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OPEN QUESTION
Today's Open Question:
Why is the Unconscious known by what it is not?
Mother Tongue?
I've been working with Willy, a man in his 80's and a refugee (in his childhood and along with his mother, father and younger brother) from Hitler's Europe. Our psychotherapy has focussed largely on Willy's fraught relationship with his wife of many years--herself a holocaust survivor--around their difficulties with each other, with their children and their grandchildren.
A year or so ago, his oldest daughter died. I had come back from a vacation to his numbness and literally unexpressible grief. It's his inability to experience his grief--and what it took for him to move forward--that I want us to think about.
His daughter's death had not been unexpected. She had had advanced liver disease--the consequence of intravenous drug use earlier in her life, and the consequence, Willy himself had acknowledged many times, of a life of promiscuity and drug abuse. "I lost my daughter many years ago," he would say.
But now he was also saying, "There must be something wrong with me. I can't cry. I can't mourn...." "I don't know, doc," he would say, "What's wrong with me?" Over the weeks that followed he would lapse into a numb silence and then into his repetitive questioning and fruitless self-examination. I sat with him, I felt for him, I tried to give him a way to think about himself--in all the ways psychoanalytic clinicians do: how he might feel; how I might feel, what it all might mean: the frustrated anger with his daughter, the disappointment, his self-protective distancing from his own feelings.... All to no avail.
Then in a session some months after the event, Willy was talking about his wife and their early relationship. He was remembering the early sweetness of married life, how much his wife had wanted a baby girl, a little "meidlele," he said in Yiddish, and how when the baby was born, he said, "We had our little meidlele," and at that his voice broke and he cried!
There was nothing I needed to say at that moment; I offered him the box of tissues; I took one myself.
So the question: What happened there? Why did the word in Yiddish, and his saying it aloud, allow things to move forward--forward with the emotional process of grieving, and, subsequently, forward with the interpretative process as well?
Surely there's something to say about this question from a range of psychoanalytic prespectives. My own feeling is that what is most interesting here is the nature and power of early language--how we talk to ourselves in our intimate and ungarded moments--but I'm eager to hear what others might think.
--Henry Seiden
The Special Enough Child?
The Special Enough Child?
A patient says (in so many words), "I know I'm not the center of your universe and not the only person to whom you're important... but I can still feel Special Enough to trust this process we are in together and allow it to help me without undermining things." Clearly the analyst has created a holding environment and is behaving as a Good-Enough mother. But what processes are actually at play in the patient?
Winnicott's good-enough mother is by now quite usefully ubiquitous. But I wonder what exists, qualitatively, on the other side of the dyad. A special-enough child? With so much focus on the interrelatedness of mother/child throughout early development, surely the presence of a good-enough mother is not the sole guarantee of success. Neither does not-quite-good-enough mothering doom every child to the same sealed fate. So what are the achievements and contributions of the child with (and without) good-enough mothering? What is her experience? At the other side of symbiotic merger, does the child perceive coming into her own existence? Winnicott says the infant goes from requiring a mother-person's full-time presence simply to exist ("there is no such thing as a baby") to an awareness of dependence on an object who must be shared with others. That seems a rather challenging leap, one requiring both intraspychic and relational scaffolding for safe passage. How does the child let go of the idea that its own wishes for things (including for a perfect mother) makes them so? How does she grasp that it is mother's choice to meet her needs, and how might it come about that such awareness does not wipe out or subsume the child's agency in wanting? Perhaps there is something about feeling she is special-enough to her good-enough mother to risk the transitions towards increasing autonomy. Being too special leaves the child no room to see herself as effective (all good is the work of the Perfect Mommy - I can't be trusted to get anything that right). Being not special enough keeps the child imprisoned in a non-responsive environment, where there is no evidence that wishes initiate or deserve met needs, and thus no sense of being worthy.
(I'd be happy to know about writers who take up this perspective, and/or of concepts I may have misread!) --Priscilla Butler
Speaking of Pain
Here's a lovely poem by Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai--a piece of a longer poem sequence from his book Open Closed Open (2000). It raises an interesting question for psychoanalysts. Everything we've been taught about repression and, more recently, about dissociation would have us predict that we should be better able to talk about joy than about pain--and yet....
The precision of pain and the blurriness of joy. I'm thinking
how precise people are when they describe their pain in a doctor's office.
Even those who haven't leaned to read and write are precise:
"This one's a throbbing pain, that one's a wrenching pain,
this one gnaws, that one burns, this is a sharp pain
and that--a dull one. Right here. Precisely here,
yes, yes." Joy blurs everything. I've heard people say
after nights of love and feasting, "It was great,
I was in seventh heaven." Even the spaceman who floated
in outer space, tethered to a spaceship, could say only, "Great,
wonderful, I have no words."
The blurriness of joy and the precision of pain--
I want to describe, with a sharp pain's precision, happiness
and blurry joy. I learned to speak among the pains.
(From "The precision of pain and the blurriness of joy: the touch of longing is everywhere", a poem sequence by Yehuda Amichai in Open Closed Open, (translated form the Hebrew by Bloch and Kronfeld) Harcourt NY, 2000, p. 105.)
Clearly Amichai is on to a deep truth. How do we account for this fluency about what is painful--and our relative wordlessness when it comes to joy?
Comments welcome!
A New Riddle of the Sphinx?Our new masthead features an image of Oedipus contemplating the riddle of the Sphinx --a reminder that for us question is at the heart of the psychoanalytic enterprise.
What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three in the evening? Oedipus, famously, solved the riddle, answering that man crawls on all fours in infancy, walks upright on two legs in adulthood, and uses a cane in old age. I've always felt that that answer--correct though it be--is a disappointment, anticlimactic and fundamentally unsatisfying. (There might be a better modern answer. Maybe the question hints at an evolutionary awareness: a progression from beast on all fours, to homo sapien with upright posture, to human being in human culture dependent on his tools.)
Also famously, the answer Oedipus gives is no real solution to anything; it only leads him further into a trap. He defeats the questioner, becomes king of Thebes, marries his mother and embroils himself still more deeply in his (Freud will make it our) tragedy. (If anyone wants to be reminded of the whole story, here's one of many summaries available on the internet: Sphinx) The moral, I guess, is watch out for pat answers, especially if fate (or your deepest nature) is against you.
Still, the riddle evokes a timeless and compelling human situation--answer correctly or die! And there's the possibility that (at least temporarily) human reason will defeat brute supernatural force. And the matter the riddle addresses is nothing less than the nature of human nature!
The Sphinx came to the ancient Greeks from still a more ancient Egypt (for a capsule history, see History). The Sophoclean question arose in an age we can hardly expect to apprehend directly. But the times must have privileged simple and certain answers. Today the Sphinx might pose a different riddle altogether, one expressing one or another of the puzzles of our own age. And a modern riddle would have to have a different form--an open-endedness: it would have to be a riddle without an already-known answer.
What would a comtemporary riddle about the natue of human nature be like?
What is mind that it can know and not know what it knows?
or:
What is the nature of human beings that we strive against ourselves?
or:
Why do we seek out and create the very life circumstances we'd most want to excape?
Anyone else interested in formulating a riddle?
~Henry Seiden
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