what is harder for our clients to talk about than problems relating to sex? What elicits shame, triggers vulnerability, rage, more than this traditionally-cited root of psychoneurosis?

At least trauma has been codified into psychiatric nomenclature. The same can not be said of sex addiction and codependency, neither of which is delineated within the DSM-V, still. While proponents of RT and co-addict models appear to accept the existence and clinical relevance of sex addiction, or Hypersexual Disorder (as it was proposed to DSM-V committees), they differ with respect to codependency. Proposal for inclusion of a Codependent Personality Disorder was originally made by Timmen L. Cermak in 1986. The diagnostic criteria for the condition then included such statements as “continued investment of self-esteem in the ability to control oneself and others”, “assumption of responsibility for meeting others’ needs to the exclusion of one’s own”, “enmeshment in relationships with personality disordered, chemically dependent, or impulsive individuals”. Cermak’s proposal also included a category which outlined other symptoms, including “excessive reliance on denial’, and “hypervigilance”, which should sound familiar, as the language of the DSM-V criteria for PTSD appears to echo this juxtaposition of ideas/symptoms.

REFERENCES

 American Psychiatric Association (2013). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed.). Arlington, VA. American Psychiatric Publishing.

Bergner, R. & Bridges, A. (2002). The significance of heavy pornography involvement for romantic partners: research and clinical implications. Journal of Sex & Marital Therapy, 28, 193-206.

Black, Claudia (2009). Deceived. Hazelden. Center City, Minnesota.

Carnes, P. (1989) Contrary to Love. Hazelden.

Carnes, S., Lee, M. A., Rodriguez, A. D. (2012) Facing Heartbreak: Steps to Recovery for Partners of Sex Addicts. Gentle Path Press.

Cermak, T. (1986). Diagnosing and treating codependence. Minneapolis, MN: Johnson institute

David J Ley (2012, September) “Abusing the Term Trauma”. Retrieved from https://www.psychologytoday.com/abusing-the-term-trauma/

Durham, M.S. (2000) The Therapist’s Encounters with Revenge and Forgiveness. In “Psychological Repair: the intersubjective dialogue of remorse and forgiveness in the aftermath of gross human rights violations”. Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association. Volume 63. Number 6. December 2015

Glass, S. (2003) Not just friends: Protect you relationship from infidelity and heal the trauma of betrayal. New York, NY. The Free Press.

Klein, M. (1975) Love, Guilt and Reparation and Other Works, 1921-1945. London: The Free Press, 2002.

Steffens, B. A., & Rennie, R. L. (2006) The traumatic nature of disclosure for the wives of sexual addicts. Sexual Addiction & Compulsivity, 13, 247-267.

Steffens, B. A., & Means, M. (2009) Your Sexually Addicted Spouse: How Partners Can Cope and Heal. New Horizon Press.

 

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June 5, 2016 · 5:24 am

Venus and AB1775

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In August 2014, the California legislature passed bill AB1775, a law that redefines sexual exploitation for the purpose of mandated reporting guidelines. For the first time since the codification of child abuse reporting law in the early 1980s, the consuming of a product (such as the accessing or downloading of illegal pornography) must be reported by mental health professionals and other mandated reporters to authorities. For many in the field of mental health, this bill constitutes a threat to therapist-patient confidentiality, a bedrock principle in the treatment of mental health disorders. The bill was written by child advocacy groups in coordination with California police departments, and was promoted as “cracking down on child porn and child abuse” by assembly woman Melissa Melendez, though it was written by lawyers for the California Association of Marriage and Family Therapists, whose 30,000 deep membership mostly learned of the bill just weeks prior to its passing.

This controversial law serves as a real life backdrop to my novel, Venus Looks Down On A Prairie Vole, a first person narrative about an alcoholic, widowed psychologist named Daniel Pierce who takes an impromptu hiatus from his practice, only to be stalked by a former prostitute and lawyer who wants information about and his intervention with a recent patient of his whom she says has perpetrated a child molestation. Pierce resists intervening or giving information, citing patient-therapist privilege, though he is intrigued by the woman’s ardent appeal, for professional and personal reasons: attracted to her, he is nonetheless unmoved by her insistence that he break the confidentiality of his patient as he finds her pretexts grounded more in prejudice than in substance. Aware of his patient’s substance abuse, predilection for prostitutes, and compulsive use of pornography, he doesn’t dismiss the possibility that a crime against a child has occurred, but he resists reporting information that will likely prejudice police, a criminal or family court, or a jury. Unknowingly dodging subpoenas, Pierce retreats to a sober living house to examine his grief, his conscience; even his role in society. However, in the small world of 12-step recovery, he meets the patient who is the object of so much fear and suspicion. The impromptu hiatus becomes an impromptu therapy between two men, neither of whom is a shining example of mental health.

The novel is a dramatic expression of social concern: about the role of the psychotherapist in society, which is a subset of society’s broader desire for heroes, sometimes at the expense of reason; about the need for privacy such that effective mental health treatment can transpire; about the relationship between pornography and sexual abuse; about the influence of feminism upon sexual mores, the process of family courts. As a psychotherapist who works with self-proclaimed sex addicts, state-identified sex offenders, I observe a degree of cynicism on all sides: within the minds of the offenders, or addicts, but also within the schemes of their critics and persecutors. In one sense, it’s no surprise that Daniel Pierce is a burn-out case. His personal drama illustrates what has previously fascinated readers of Irvin Yalom’s novels, or viewers of the HBO drama, In Treatment: that mental health professionals are also flawed, and vulnerable to addictions, if not anti-social behaviors. I think this unknown facet of the mental health professional intrigues members the public. As my protagonist states, they want “in the room” of psychotherapy, to find out what’s being said and done.

Sprinkled within this heavy drama is an equally heavy dose of satire. While excoriating the state’s intrusion upon mine and others’ professional space, I also poke fun at a few segments of society: at the subcultures of pornography and 12-step recovery in particular. Meanwhile, my text lampoons the social engineering that occurs in advertising, via the themes of TV commercials; the products that line the shelves of retail. I write with mischief about contemporary issues that subtly divide men and women, teasing feminists and paternalists alike. This commentary is intended as comic provocation, but is not comic relief or gratuitous soapboxing. These themes are the subtext of my protagonist’s alienation.

The result is a melancholic, if sometimes flippant (some say arrogant) story that is typical of my style. I’ve written four novels prior to this one, but despite better reviews for previous efforts, I think this novel my best. I like repeated themes, inside jokes, and metaphor that stirs the imagination of the reader. I like anti-heroes, difficult people who are not easy to understand, because real people are not easy to understand. Venus Looks Down On A Prairie is an obscure title, no doubt—but no more so than Catcher In The Rye or even Fifty Shades Of Grey—and its meaning should not elude an attentive, curious reader, whom I intend to engage in the deepest possible way.

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May 26, 2016 · 7:30 am

Who Are You?

The Who Perform at Oracle Arena. in Oakland, CA on May 19, 2016.

The Who Perform at Oracle Arena. in Oakland, CA on May 19, 2016.

** This blog from 2016 is likely my most popular, for reasons that shouldn’t surprise–the nice picture. Still, the story behind it is worth reading, if I may say so myself. It was poignant enough to include in an amended from in my 2019 book, The Psychology of Tommy: How a Rock Icon Reveals the Mind, now available through Amazon. But for now, from three years ago:

To my surprise, “Who Are You” was the first song of The Who’s set at the Oakland Arena last Thursday night. I was taken aback. Having attended several of their concerts over the years, and observed numerous set-lists from different eras of their remarkable fifty-year history, I had expected the familiar choppy chords of “I Can’t Explain”, or maybe “Substitute”—two mid-sixties gems to warm up the crowd. “Who Are You”, with its thoughtful narrative, reflecting the bands mature, late seventies outlook, seemed misplaced as the opening number; a reminder of a once concert-climaxing provocation. According to legend, the lyric recounts the story of a lost night on the town by its writer, Pete Townshend. He wakes up in a Soho doorway, a policeman knows his name. He says “you” (Townshend) can go home (in lieu of being incarcerated), if he can get up and walk away. The Who of this late seventies period were addled, about to lose Keith Moon, and struggling to keep up appearances as dignified, veteran rockers competing with up-and-comers, the emerging punk rock tsunami. The song reflects upon aging, being jaded with fame; feeling broken and undeserving of love. Its refrain poses a question—Who Are You?—that seems a cousin of “Listening To You” from Tommy, written several years earlier, only this time the creator/performer is not so much celebrating the feedback of listeners as much as he is staring back, at once bewildered and knowing, appealing for answers amid spiritual crisis.

Last Thursday, the fierce, youthful eyes of The Who’s original line-up—Townshend, Roger Daltrey, John Entwistle, Keith Moon—gazed out at the arena audience from a giant screen montage of the band’s storied career. Their eyes could see for miles, as their first American hit proclaimed in 1967. Their four distinctive, rock-prototype personalities seemed to look out over time, holding in their minds the dreams and expectations of their audience. With druidic presence, they performed a brutal yet playful music that set them apart from others of their era. Yet despite their bravado and bonhomie, they were ever more frail than we, the audience, knew or could tolerate. Waywardness, collapse, and mortality were always close at hand with The Who. As early as forty years ago, just a decade into a career they once thought wouldn’t last a year, there was already a casualty list, and a mooted retirement just around the corner. At that tired, apparently mid-career stage they seemed to check their purpose, looking to the crowd, to people like me, asking, what the fuck do you want? In 2016, time is truly running out, finally. “Who Are You”, a now relatively callow musing of a thirty something, might as well be an opening number, however relevant it may still be. Half the original band is gone. The remaining Who or Two are in their seventies. There are no new albums, rock operas or not, on the horizon. No more hits. Now it’s about playing for a legacy, and manifesting old rhetoric about caring, having a social conscience: hence a robust, charitable infrastructure, especially for its teen cancer trust; The Who’s heartfelt commitment to serving the age-group they once observed so astutely.

I arrived at the arena last Thursday in a bad mood. I’d had a tough week. I was tired, also feeling jaded, and my once fanciful belief that rock and roll can save the day was waning. The Who came onstage sometime after 8:30 in the evening and played for two hours. Another surprise was the lack of encore, but in terms of song selection, the performance, there will have been few complaints. As The Who’s ensemble band (Daltrey and Townshend, plus about a half a dozen others) left the stage and the lights came on, fans started trudging towards the exits, still feeling the concert high. I moved against the stream of traffic, towards the stage, where a cabal of security guards presided. I’d decided upon this action just as Townshend launched into “Won’t Get Fooled Again”, The Who’s traditional set-closer, and despite the surprises, my cue that the show was nearly over. You see, the concert wasn’t even the highlight of the evening. That was still to come, or so I thought. Three months earlier, six months since I’d sent a final draft of my Tommy paper to The Who’s management office in London, I received an e-mail from Pete Townshend’s personal assistant, saying he wanted to meet me. I’ve been alternately giddy and dissociative ever since, and that’s when I let myself think about it.

At eleven o’clock the moment arrived. Stoic security men directed me to the back of the arena, where the private room indicated on my pass was. This was the green room, or NIC room, whatever that stands for. Anyway, taking my wife’s hand, we moved with the crowd, exited the main floor, only to find ourselves in front of more security people, now herding most out the back passage while a few fans stood off to the side. This was the privileged group of visitors: special guest, VIPs. There was about two dozen of us shepherded down a second hallway to a pair of rooms, one inhabited by the band as a whole, the other—this ‘NIC’ room, off to the side—designated for Pete Townshend’s guests. Inside, the pleasant personal assistant named Nicola, with whom I’d exchanged e-mails earlier, welcomed my wife and I, gestured to a table of wine glasses, a fridge containing sodas, and invited us plus the ten or so other guests to relax, wait a few minutes, and Pete would soon be with us.

He appeared without fanfare, his back to me at first, his balding egg-shaped head unmistakable. Looking around at the assembly, gauging the energy, the quiet mood, I knew immediately that this meeting would not match my fantasy: it would last a minute, if that; it would feature a few words, platitudes about a great show (and it was), the years of pleasure and obsession stretching behind me—and a hand shake. The first people Pete spoke to seemed like music biz folk: those who worked on the road crew during the 1989 tour, or something like that. I felt out of place, being about as close to the music biz as an out of tune yodeler. He approached, looking weary, of course, and softly took my hand, saying ‘hi’ in a whisper. His personal assistant introduced us, as he didn’t know who I was. Who are you? I thought he might ask, and then ask it again, with attitude. In some ways it made sense, his torpor. He’d just finished a two-hour show, had given his all, as ever—the whole swinging arms, power chord all. He was, as my dad would say, knackered, and ten times more than myself, was not in the mood. Or, he wasn’t in the mood to talk about my paper, or Tommy, as he has done actually, repeatedly, for almost fifty years. But he asked to meet me, I can’t help thinking, also repeatedly. After a nice photo opportunity, a signature on my paper, a warm ‘good luck with that’, he turned and walked, ready to greet the next lucky fan. Have you ever met a celebrity, an idol—dreamed of such a moment, anticipated the moment as reality approached—and then experienced the aftermath: the point when you realize the moment is over?

I’m not sour. I’m not jaded. I have moods. I’m mildly disappointed, but I know what I’ve achieved and what I haven’t. I know who I am. I’m still hopeful. I still hope Pete reads my paper, because I don’t think he has. If you read this blog, I hope it moves you to buy my paper, give it a read. You might learn something about psychology, music, culture, rock and roll and what it, The Who, yourself, mean to people.

*Photo by William Snyder

 

Graeme Daniels, MFT

 

 

 

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May 8, 2016 · 9:47 pm

Poking ideology, ladies first

 

 

Whenever I consider a critique of a social group, an organization, or an ideology, I try to pause and think about where I am vulnerable; about who or what my sacred cows are, and whether I can take needling comments from the lesser knowing on the sidelines. I’m not a religious or especially political person (I think), so I don’t get my feathers ruffled when viewing debates. I am only thinly amused by scoffing comic journalists, and I sigh at the familiar rhetoric, bemoan all I don’t know or can’t know. As for miscellaneous activism, well, the AB1775 thing was about the only cause I researched well enough and thus felt qualified to comment on.

In most matters I prefer the observer’s role, plus the ethos of the neutral, hence my affinity for psychoanalytic thought, my periodic disdain for reductionist thinking in psychotherapy, as expressed elsewhere in this blog. Activism is an adjunct of psychotherapy for some. With a particular cause in mind, many enter grad schools wanting to “work with ___” because their lives have been touched by whatever their bone of contention is. That wasn’t me and it still isn’t. Mine is an ideology influenced more and more by the unknown, so the stance of the neutral radiates through Venus Looks Down On A Prairie Vole, my mischief novel about a jaded psychologist/neutral (or neutered) male, Daniel Pierce, who is stalked by a former prostitute and thereafter challenged to assume the activist role. Lira is a law student who likely saved money from her night job to earn an education and a better life for herself. She is an empowered woman looking back, looking to help the less fortunate, the not-yet-survived sisters on the streets, plus the odd John or two who needs redemption, whether they want it or not. Her ideology, which is a broader, not goal-specific construct, is likely feminist, though she doesn’t indicate this in such specific terms.

It’s difficult tackling an ideology because ideologies are multi-faceted and evolving. They defy simplification, require and deserve considerable thought and reading, so I’m skeptical of labels from those who identify with an ideology without putting in study time; from those who oppose an ideology based upon a similarly stereotyping process. If you haven’t combed through The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan, or “Beyond The Pleasure Principle” by Freud, or read anything by either Cordelia Fine or Melanie Klein, then stop with the broad-brush dismissals. So when Kirkus remarks in their review that Daniel Pierce is anti-feminist, I have to take issue because I don’t satirize feminism in my novel, but rather some of its derivative rhetoric that is co-opted by common opportunists, and which informs a modern narrative. Besides, I have to wonder what ruffled the feathers of my reviewer because he or she didn’t get specific. It’s certainly true that my narrator issues a few sideways jibes aimed at popular trends: at women’s seeming double standards in the dating arena; at the goading of men that happens in advertising: the suggestion that men should take drugs to enhance sexual performance, whether to serve ego, the pleasure of a wanting partner, or both; the way media increasingly presents women as sexual aggressors, men as on the run, clutching fearfully at their pants, acting like fools; the way musical/lyrical clichés are deemed misogynist if depicting women in supplicant roles—romantic or millennially winning if men are.

Daniel Pierce is traditionalist in some ways, but is neither an anti-feminist nor a misogynist. He’s monogamist, partly because of love, otherwise by constitution. Sexually, he’s played it safe in life while keeping at arm’s length the influence of promiscuous men, so he’s wary of Rick, the would-be porn star who buddies up to Daniel, liking his quiet non-conformism. Rick is aware that Daniel is not a player, but scarcely registers the psychologist’s critique of reckless sex. Daniel could give or take guys like Rick, knowing them to be endangered, but he’s more concerned for his own psychological kind: the sexually diffident or undersexed; the workaholic, drab men who sacrifice decades to the man and then die of heart attacks. If pushed he’d point out that if women want the same pay or workplace opportunities as these men, they may need to do more of the work his masculine forebears did: the blue collar or dangerous jobs that still comprise well over ninety percent of workplace injuries. Let us not forget that the harbinger of feminism, the suffragette movement, more or less suspended itself to support men in their most dangerous traditional role, that of soldier. Subsequently, World War I slaughtered nearly half of the European male population of that era, which is not women’s fault, but what did they do? Time moved on: women organized and confronted the alcohol industry with temperance movements, industrialists about child labor; they rightly won voting rights, the right to own property, etcetera, while never having to register for the draft, and few women over the years complained about that.

When pushed by Lira to co-sign her assessment of Derek Metcalf as a child molester, Daniel pushes back, supposing that the child in question (Derek’s five year old son) may be a pawn in a protracted custody dispute, latterly mired in manufactured charges, coached and inconsistent reports from the son about alleged behaviors, the adjudication of which is meant to leverage a favorable custody outcome for the mother. While Daniel’s familial background is thinly sketched in Venus, I suggest towards the end that his father was not a Prairie Vole (a monogamist), and that Daniel’s mother, a figure on whom he once doted, left his father at some point in Daniel’s childhood. On the one hand, I accept Clarion’s critique that my title, Venus Looks Down On A Prairie, may be too obscure, or confused, for the average reader. I’d intended to give clues in the text, but otherwise leave room for you to wonder. Well, I guess I’ll supply an answer, whether you wonder or not. Daniel is looked down upon by women (or would be so), not because he’s a philanderer and therefore commonly misogynist (he’s not), and certainly not because he was a devoted husband, but rather because he isn’t a hero. He simply refuses to split in that traditional way. His refrain, I don’t do anything, is partly a complaint, partly a muted boast, and he defies a traditionalist male role that lingers in our society, whether feminists want this or not.

 

 

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May 1, 2016 · 6:01 pm

The ins and outs of porn

 

Nothing like a little innuendo to start a blog that is both serious and comic in nature, but if you’re waiting to read about best porn sites on the internet, you’ll be greatly disappointed, for this entry is about as anti-porn as it gets, ironically. This entry is all about the written word and the long narrative—things porn dispensed with almost from the get-go of its existence.

Reviews are available of my porn-on-the-periphery novel, Venus Looks Down On A Prairie Vole: mostly lukewarm responses from the likes of Kirkus and Clarion, who seem to regard my writing as competent, if unremarkable, but take issue with my central character, thinking him unlikeable, a drag upon a worthy cause. The only thing that’s surprising is their reticence. You’d think reviewers would spend a bit less time/print giving synopsis; a bit more time reviewing prose, plot or character development. Daniel Pierce, my protagonist, is indeed an unhappy guy, as the Clarion reviewer points out. He is perhaps arrogant as Kirkus observes. But I’d expected to read more about why reviewers think this, and beyond that, to wonder. It’s strange to me that while people in my profession are used to seeing beyond defenses into what’s inside another (in other words, observing that which is not expressed explicitly), readers expect conscious endeavor, and reject characters who won’t say what readers want them to. In writing Venus, I knew I’d annoy progressives with my teasing of feminist cliches, what I think are tired attacks upon porn. I’d expect disapproval from 12-step adherents, who may not care for my lampooning of drug treatment, or the casual misuse of recovery principles. Both these factions, plus old school paternalists—everyone—might resent my implied sympathy towards sex offenders. As Daniel observes towards the beginning, you the reader might not like what he’s about to share.

Of all these contentious themes, porn gets the spotlight today. It’s in your face, as Daniel comments. Here’s a sample from the text:

“You see, in sex, real sex, not porn sex, eyes are the thing; the personal center. I know because I don’t have great eyes or facial symmetry, which hasn’t helped my pursuit of sex—well, except when light flatters me, when no one is around to look. I wish it were different, not that I want more sex these days. I just wish I knew what makes a pair of eyes great. When I hear people say, “so and so has pretty eyes”, I always wonder what they’re referring to, because compliments tend to be unspecific. Is it the color, the shade, or size, or what my mom, my first gal, used to call “the shine” that dots the pupils? The women of porn stare into cameras seducing viewers with their eyes, big pupils and all, plus their dirtied personalities, looking undignified, yet ambiguously powerful; ambiguously not, I guess. They say—some say—that the women of porn are in it for the power, the sexual power, not the money. Are they? I don’t know, though if you ask me, no one’s coming out of porn looking or feeling their best. The real issue—the real offense to the egalitarian way—is the air of servitude, for what porn really does is arrest women into roles of pleasing. Don’t agree? Go watch some porn”

Actually, eyes are secondary. The penis is the star—the object, if you will—of porn, Daniel remarks, adding that they are in our faces, and “literally in women’s”. These are examples of his flippant, crude armchair views, and a portent of more earnest commentary later on in the story. Venus echoes an argument I first read in Martin Amis’ Money, written thirty five years ago when porn existed only in magazines or in seedy, downtown theaters—maybe videotapes. Money is a masterpiece of gritty, maverick literature. In it, a character (Amis himself, actually) says to John Self, the protagonist, that pornography objectifies women and men equally. Self, a debauched porn addict himself, jovially disagrees, saying that men don’t or wouldn’t mind being so objectified, especially for money (his stand-by argument about everything). Amis rebukes this assumption, claiming he and most men wouldn’t have sex for money, thus pointing out that all involved in porn are exploited. Lira, my women’s advocate/former prostitute in Venus, argues that whatever exploitation of men exists in porn is irrelevant, as men are the dominant consumers. Daniel retorts that if the consumer is the oppressor, then we are all oppressors in our consumer society, and that scapegoating sex for the problem of exploitation merely exposes western prurience.

This is not to say that he’s a fan of porn. In fact, he finds it cold, cynical and narcissistic, though he shamefacedly indulges on occasion when feeling disconnected. But like myself, he’s wary of the righteous; distrustful of zeitgeist opinion, well-marketed, sound-bitten ideas, and therefore has a soft spot for the demonized consumer. This leads him to work with sex addicts in his practice, and with some sex offenders, though he demurs on most cases mired in a legal process. Meanwhile, serendipity places him the company of Rick, ostensibly a chef whom Daniel meets when working shifts at a restaurant during his practice-shedding hiatus. Later, it turns out that Rick is a budding porn actor who goes by the name Kane Able, a typical double entendre slapped on for parody’s sake. So, too, are some scenarios that are common to porn’s semi-theater: the fireman or policeman skit-gimmicks, enacted with thin, tongue-in-cheek pretense, which play upon themes of heroism, damsels in distress and the pull for male sacrifice; abuse of authority, plus the chance to fashion dialogue replete with daft innuendo, silly plays upon words. As a result, Venus is filled with plays upon words, at times mimicking the artifices of porn; otherwise providing a kind of parallel script alongside the action.

Amidst all of this, Venus drops down into a serious contemplation of sex and gender politics. In its subtext it observes a shift in mores, from the castigation of female sexuality, to a back-handed latter-day quest for more freedom, but to what end? For men, the freedom train is heading in the opposite direction. Former license(s) is being revoked, yielding more punishments, weaker performance, and more anxiety, even as advertising media goads them to take the same old risks. Porn offers a kind of refuge to those who are not sure that sex, as in regular intimacy-enhancing, not-paid-for sex, is worth the effort or the risks. With respect to this problem, Daniel Pierce is an outsider: he’s too old to have known the ubiquity of porn prior to his marriage or to have experienced dating as the online shopping exercise it currently is. In a sense, he is safe from contaminated society, but still he is adrift, a closet romantic largely suppressing comment but now seizing a moment with an unlikely listener. Lira listens well enough, but like my reviewers, I think, doesn’t really connect with him. I realize that’s what Daniel Pierce’s story is about: a lament for what is missed.

 

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April 26, 2016 · 9:01 am

Tommy

 

No essay, just a link. Check it out…

 

http://cap.sagepub.com/content/22/1/94.abstract

 

and read the following blogs: “Ever since I was a young boy”, “Your mind must learn to roam”, “You didn’t hear it. You didn’t See it”, “Listening to you”

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April 17, 2016 · 7:37 am

Names matter, don’t matter

 

They do if you give them up. Daniel Pierce is a seasoned psychologist, presumably trained to maintain the confidentiality of his patients, or clients as he sometimes calls them. It’s the most important thing he does, he says, and he doesn’t do much. He gives the reader his name, plus that of some others, people who don’t require or deserve the privacy, but otherwise names are a problem. People’s names, place names: they don’t matter, or they are anonymous. My novel, Venus Looks Down On A Prairie Vole, places confidentiality at the center of a host of themes underpinning its plot: that of a jaded counselor taking an impromptu hiatus from his practice, but thwarted in that effort by a stalking ex-prostitute who wants information about a patient whom she says has sexually abused a child. BTW: this ‘thwarting’ was a main reason the novel was originally called Blocked. The blockages are all around: her blocking of his escapism; his blocking of her social intervention; the internal blocks that Daniel Pierce suffers from, that…well, maybe you get the idea.

Daniel is reluctant to give it up, this information she seeks, but he strings the woman along, hopeful of a diversion to juice up his drunken life; or perhaps he’s intrigued by a strange opportunity. See, he’s met numerous people over time who are similar to Lira, the seductress who takes him to a bar, then to her home, and then upon a ride-along through an alternative world-view, that of an activist. Like many unctuous members of society, she wants Daniel to violate his neutral position, the trust that one of his patients has placed in him, in the service of protecting society, and specifically children. But it doesn’t work like that, Daniel rebukes. In fact, he declares that such cavalier heroics will do more harm than good, impinging upon efforts to prevent child abuse rather than the reverse. He articulates, of course, something I believe: that if our profession is going to help understand child abuse, we have to give its perpetrators reason to speak to professionals. And I mean speak to us, not comply with us. That means maintaining privacy when hearing that which turns the stomach. As far as authorities are concerned, it means not naming names.

Daniel Pierce wasn’t always so inclined to protect devils in order to further understand them. One of his background jobs was that of a group home director—a man in charge of delinquent boys, who keep secrets as well as any therapist, and punish violations of confidentiality more severely than the board of behavioral sciences ever does. A passage depicting efforts to out the identity of a house assailant reveals Daniel as a kind of one-time policeman: a house heavy and dad, lecturing young criminal minds about the importance of standing by the innocent; about not protecting wrongdoers, by giving up their names to those in charge. Daniel’s youthful adversaries managed to disillusion him, by reminding that for many, loyalty is more important than justice; that protecting friends and other loved ones is more compelling than doing right. Now it’s sometime later and Daniel Pierce is not so sure about who is innocent and who isn’t; about who are the abusers, or the oppressed. This is partly because he feels like one of the oppressed, which is hardly surprising, topically speaking. His political leanings unclear, he could be a supporter of either Donald Trump or Bernie Sanders: marginalized, confused, and looking to blame either a subset of society or its entrenched institutions for the messy world he’s a tiny part of.

On balance, his biases are progressive, but above all he’s isolated, seeing hypocrisy, shallow rhetoric and contrived solutions on all sides of the grand social split. He’s alienated, fed up, and tired of social advocates in particular: bleating feminists on the left, blow-hard paternalists on the right. Grieving the loss of his one and only love of his life, and estranged from his son, his only child, he’s in collapse, sliding along a path towards a bottom out drinking experience until this one woman appears, like a seraphic breeze with a provocative mission. She says Derek Metcalf, Daniel’s patient, has committed a horrible crime, and that Daniel can and should help him to confess, if not report that event if it’s already occurred. Daniel is non-committal, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Lira’s plan, or its premise, and privately holding that he doesn’t know much. Like many troubled drinkers, he doesn’t remember much. Actually, he doesn’t even remember (partly due to his alcoholism) ever seeing a patient named Derek Metcalf. The profile Lira gives him sounds a bit like a man named Andrew, who came to see him once, flitting in on a bicycle, discussing a sordid life of street drugs and prostitutes, appearing and later proving elusive, for he too is on the run, escaping from his life, operating incommunicado, living anonymously, having sex anonymously; explaining that his name, where he’s from, where and who he is at any time doesn’t matter. Only it matters.

 

 

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April 10, 2016 · 5:19 am

Introducing Venus

 

Time to fulfill a promise. Last year, about nine months ago now, I previewed a novel I had then nearly completed and which now has been available for about three months online. At the time it was called Blocked, not that names matter, and I wrote that I’d comment on the novel, its various themes and other elements, leading up to and beyond its publication. Alas, that didn’t happen. Sorry. I know you were waiting with baited breath. Anyway, I got distracted, like my protagonist Daniel Pierce often does; became sarcastic, as I still am, though he is less so. Among other things, my object relations explicating Tommy article got accepted for publication in an academic journal (I’m quite proud of that, in case you can’t tell), and random events occurred, concerning dogs, graphic novels, the politics of evidence-based psychotherapy: all happening with Bionic (as in Wilfred) meaning.

So the novel’s called Venus Looks Down On A Prairie Vole, which is a meaningful title, but you’d have to read the novel to learn fully its point. I know. What a typical, asshole-self-important author thing to write. Well, I’ll give a heads up on a couple of things, hopefully make this labor of my last two years interesting for you. Venus is a reference to women, which shouldn’t surprise. A prairie vole is a monogamous rodent. There. Figured it out yet? Oh well, let’s take it one step at a time, one day at a time, which should clue you into one theme of the story, at least. So, the first chapter (about five pages, I think), will introduce you to Daniel Pierce, a lonesome psychologist (actually, the reader doesn’t really learn his name and vocation until chapter two) who is talking to an insurance representative, seeking payment for a claim that’s gone awry, but also flirting somewhat. There’s some foreshadowing in this comic opening, but mostly I’m introducing a voice—one that’s flippant, like this blog entry—and a theme of subjugation to a system or machine. Daniel suffers and doesn’t “forgive” systems, but he latches onto individuals, like his clients, and also like the angelic-seeming, barely English speaking helper on the line. She’ll listen to him, he hopes. She might really listen. No one else does, he explains sourly.

There isn’t much to help a reader feel sorry for the self-pitying Daniel Pierce, but a troubled, flaky son, and a deceased wife give some cause early on. Later, as he becomes dogmatic, contrary, awkwardly humored, if self-deprecating, liking him might get even harder. But try, won’t you…he needs help. As to his crises, the reader first learns about Ryan, his early twenty something son: absconded from Daniel’s home after completing a stint in rehab and winning from him the reward of an inherited car—a bad move, Daniel concedes. You’ll learn that it’s one of many mistakes he is making in his life, though hereafter they will relate mostly to his working life: his poor boundaries, and at least questionable ethics. In the early pages, Daniel’s wife, Lisa, is introduced as “sleeping”—a figurative trick, for she is really gone. She and Ryan are spectral figures in this tale: oblique motivators, sources of regret, or in Lisa’s case, an overseer of sorts.

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March 28, 2016 · 12:13 am

Where’s the breast?

 

A comical question, no doubt. Somewhat crazy: inappropriate, eccentric. Welcome to the world of psychoanalysis, or more specifically, Kleinian or Bionian analysis. This is what a Bionion therapist might ask of a group making what he/she would call a ‘basic assumption’ of a dependent group (seeking a leader), and floundering in midst of unfulfilled expectation. Yesterday I attended a four hour presentation about the work of Wilfred Bion, whose name, like his copyrighted interventions, have dotted this blog over the last year or so. This essay follows the spirit of Bion, the seminar I attended on a sluggish Saturday morning: it will be inchoate, elusive in meaning; seemingly interchangeable at times with ideas that many working in or else consuming mental health systems will take for granted. A discussion of Bion’s ideas begins plainly enough, with references to having an ‘ordinary conversation’, the ‘subjective experience’ of the patient; a search for the ‘real’ experience. Yet there is a secret attached: a sense that understanding is something that is transiently captured but then hard to retain, as if the desired knowledge (if that’s the correct term) was not meant for us.

Having taught a class once on Bion I knew the bio: born into an aspiring gentry in India at the end of the 19th century, Wilfred went to boarding school at age 8 to one of those stiff, militant academies that Harry Potter has since immortalized; he faced peer cruelty, the incomprehensibility of adults…their occasional kindness. He recounts a story of a headmaster who rebuked him for a game in which a playfriend is harmed by a game involving a rope without a knot, tied around a neck. The game might have killed the boy, the headmaster admonished. The headmaster later spoke to an assembly of boys, sparing young Wilfred humiliation, but drawing attention to the dangers of exploratory play. Young Bion felt chastened but not shamed, and oddly understood. An incident with an initial meaning took on another meaning, and its evolution was understood and modified by what Bion would later term the ‘reverie’ of an adult.

World War I was a setback in many ways. Obliterating men, obliterating meaning, Bion never felt more foreign that when he fought on European soil as a tank commander, his responsibility that of determining enemy positions, orienting his comrades. Impossible, he decided, observing the chaos. Impossible also to take in the purpose and meaning of all that slaughter, though he noted the primitive attempts, the glorifications of Winston Churchill, for example, who wrote with seeming ecstasy about the sensuous whistle of bullets in the field. After a momentous campaign in Cambrai, France, Bion was offered a Victoria Cross medal for his bravery, but declined, and when interviewed by an admiring General, later reported: ‘I couldn’t think what to say’. So Bion’s development was one of estrangement from commonplace human aspirations: for power, status, or even belonging. An outsider, Bion contemplated trauma, dissociation, the breakdown of thinking, and links to emotion, and later brought to psychoanalysis an almost mystical view of the human mind.

To consider the types of scenarios wherein Bion’s ideas are relevant, a student should invest some time and read his seminal papers of the late fifties, early sixties: “Differentiation of psychotic and non-psychotic personalities”, “Attacks on linking”, “A theory of thinking”, in which Bion asserted that many patients in psychotherapy communicate via a primitive defense known as projective identification (a defense first explicated by Melanie Klein), inserting into another’s mind a disturbed experience, which is then to be either ‘contained’ or not, metabolized or not, and re-directed back to the patient for internalization. Bion offered that the psychotic individual, or he/she existing in like borderline states, experiences their mind as composed of furniture, ‘things in themselves’, not modified by symbolic function as language, dream and metaphor (the ingredients of what Bion termed Alpha function), but lost in minutia. Thus we consider the experience of the patient who enters an office in which the therapist has made alterations to the (literal) furniture, and is rendered uncomfortable, and is not only incapable of putting words to that experience, but is also blocking of the therapist’s attempt to reflect back and give meaning. Lacking this fund of knowledge, or ‘K’ as Bion dubbed it, the patient in this proto-psychotic state exists in a world of things, drained of ideas, meaning, and feeling.

Later in his career, Bion expanded his theory to include the concept of ‘O’, or ‘being’, to denote a mystical, transformative experience. In his worldview, the outsider is a key figure: he or she is a genius, an innovator; contained by an established order, that (like me) dilutes ideas so as to make them digestible by a mass audience, the outsider is restrained only by God, ultimately. Bion’s book, Transformations, may have alienated him somewhat from the psychoanalytic community, who appear to have inherited or internalized Freud’s supposed distaste for the spiritual, but it crystallizes for the modern therapist an essential task when sitting with patients. Why? Because patients or clients don’t come into our offices with explicitly organized complaints like “Who am I?” or “I need to figure out how I think?” As therapists, our precociousness (yesterday’s speaker’s term) leads us to give premature insights, to show off our minds, deliver solutions; understand our patients before they understand themselves. We want to do that. I want to do that. And I believe the people who come see me want this also…sort of. But it is not cheaply arrived at, and between complaint and working through there is, more often than not, a nameless wasteland that elicits dread: it is a space of boredom and emptiness; it is painful in ways that are hard to describe on a somatosensory level, though we may be arrested at that point of entry. It is a dead zone of sorts, and a therapist, the person standing before an uncertain process,  is a kind of Grim Reaper.

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