i (heart) my freudian

Just about zero sex here and a lot of soul searching. If you're here for fun read my faves, and if you're here for smut, read, well, smut.

My therapist is also named Chelsea, which is to say that neither of us is named “Chelsea,” but both of our names that are not “Chelsea” are the same. My therapist, Chelsea, is a Freudian. A post-critique Freudian, so she doesn’t buy into all that freaksome stuff of the vagina dentata or the whole “gosh darn it if I only had a penis, my life would be ever so much better” stuff.

She sells Freudian needs and development, but not the Freudian misogyny, in short.

I’ve been seeing Chelsea for around two years, or it will be two years this coming November. I see her on Fridays, at noon. Petite and sporting varying shades of red hair, my therapist has a deep affinity for pointless hair accessories that kind of make little animal bunches on the sides of her head like tufty ears; maybe she’s really a Jungian, and these are the nascent stirrings of her anima. She also is prone to rather whimsical flights of sartorial fancy and has no problem mixing patterns and palettes.

But I don’t bring these visuals up to her because, if you know anything about Freudians, that would mean we’d have to talk about them. I’d have to discuss her head bunches and my feelings about her barrettes and clips, her ankle-length tapestry skirt and its relationship to her baroque tunic, and, frankly, I have too many problems to really go there yet.

We do, however, talk about why I am late to my therapy, which I often am. I hate therapy. It’s no secret to her. I don’t tapdance or do any kind of evasive linguistic maneuvers around my dislike of therapy. I think anyone who likes therapy is nuts. And should be there until they come to hate it like the rest of us relatively sanish folks.

I was late today. In part I was late due to having a truly magnificent wank to a fantasy that I will lay out in Technicolor precision soon. In part I was late because I justbarelymissedthetrain. As in the doors were closing in my face when I got to train A and then again at train B.

But mostly I was late because I hate going to therapy. Today I hated to go because I had a recent realization that I was feeling pretty content with my life.  Earlier this week, I had a short email exchange with this woman, and in the course of it I realized: wow, I’m actually feeling pretty whole. (As a side note, I think I offended her in some kind of boneheaded move. I apologize, Shylah. I’ll send you an email extending my apology as well, but let this parenthetical aside be a beginning to my apologies.)

I told my therapist all of this, except for the lavish wanking bit, and especially I told her that I thought I was late because I felt freaked out about my contentment. That I felt, perhaps for the first time in my life, that I was ok, and while, sure, I’d like a few hundred dollars more a month, and maybe health insurance, and definitely a couch, that I felt pretty whole.

“Wow,” she said, “so you didn’t want to come to therapy because you thought, gosh this therapy thing is actually working?”

Sarcasm duly noted, I said. Is that your addition? Or do they teach that technique at The Psychiatric Institute?

She claimed the sarcasm as her own.

But she has a point. I do feel scared by my own successful process. I feel whole, pretty much, and I don’t want to talk about it.

Wholeness, I realize, is like purity: both are absolute states. That Ivory soap claims to be 99.9% pure really only attests to the fact that it is not, in fact, pure. That I say I’m feeling pretty whole suggests that I remain fractured. And I am. There is still a lot of healing to do here, in this here subconscious, a lot of reintegration to do, a lot of love left to find.

But when I hold this vessel of myself up to the light, I see pinpricks, cracks, a barest chiarroscuro of light. A year ago, or two, I had whole Malaysian puppet shows playing in the fractures of my psyche.

You would not have recognized me a year ago. A year ago, I was still rolling in the shallows of SlutFest 2004, still trolling the depths of cyberspace for lovers old and new. I was still taking chances, still distracting myself, still being reckless, not reckfull. Two years ago I was a shattered mess. I had, in the course of three months, dumped my live-in boyfriend of a couple years; had my dog, the Legendary Spencer, diagnosed with lung cancer; watched him die in front of me; and had my wallet stolen. 

My mentor, the director of my dissertation, turned to me one day and gently said, “You’ve suffered a lot of loss recently. Why don’t you try therapy?” And I did. I found Chelsea, and eventually I found my psychopharmacologist.

I am not one who would have ever thought I would wave the big foam finger for psychology or for psychopharmacology either. I spent many, many years in intense pain, several of those while under the care of one therapist or another and they all unequivocally sucked. Some outrightly did harm; others just did no good. In the end, I remained in deep, deep pain and the best did little to alleviate it, while the worst actually added to it.

I have written shreds here about my suicidality. I have talked about the scars on my wrists. I have discussed briefly my stay in a psych ward. I have written about my sister’s bouts with schizophrenia (she is out of the hospital, supporting herself with a job that happily for her does not require her to interact deeply with other people. She calls my parents and sees them regularly. She sometimes leaves me messages. She is ok, she is holding on; she will most likely never, ever be whole). I have not really told the brutal facts about my will toward death.

And they are these: when I am in a moment of stress, killing myself is the first thing that pops into my head. I don’t make plans, exactly. I make fantasies as pleasurable and tactile in their own ways as my fantasies of sex are. I imagine hurling my body in the path of a train, and I make eye contact with the train’s driver. I imagine holding a gun to my mouth, and I hear the dull clink against my teeth, feel the coldness of the metal under my breath and its weight in my hand; I taste its acrid oil. I imagine checking into a hotel with fistfuls of barbiturates, and I imagine the coolness of the sheets, the play of the light on the carpet, the muffled noise of the city outside my windows, and the slow reluctant slide of the capsules down my throat.

I have done none of these things. I do not own a gun; I have no barbiturates. I do have a MetroCard, but as of yet I’ve never gotten closer to the third rail than your average commuter. The point is this: suicide for me has always been the fallback plan. Plan D: death. And I used to be so dogged by these final solution thoughts that I recall telling a friend of mine that I thought it was something I would just have to live with.

I have found out it is not. Neither my pain nor my desire to end it all is something I have to live with. And it’s been fucking hard work. So many months of tsunami-esque anger as all those so successfully repressed emotions started to hit the surface with the force of an underwater volcano. All those forty-five minute sessions stacked like cordwood into hours, so much pain, so many revelations, so much so many; it makes me weary to contemplate. Yet contemplate it I did, and more: I also spoke it.

The thing about the Freudians is this: at their core is a belief in the raw and transformative power of narrative. When you tell your story to a Freudian, you tell your own story, and you also tell a story that fits into larger archetypes of narratives. We are all interlocking narratives in a Freudian’s leather-couched mind. And I have spent my time supine on the timeshare of that couch telling my stories, and it has paid off.

I used to feel as if I lived my life balanced on the edge of a knife. I was a knifewalker, and one uncertain step would seal my fate, while each exacting step caused but a few lacerations. There were no good choices, being caught as I was between the knife of my daily pain and the abyss of my depression. Then after some time in Chelsea's care, I felt as if I were on a balance beam. Still not entirely stable, perhaps, still aware of the looming distance below, but at least the steps didn’t cut so painfully and at least I had a plank under my calloused feet. Over time, that beam has spread, and now I can stand with my arms and legs akimbo, and even if there are ripples in the floor that catch me unaware, and even if I stumble, I will not fall too far.

It amazes me, this change. And it scares me. Because it is different from the rest of the way I have lived my life; enough time spent and even knifewalking seems normal. I’m liking the feel of the floor beneath my feet; I’m just not accustomed to it yet.

I go to therapy, I see my Chelsea, I tell my stories, she responds, or she does not. It’s a lot like writing here, actually.

Thanks for listening. Our time is up now.

Comments

[v]

i'm always considering it.
you haven't really helped me decide: therapy or not?
but you always make me want to post.

[Shylah]

You didn't offend me at all, as I stated in my response to your e-mail. No need to worry about that at all.

In fact, you helped me to put some things into a new perspective. I learned something. Shit, write that down, quick, cause I'll forget.

[figleaf]

Hi CG,

I know exactly how you feel, though I haven't felt that way for years. Decades really. But I remember it very well. We each have to take our own way out of there and it sounds like you've found a very, very good one. (I happen to like Freud quite a bit. In a way he was the last Victorian. If you understand him in that context he's a lot more forgivable even though he left some very long smelly brown streaks through too much of the 20th Century.)

The rusty wheels of my crisis hotline training tried turning when I began reading your post but when you got to the line "I recall telling a friend of mine that I thought it was something I would just have to live with" and again I knew exactly how you felt. The wheels just settled down again.

Like I say I don't know a lot about Freudian analysis but it sounds like it's happening with you.

Finally, I think it's really, really cool that you've stopped to recognize so much progress. Sure, you can still expect ups and downs yadda yadda, but it sounds like you're way above sea-level now and you're no longer drowning.

Talk to me if I'm totally wrong. You're really important to me and a lot of other people in your life so I don't want to assume anything.

Take care,

figleaf

[leigh]

Wonderful post.

I'm wondering what it is about Chelsea-shrink that makes this round successful. My problem with therapy as narrative, or storytelling as therapy, is that I talk a good talk, endlessly. I am tired of talking and paying for the privilege. It hasn't worked for me in this post-divorce (and my own couple of years of slut-fest, lasting longer than a summer) life. Of course I am no longer in New York, where it is practically a requirement of residency. But I am tired of looking for a good shrink. It reminds me of looking for a good man. Instead, I resign myself to being less than whole and loving my children. My first love, true love, was my English professor. He wrote about Freud as a fanciful cocaine addled prosodist,is that a word? He wrote about him as the maker of that modernist narrative. We talked a lot, he and I. Best conversation I've ever had. I miss that. I live with hillbillys. I am tired. I've gone on. xox

[O]

I've said it before, and will again: in every post of yours there is always more than one sentence or turn of phrase or image I actively covet. Dang woman you can write.
I find it fitting that it'd be a Freudian who'd help you so much, you know. A belief in the raw and transforming power of narrative--this belief structures your life in many ways, it influences even your dissertation topic. Moreover it's a belief every blogger shares, though few ever articulate, and none ever could articulate so well as you.
All my love, O

[Goose]

I see certain similarities between us or our stories. I have suffered from depression, thought those same thoughts, sought help and found it. The image I always had of my depression was of walking right on the edge of a cliff over looking a rocky shore and deep ocean. I could see people living inland safe, behind walls or gates, but there I was treading a path feeling less than sure footed.
Now, I see that cliffline from a distance and I trust my footing so much more. I occasionally miss the view of the ocean though. I'm not sure if you'll understand that, but I think you will. Perhaps that is why sex on the edge is appealing to me. Its an edge that's in my control as opposed to living on an edge, in an edge, as an edge.
Take good care and keep working.

[Danielle]

Hope:
1. To wish for something with expectation of its fulfillment.
2. Archaic. To have confidence; trust.

This is what you give me, like a little magical gift you don't even realize you're giving.

I'm so proud of you. You've come a long way.

[Alohalani]

Hers:

1. But when I hold this vessel of myself up to the light, I see pinpricks, cracks, a barest chiarroscuro of light. A year ago, or two, I had whole Malaysian puppet shows playing in the fractures of my psyche.

2. (she is out of the hospital, supporting herself with a job that happily for her does not require her to interact deeply with other people. She calls my parents and sees them regularly. She sometimes leaves me messages. She is ok, she is holding on; she will most likely never, ever be whole)

3. And they are these: when I am in a moment of stress, killing myself is the first thing that pops into my head. I don’t make plans, exactly. I make fantasies as pleasurable and tactile in their own ways as my fantasies of sex are.

4. The point is this: suicide for me has always been the fallback plan. Plan D: death. And I used to be so dogged by these final solution thoughts that I recall telling a friend of mine that I thought it was something I would just have to live with.

5. It amazes me, this change. And it scares me. Because it is different from the rest of the way I have lived my life; enough time spent and even knifewalking seems normal. I’m liking the feel of the floor beneath my feet; I’m just not accustomed to it yet."

Mine:
On 1: Yes, that is exactly how it is, isn't it? When one begins to heal... You've captured a concept and once again, perfectly, illustrated it. And I am happy to read these words of yours, my friend. I've paused a moment to analyze at what point am I in my healing.

On 2: When I read this, I could feel my heart contract in pain, a sigh slipped from between my lips, and my eyes teared. Somethings don't heal. Most do. I feel an affinity for your sister. As I often say, if good thoughts and well-wishes have a force of their own and can in some way influence the universe, than surely my wished for your sister will in some way reach her. *hugs*

On 3/4: It's the first thing that pops into my mind as well. It is my security blanket, my life-buoy. I know that if it all gets too much for me to handle I do have the option to leave this world. Knowing that I have a choice and that if needed I can stop the pain actually gives me strength. I often think that yes, I can do this "life" thing one more day, one more week, one more month. And that little mantra gets me through all of the pain. And as I survive another painful episode in my life, time, sneakily, has partially healed some of the worst hurts. I've had moments that I had to call people because I felt a strange attraction to my balcony, a compulsion to attempt a swan dive off the twelth floor. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's very scary. I've called suicide hotlines and had them come pick me up and ended up in observation where I told one of the three doctors that spoke with me, that I was probably one of the most intelligent crazy people he'd meet anytime soon. This last year has been a better one for me. Apart from my 12 year old daughter sending me a hate email on mother's day.
On 5: Another apt imagery. I am glad that it has become a beam for you. *hugs*

As always, love you!
Alohalani

[Edgy Mama]

Go girl. Keep thinking, reflecting, hoping, dreaming. None of it is easy, but it's usually worthwhile.

Death is a wimpy option, and I know you are no wimp. And I know how you feel.

I hate therapy as well, but there have been a couple times in my life when it has smoothed the rough edges and punched pinpricks of light into the darkness.

Thanks for sharing--for your honesty and beautiful writing.

[introspectre]

I had quite a few wretched shrinks, and two that were absolute jems. When I first discovered blogging I realized the treasure I had stumbled upon: the telling of my story. And on and on it goes. Heh- that's where the name "Introspectre" came from- the misty spectral form of introspection that I so frequently indulge in. It is my growth.

Sometimes growth can be very painful. There have been times where I have gone too far, too fast, and had to take a break. I think it's perfectly ok to take those breaks and not get burnt out in the growth process.

Your growth and unfolding is beautiful to behold, Chelsea. Just beautiful.

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
~Anais Nin

[chelsea girl]

You are all wicked kind, as in "very," not as in "bad." Perhaps, as my beloved Freudian would say, my slip is showing, for in every pun there lurks parapraxis.

But I say it's just my NorthEast.

And that's the story I'm sticking with.

I truly appreciate everyone's kind words. Especially on days like today when I'm feeling a mood indigo, your words mean much to me.

Thanks for being part of my world.

CG

[JoeyMadison]

Chels,

You are an amazing woman, each facet of your life I find terribly interesting!

I'm happy for you, I'm happy to hear that you've realized how far you've come the last year or two!

Thanks for writing so openly to us.

[EE]

Wow.

Fantastic post.
Came her through being online friends with Raven (Mark) and Ben. Mark and I go back as blogging buddies a while now...almost a full year.

Keep up the fantastic writing.
And the fantastic progress... on you.

p.s. I hated therapy too.
It's a love-hate thing...
;)

[geoff]

I truly hope that you're still seeing "Chelsea". She sounds wonderful, and I hope and pray (or would if I did) that she'll help you through this latest shit.

I only did it for a couple weeks, and my doc made me understand my Mrs. had truly left me. Which sucks. But is the truth, nonetheless.

My favorite suicidal fantasy is drowning. Fortunately, I have two daughters, so not really an option.

Please take care of yourself.

g