The
Analysand
By Tricia
Parker
January 14,
2013
For reasons that have yet to become clear,
when an "extraordinary coincidence" occurs in my life, it bumps me on
the head like a cosmic bowling ball. As much as I’d like to avoid the advances
of this seemingly “heavenly” sphere, I appreciate their occasional jostles.
They have a way of getting my attention, and, when the occasion calls, of being
committed to collective written memory.
Since I joined the Literary Club last January,
three extraordinary coincidences have occurred. The first is that I'm here at
all. I suppose that's less of a coincidence, and more of a bizarre happening,
propelled by a bit of fortune and a considerable helping of kindness. I
attribute my presence to the good faith of my sponsors Michael Koenigsknecht
and Stephen Thomas, who took a chance on an unknown young writer last year.
As I contemplated writing this paper - an
admittedly intimidating concept - I
thought to focus on some of the things that you've written about - about
history, philosophy, or travel. Those are all subjects I enjoy, but I simply
don't have the experience to speak about them as intelligently as you have.
Perhaps when we gather together again one day, ten years or so down the line,
I'll have an engaging dispatch from the Arctic, or thoughts about Spinoza’s
theory of God. But for now, I have to turn my attention to closer things; to
things I can truly claim to understand.
Which brings me to the second coincidence. And
that's that the garden party this summer, hosted at Don Wrobleski's magical
home in Bannockburn, was little more than a stone's throw away from my old
elementary school - Bannockburn School, where I spent kindergarden through
eighth grade. If I turned just a few paces in the other direction of our party,
I’d have been back to my old schoolyard - a place I haven’t visited since 1996.
I must confess, standing in Don's yard that
beautiful summer night, among his carefully tended impatiens and begonias, was
more than a bit surreal. It brought me back, in a gentle way, to a difficult
past that I've only begun to understand.
My listeners, before I reveal the third
coincidence, I must let you know that what you’re hearing tonight is a revised
version of my original paper. After careful consideration - and more than a few
fraught nights - I decided that the first version I’d produced included too
much material of a graphic nature. While the scenes I’d strung together painted
an unforgettable picture, I felt that the cost of hearing about them came at
too high of a price, for both myself and for you. So, I present to you words
that are less graphic, yet - I hope - no less powerful.
In the winter of 1994, when I was 11 years
old, I faced a domestic situation in which it became necessary to see a
Freudian psychoanalyst in order to stay alive. That psychoanalyst was - and is
- based three floors beneath where we stand. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s
certainly not an exaggeration to say that the Old Republic Building has been
the most important physical structure of my life.
That, then, is my third coincidence: That
somehow, nearly 20 years into the process of healing from long-term Freudian
psychoanalysis, I’ve been given this opportunity to share this “what are the
odds?” piece of my story with you. At a time, coincidentally, when I’m
beginning to feel truly ready to do so.
Please believe me when I say I struggled
enormously with whether or not to write these words. I also, as one must do in
such circumstances, found a certain humor in it all. How could tonight even be
possible?, I wondered. Why’s my life been so incredibly strange? And, as I’m
sure we all question from time to time, who’s orchestrating things? What -
shall I say - “poetic entity” put me in Don’s garden that night? I could never
have imagined, as I mentally rolled out my life’s script, that I’d be given
such an extraordinary opportunity to share this part of my story for the first
time among such dear friends.
Having now mentioned this third “coincidence”
in detail, I realize certain questions may be in order. Questions about why a
person would need two decades of therapy in order to function. So, I’ll share
these very minimal details of my young life with you. My mother was a hoarder,
who was also schizophrenic. That combination produced a very difficult individual.
The things that I witnessed on a daily basis in my childhood “home” were nearly
beyond human comprehension. I’ve decided not to “go there,” tonight, so to
speak. There’ll be a time and a place for that, I believe, but that time and
place is probably not here, directly after a such fine dinner.
As I’ve come to tell my story in a public
setting - a process that’s been snail-like, due to its difficult nature - I’ve
realized that I really can only really reveal it in small pieces. That’s only
fair to you, and it’s also fair to me. And, it mimics one of the most important
laws of proper psychoanalysis, and of permanently overcoming trauma: that one
must reveal just a little at a time, or “the system” short-circuits.
Metaphorically, one can’t force boulders down an hourglass. I’m certainly not
here to produce shards of glass, nor sand in our eyes. So, together, we’ll
gather our grains, and fix our gaze on the real prize at hand: the marvelous
possibilities of healing from psychoanalysis.
At this early juncture, you might be asking
(if you aren’t already familiar with the method already) “What is
psychoanalysis, exactly;?” and further, “Who, exactly is an ‘analysand?’ ” I’ll do my best to answer both questions, briefly,
now.
Psychoanalysis is form of one-on-one talk
therapy, developed by Sigmund Freud in the early 20th century. It works on the
premise of “free association.” Free association is a technique whereby the
analyst - the one administering the therapy - encourages his or her “analysand”
to speak of whatever comes to mind first. The beauty of the technique is that
whatever you say, has meaning. There is - to use an ugly double-negative -
“nothing that’s not important.’” No matter if it’s “nonsensical,” “illogical,”
or just a thought passing through your head like wind -the impressions you
mention to your therapist are all golden breadcrumbs. It’s the analyst’s job to
interpret them over time, and to bake them all into a leaven loaf of
self-understanding
Before I continue, I’d like to make one thing
very clear: I’m not a trained analyst; I don’t have the schooling to administer
therapy. Yet what I do have are more than 1,500 hours “on the couch,” as they
say. I’d ask everyone present to remember that those hours were accrued over a
span of nineteen years, and that my childhood circumstances were most unusual.
At this point, two vexing questions naturally
arise. I’ll spend the remainder of my short time with you discussing them both,
to the best of my abilities. The first is: “How long should a proper
psychoanalyses take?” And the second: “How can an average person be expected to
pay for psychoanalysis?” I must confess I only have an answer to the first
question, yet I encourage everyone present to not abandon the second question
only on the premise of money.
I am of the opinion, however controversial,
that a proper psychoanalyses must take at least ten years. This knowledge, I
must admit, is largely based on careful study of my own experience, as well as
cursory knowledge of the care given by Dr. Sigmund Freud to his own
“analysands.” Despite what can seem like prevailing evidence to the contrary,
we are not - as Google and Facebook would like to have us believe - “instant” creatures. We are, in fact, “wired
up” to go slowly. It’s best for us - both as individuals and as societies - to
take our time.
To quote Freud himself:
“It is true that the treatment of a fairly
severe neurosis may easily extend over several years; but consider, in case of
success, how long the illness would have lasted. A decade, probably, for every
year of treatment: the illness, that is to say....would not have ended at all.”[1]
An image “Dr. R.” likes to share with me, when
I feel immense frustration over the “slowness” of my own journey, is that of
our Field Museum. She asks me to picture the “Pacific Spirits” exhibit
upstairs. Psychoanalysis, she says, is like going through the exhibit
piece-by-piece. Every time we meet, we “dust off” another mask; another memory;
another dream. The overarching goal seems to be to create a sort of internal
“archipelago.” All I know is that I
still have many “islands” to visit; many “cultures” to explore, before I can be
considered even a low-level master of myself.
My listeners, I realize this talk is strange,
and is becoming quite tedious, so I’ll do my best to conclude in a swift
manner. I realize there’s still one “big” question on the table, and that’s how
to pay for psychoanalysis. I regret to admit that I don’t have an adequate
answer at the moment. However, here is what I do know.
Psychoanalysis is a method that has universal
applications for all human beings. That is, it can literally be put into place
anywhere - from a hut in Kenya to a walk-up apartment building in New York. It
requires no medical instruments, nor heavy equipment other than simple
furniture and an ample supply of notetaking materials. It does, of course,
demand heavy training from its adherents, as well as a cultural preclusion
toward intellectualism and individual enlightenment - criteria that could,
perhaps, be the subject of future papers.
We must keep in mind, when wrestling with such
seemingly insurmountable challenges in the arena of funding mental healthcare,
that long-term “analysands” would be unlikely candidates to shoot up schools.
Or movie theaters. Or drop bombs, or do any one of 10,000 other abominable
things that human beings have done to each other since Sigmund Freud first
bravely came forward with his groundbreaking theories in the early 1900s.
Though the process can seem harsh at times from an “analysand’s” perspective,
it is only because we must confront difficult truths while being gently guided
to happiness through self-awareness. I can say with great assurance that the
last thing one wants to do, when expending enormous quantities of psychic
energies in overcoming traumatic acts, is to perpetuate such an act oneself.
I thank you, truly, for your time.
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