The Making of a Psychoanalyst

Studies in Emotional Education

Claudia Luiz

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2017
• eBook ISBN: 9781315411958
• Topic: Psychology
• Subtopic: Mental Health in Psychology
• Index: Psychology

In this unique and uplifting work, Dr. Claudia Luiz reveals why psychoanalysis is more relevant than ever, perhaps the only discipline currently suitable to help solve the mystery of our emotional challenges.

In gripping stories about people struggling with depression, anxiety, sexual dysfunction, attention deficit disorder (ADD) and more, Luiz brings us right into each treatment where we discover how psychoanalysts today prepare their patient's mind for self-discovery. Following each story, absorbing commentaries acquaint the reader with the theories of the mind that currently guide treatment, and the innovative clinical techniques that are revolutionizing the field, including how Luiz learned to integrate her own emotions as therapeutic instruments for diagnosis and cure.

The Making of a Psychoanalyst is an ideal book for psychoanalysts and psychotherapists in practice and in training, mental health professionals working in social care, and students interested in the evolution of an undying discipline that embodies personal narrative. Anyone interested in knowing how two human beings interact with each other to effect profound change will want to read this book.

Part I
Introduction to psychoanalysis

1
Catrina learns to breathe

The perfect hair

I could hardly believe it. Why was Catrina calling me for an appointment? I mean, I thought she was the leading lady, starring in the role of “Mrs. Absolutely Perfectly Wonderful” in my life. The one, I thought, who had it all.

I had met her at the pre-school where we both dropped off our daughters. Catrina would sweep in and out of there effortlessly, always exquisitely dressed. I took careful note of each detail of her outfits: a beautiful trench coat adorned with a French scarf that complemented her blue-green eyes; a stunning sweater with a wide collar that cinched at her narrow waist and fell at just the right length below her hips; and her beautiful leather boots and straight-edged pocketbooks.

I had probably studied Catrina from every angle, taking in lateral, posterior and bi-vertical profiles. I had a mix of emotions seeing her. I felt both inspiration, wanting to emulate her put-together style, and dread because I didn’t really want to make the time for it.¹

We were just acquaintances then. I knew she had an important role in the Classical Languages department at a prominent university, that her husband was a surgeon, and that they traveled to France each spring, where she probably shopped. She was such a class act. And they had three children. When I saw her, it made me think that maybe I should keep trying for a third child myself. A boy, this time, like she had. Maybe I did have penis envy.

But what struck me most about Catrina was her hair. Mine is troublesome. It always has been. The devout Italian women who raised me used to brush and wet it down and tie it back so tightly it hurt. By afternoon, I looked as though I’d been electrified; small ringlets cut loose in a halo of reddish frizz. I preferred the way I looked in the afternoon but didn’t think I was supposed to. My hair has long epitomized my sense of not being sure of myself, of feeling guilty for something but not knowing what—of being a stranger even to myself.

Every hair seemed to be in place for Catrina. No flyaways. Blonde. A real American 1950’s bob that curled in a perfect even arc at the bottom. Only she could pull this off, managing to look fashionable in contrast to the more disheveled layered looks that most women around town wore.

Now here she was, calling me for an appointment. Weird. Apparently, things had gotten stressful for her lately. She thought it would probably be a good idea to talk to someone. But she was very busy—very “pressed for time”—would it be possible to pop in for an early morning appointment?

Giving her a time, I felt dishonest. She apparently had no idea, when we saw each other around town, that each encounter would precipitate my going down a long list of ways I should improve myself—get a Keratin hair-conditioning treatment perhaps; go on a shopping spree at Bloomingdales, or better yet, in Paris where she went each spring. Become another kind of woman. One I would consistently want to be.

I sat in my chair, staring into space, after I hung up the phone with her. There was some satisfaction in all this, actually. Wouldn’t it be funny if I were to become her “Mrs. Perfectly Wonderful” now—an emotionally balanced, at-peace-with-herself psychotherapist?

With all these thoughts swimming around in my head, I thought, “I’d better be careful.” It could be pleasurable to feel superior to Mrs. Perfectly Wonderful herself. Yes, I admired her, but on the flip side I was scoring so low on how I felt about myself when I stood next to her that it made me feel strangely negative toward her. I’d better not unwittingly act on that. I worried about being motivated to help her, since seeing her suffer could potentially help me feel better about my hair.²

If only we could explode all the myths and fantasies that make us feel inferior, the world would be such a better place.

The moment Catrina entered my office, her physical presence, front stage and center, threw me headlong into feelings of awe. She was wearing a silky-looking, baby-blue pencil skirt with a soft white sleeveless ruffled shirt and black patent leather pumps. Absolutely gorgeous. I said, “Good morning” in a neutral way and asked her right away to lie down on the couch. Which I never do. But it helped me feel in control and also kept me from thinking about my outfit, which just didn’t feel that beautiful.

“So what brings you here?” I asked.

“So…I’ve been having sort of a rough time,” she said, staring directly out the window where I had hung a pot of geraniums. I was relieved that they were in bloom. We both looked at the geraniums for a little while, and then she started talking again.

A crazed life

In her worst moments, Catrina explained, she had always recited promises to herself, which actually sounded a lot like prayers: “I will take better care of myself. Be grateful every day. Exercise. Let go of petty, unimportant stuff. Invoke patience. Remember what’s important. Breathe.” The prayers had generally worked for her until one day, a few weeks earlier. Reviewing her prayers right after she woke up, she hadn’t felt uplifted. She stepped outside to breathe in some fresh air and invoke the goodness of life, raising her head to the sun, but nothing penetrated. In fact, she felt worse trying to relax, so she decided to get busy.

“That’s when I realized that I’m depressed,” she said. “That something in me isn’t right. I have so much to be grateful for—a great husband, job, kids, house. I have…no reason to feel this way. But I don’t know. I do. My doctor’s put me on something,” she continued, “and it’s making me exhausted. We’re going to adjust that. I just don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Is something bothering you or upsetting you?” I asked.

“Well, it’s the stupidest stuff—totally ridiculous. Like the kids—today Jeremy wanted me to cook him pancakes. I just wanted to go into the bathroom and cry. Like, why couldn’t I just make him a pancake? I just felt…destroyed. It’s so stupid.”

Obviously, Catrina was none too pleased about being bowled over by a pancake. She didn’t want to linger over her dismay about it at all. She found her own response intolerable; it never dawned on her to question her perfectionism. She simply saw her meltdown as a failure to be strong.

She moved on to talking more about her kids. They were very spoiled. She had always tried to be good to them, which she thought would make them centered and calm. But now it seemed like nothing was ever enough. There was no end to their demands, and they had no clue how hard she worked. She couldn’t catch a break.

She didn’t blame her kids for being spoiled though. She had, after all, raised them to speak their minds. She said, “I tell my kids, ‘I want to know your feelings.’ So, I can’t very well then say shut up every time they fuss.” Catrina wanted to be consistent in the messages she gave her children. She didn’t like getting upset with them. It made her feel bad and guilty if she snapped at them.

In fact, most of the time, Catrina explained, she did not enjoy being with her children. “It’s gotten bad,” she said. “It’s not like here and there. I mean, I don’t look forward to being with them all the time.” Her voice was so soft as she said this, as if she were a little afraid of saying it.

“Do you have enough time away from the kids when you’re not working?” I asked.

“Oh, God,” she scoffed, “I’ve got two part-time au pairs. College kids. I don’t think I could bring myself to get more help—even if it would help me. That’s another story. They have a lot going on in their own lives. Which is good. I want my kids around people who are good role models. But their school schedules are hard to take. I have no choice. I have to be flexible.” Catrina was sounding a little detached here, resigned to what felt like inadequate help, which she had talked herself into feeling positive about. She sure had a lot of understanding for everyone. And a lot of patience. It was admirable, really, except that something was so wrong.

“I don’t know, it’s just such stupid stuff. I have this other stuff—meds—I take because my heart starts racing sometimes, like it’s going to jump out of my body. Sometimes I take a painkiller. Sleeping pills. It may be getting to be a problem. I’m not sure. I’m not happy about it. I’m trying to stay positive. I know I should not depend on other people for my happiness. But where do you get it, then?”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like you have found the right balance yet,” I said.

“Balance?” Catrina said, as if it were a bad word. “Oh, God, that’s what my mother and sister are always saying.”

“Well, what would happen, for example, if you started saying no to your kids or to the nannies?” I explored.

“I don’t think I really want to do that, Claudia. I don’t think I have room in my life right now for that kind of drama,” she responded.

“Drama?” I thought, before saying to her, “So you are damned if you do, and you are damned if you don’t. If you don’t set limits you run yourself ragged, but if you do set limits, you have too much ‘drama.’”

“That’s the problem,” Catrina said, taking a deep breath. “That is the problem,” she repeated, which sounded a little like, “Why do you think I came here?”

“There doesn’t appear to be a good, workable option for you yet. No wonder you are feeling depressed.”

“Right,” she said. “But I shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t be,” she reminded me.

“You don’t think it’s overwhelming to have to work full-time, manage help and raise three kids?”

“I know people that would kill to have what I have,” she answered, which reminded me that I had been one of those people. “I shouldn’t be this depressed,” she explained. “There is no reason for it. I should be feeling great about my life.”

I continued, in the next ten minutes, to assess whether there was anything in Catrina’s life that had any “give” because it sounded like she had gotten overwhelmed by all of her duties. Could she, perhaps, set boundaries with the kids or with her husband or try to get more help? Apparently, nothing was possible—nothing. A deadly silence ensued, and I could practically breathe the hopelessness that enveloped it.

Finally, she rescued me from my struggle to find something else to say. “I have an appointment with my OB/GYN. Maybe it’s a thyroid problem. I have to figure out how to get stronger. This is just a temporary glitch,” she said.

To my mind, the session was not going well. I was filled with as much intolerance as she had for these problems. Why did she insist on boxing herself in with all this stress? Why couldn’t she entertain that, practically speaking, there was a way for her to create more balance in her life?

I would have to swim around with Catrina for a while in these murky waters, where she felt stressed, trapped, unhappy and crazed. I had to get away from being the competent, solution-finding doctor, get into her head and enter into her psychological universe to find out what was blocking her from doing what made perfect common sense—relax a little, enjoy life. I geared myself up to tolerate the intense state of frustration and confusion she was in, to stay with her through what she was feeling instead of trying to control it in any way.

Which is when everything between us changed. The enjoyable fantasy, in which she was Mrs. Perfectly Wonderful and I was a project for improvement, fell away. We were in a new zone now: the zone of reality. The zone where we are all perfectly wonderful and, simultaneously, all projects for improvement. This is the zone where we do not shy away from the truth of suffering.

So that is how it came to pass that I stashed away all my advice for finding balance and shelved any other ideas for what might be a viable solution to her over-stressed predicament. I put all practical common sense out of my mind, including entertaining the most obvious confrontation: that her perfectionism and superego were on complete and total overdrive. Here were my prayers: I will not control these energies by talking sense. I will keep tolerating how crazed she is and keep helping her to talk about it, until something happens.

“Catrina,” I said, “tell me more about the people in your life.” And so, the real analysis began.

Depression

I said very little to Catrina during the next few weeks and asked her a lot of questions about the kids, the nannies, her family. This is what I said to myself: “Tolerate the feelings. Sit with them.” This mantra is what helps me do my job: to keep people talking.

This is what I did say to Catrina, “That is not easy.” A few times—just to let her know I was on the same page with her. And, now and then, “That’s a challenge.” Sometimes, as she told me how overwhelmed and depressed she felt, I said, “That’s the right feeling to have,” which it was. No feeling is ever wrong. It’s simply there.

After the sixth session, Catrina looked back at me from the door with a sad smile. She said: “This is helping, actually. I guess it is good to vent.”

I thought it was interesting that my having no answers or advice for her didn’t frustrate Catrina. She didn’t seem at all annoyed with me that I wasn’t “fixing” things. Maybe she was relieved that I wasn’t going to push her to do something like everybody else did. And that I would take the time instead to listen. People are too quick, sometimes, to come up with a clear path—a practical alternative that appears, from the outside, to provide the perfect solution to getting in a more comfortable place.

But to the crazed person, either the “better” place is not more comfortable or getting there can’t happen. Catrina felt guilty for feeling so crazed. She didn’t feel entitled to being miserable; it made her feel weak and guilty. Telling her it was OK to just talk about what was going on, and that it would lead to something eventually, was all she needed for now.³

I continued to be tempted to provide solutions that would relieve Catrina’s suffering. But…when you can accept, get comfortable and feel at peace with the nature of a seemingly hopeless situation, when you can listen to how terrible it is and bear the suffering…eventually, something will give. I have faith in that.⁴ Even though you never know quite when, exactly, something will give.

Indignation

My simply listening to Catrina was proceeding nicely. I learned that a lot of things were upsetting her. She told me that some nights she fell into bed without even brushing her teeth. She had lost her sex drive, felt no joy around the kids and wondered if the beauty of her children’s early years was going to be completely lost on her. She had sex with her husband once every month or less, but it was very hard to relax and rev up. Sometimes it was just uncomfortable.

Some of the upsetting things in her life were long-standing and familiar: her husband didn’t care if they celebrated their anniversary; her mother seemed to care more about Catrina getting a promotion than about any of her daughter’s feelings.

As our sessions progressed into the summer, it started to get hot out, and one day Catrina came in to her session in a very heated state.

“My mother and sister are both telling me to say ‘no’ to the au pairs taking vacations again,” she said, “because I didn’t make it to my nephew’s second birthday on Saturday. Like he would remember that I wasn’t there—he’s TWO! I had to run the errands I couldn’t run on Wednesday because the au pair couldn’t work that day. So now my family’s mad at me! Can you imagine? Where were they when I needed them on Wednesday?”

Catrina had clearly been a little edgy in her conversations with her mother and sister, and I was glad about that for her. We all need people we can be edgy with when we are crazed. This is one of the best reasons to stay married: to have someone other than yourself to be edgy with. Catrina’s relationship with her husband didn’t allow her to be that way with him so her sister and mother were the ones she permitted herself to get aggravated with.⁵

“They act like I’m stupid,” Catrina continued. “They say I’m too insecure—and that’s why I ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction to the new psychoanalysis
• PART I Introduction to psychoanalysis
• PART II Key concepts
• PART III Putting it all together
• Postscript
• Glossary
• Index