I’ve always been fairly dubious about psychotherapy and
psychoanalysis. It’s always conjured images of darkened rooms and couches and
Freud smoking a cigar implying I have penis envy. I suppose my main
objection to psychoanalysis is Freud himself and his relentless preoccupation
with sexuality.
Aside from that I don’t particularly feel talking about oneself, complaining
about problems and ultimately blaming misfortunes on others – usually our parent’s
(because of course, it is always our parent’s fault) for years could be
particularly helpful. I’ve always took a stand that if there is a problem, it
is best to face it head on. To
do something
about it, rather than simply talk about it and how it makes you
feel.
The psychoanalytic style also tends to link present problems to past traumas. I have been fortunate enough to escape any significant childhood traumas. I have a lovely family and friends. I have nothing in my life to complain about. So how is this going to work?
Still, upon leaving the hospital my psychiatrist was keen
for me to try psychotherapy. And what was I to refuse? Over the last decade I’ve
tried it all, group therapy, individual therapy, mindfulness, meditation, CBT,
DBT, EMDR (and on one particularly frightening moment in hospital I was offered
ECT). Why not add a bit of psychotherapy to the mix. Why not kick it Freud
style? At the very worst I’ll have an hour to talk about myself each week!
As it happens, last week during my weekly appointment (where there were no couches or cigars) , I was
considering the topic of homosexuality.
“I don’t think I could ever live with a woman...in that way.” I mused, settling
back into my chair.
“Why’s that?” my psychologist queried.
“Well. Aside from the obvious benefits...” I said with a wink “men are just
terribly useful for some things.”
“Like what?”
“Fixing things? Carrying heavy stuff?” I paused, deep in
thought. “Killing spiders?”
My psychologist burst out laughing, causing me to giggle as
well. ”I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing...do you feel that a woman wouldn’t
be able to kill spiders?”
“well, it’s not that they aren’t able. It’s just probably that they wouldn’t
want to, perhaps even less so than I.”
“What about a woman who fit into the classic ‘butch’ role?
Would you concede her able to kill spiders?”
“Oh no.” I said decisively. “I’m not attracted to butch
women. It just wouldn’t work out.”
My psychologist hid a smile. “You’ve obviously given this a
lot of thought.”
“Of course. I think about everything. I’m sure Steven thinks
that a lot of the time I’m just laying around staring into space, but I’m
actually thinking about all of these things.” I paused. Then suddenly it hit me.
“The thing is. I feel I am always the
one who cares for other people. Even the work I have chosen - paid and
volunteer - all revolves around looking
after others. I’m the one who listens to peoples problems. I’m the one who
tries to make it better. I’m the one who puts all the play equipment away
because there is a snake living in the shed and the girls I work with are scared of
it. It’s sexist, and against all I stand for in terms of woman’s empowerment.
But when I come home at night I want someone to be protecting me. I want to be the one looked after. I’m
not saying that a woman couldn’t do this, I’m not saying that I don’t look
after my husband. But there is some deep part of me that needs to be protected
and cared for. And I get that from a man. I get that from Steven.
And perhaps.” I continued. “perhaps that is why I feel such
a great need to pursue my femininity. To wear pretty clothes. To cook and bake
and provide my for my family within my traditional domesticated feminine role.
It’s against all I stand for! I’m writing a thesis on sexism for God’s sake,
and yet I’m conforming to my gender stereotype. But perhaps if I showcase my
femininity to Steven, he will continue to provide that patriarchal protection I
crave.
And then I rebel. I rebel against myself by pursuing
academic goals, feeling resentful that he is the breadwinner and not I, and yes, killing my own spiders and fighting
my own battles. Because I don’t want to be the damsel in distress. I want to be
the one who saves myself, who provides for myself and my family. I am very
proud, I don't like help. But I’m only fighting against myself! Steven has loved me through crazy
and he’s loved me through sane. He loves me just the way I am. Whatever that
is.”
And there it was. A revelation. A thought, a feeling that I
never knew existed. I understood myself.
I laughed because it was so silly. And yet so important.
Every week of psychotherapy that passes, I learn more about
myself. Somehow I understand myself and allow myself to let go of the pain. It’s
an incredible tool for personal growth, and I would recommend it to anyone. My
prejudices towards psychoanalysis have lifted. Despite studying psychotherapy
indepth with uni, I wasn’t able to understand it fully until I experienced
it for myself. It’s a reminder to withhold judgments. Never judge a Freudian
textbook by it’s cover ;)
