The missing insight
The Freudian knot untied
There are so many things I would like to ask you, but I understand that you are now in such great demand that you have had to station guards around your Malibu home to stem the tide of pilgrims who journey just for the privilege of breathing the same asthmatic air as you. There is great hope that you will bring psychoanalysis to the people. I am one of those hopefuls. The word is that unless something is done, it will only be a few years before the discipline becomes so difficult to understand that one will have to undergo cortical enlargement to just get through one sentence. Why has it come to this? What happened? “Where did it all go so horribly wrong?” as Bishop Tutu asked Winnie Mandela at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings.
I went to a psychoanalytic conference the other day. If you book in advance you can be taken for a game drive. One needs a guide, I am told, since the members can be very unpredictable if one makes direct eye contact with them, and may even use a secret form of projective identification to make one shrivel up with shame and ignorance. Sometimes they move around in herds and can only be distinguished by slight variations in their markings. I understand that the more senior members have worn leather patches on the sleeves of their hound’s tooth jackets and that the younger ones are not allowed them until they have completed their own analyses. It’s all very alarming.
Meine angst maus*,
Your questions are so penetrating that they have had me reeling about, spilling my gin and tonics all over my shaggy pile carpet. I will start by giving you a clue: What kind of profession hides behind their patients? I ask you. What kind of profession hides behind the very couch their patients lie on! A shameful one, that’s what. A K’vatshenikende fischengesichten**.
Not only do they hide behind their patients for years on end, they then accuse them of being defensive and paranoid. Not only that, they imagine that they must hide if they see a patient outside of the consulting room. Their patients wouldn’t recognise them if they were stuck in an elevator with them, for God’s sake. I personally know of some patients trussed up in cobwebs waiting for the next interpretation.
Well, lucky for you I am here to provide the missing insight..
To understand the roots of this curious phenomenon we have go back to when Sigmund was a young boy. One day, Zig and I were playing in the long drop. I noted with particular alarm that his productions were small, mean and came out one after the other like little soldiers of the dark. I trembled with forboding and called mutter to come look. Bubbelehs, as you all know it is of great importance that these productions are maternally admired before being gently coaxed away into oblivion. But mutter did no such thing. She ripped off her apron and her wig and went screaming down the main road. It wasn’t long before it was all around the village. You can understand how Ziggy never recovered from this narcissistic wounding which was to follow him into psychoanalysis. And that, yes of course psychoanalysis itself would suffer from the very same hidden, and intricately disguised inner shame. Analysts would never be able to look their patients in the eye, and no one would really be able to understand what they say.
It is hard to believe, that after all that self-analysis that Zig maintained he performed on himself, this insight never came to light. But now everything will change. Patients will get up from the couch, like cripples at a faith healing session. They will walk! Analysts may even look up from their note pads and smile.
Bubbelehs, I must go. One of the paparazzi have got into the house and stolen a pair of my knickers. They are probably being auctioned off on ebay as we speak. Poor princess Di. I now know how she must have felt.
Zelda the Great.
Where Sigmund was anal retentive, I was anal expulsive. I hope to give everyone a little bit of me.
*My frightened mouse
** boneless, whining, fishface