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Tag Archive for ‘Depth Psychology’

The Container

So you know how I often write detailed accounts of what I told Igor and what he told me in my sessions with him? Well, there is a school of thought that would say that by my doing that I am damaging the work and even impinging my growth. I have kept this idea in the back of my mind as long as I have been writing about my own personal therapy here on the blog and chose to keep it there, that is until now. Cheryl Fuller, on her brilliant blog Jung at Heart, wrote a post about the importance of container for transformation to occur in psychotherapy and it got me thinking and I felt like I needed to think about/write about this issue as a means of coming to understand exactly how I feel about this and to see if perhaps my writing about my own therapy is helping or hurting my work with Igor.

In case you don’t know about the idea of the “the container in therapy” here’s the theory: In Depth psychotherapy the relationship and the room that the work is done is understood as an alchemical vessel, a sealed vessel and as a container. According to this theory the change occurs because, in part, due to the container remaining sealed. The heat, tension and energy that happens within the therapy needs to remain in the container for change to occur.  There are many ways that the therapist works to keep the container sealed: a safe room that has a sealed door and doesn’t allow for others to hear what’s going on. The therapist doesn’t take calls during session. And the therapist’s use of confidentiality is another way the container  is kept sealed and safe and a place where change can occur.
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Three Types of Men: Foreign lover/Abusive father/Good father

Remember the post, the one from a few days ago, the one I was whinging about not having any dreams. In terms of daytime dreams I am still without one. Writing a book, having a baby, or moving to Chicago have not been replaced with the desire to open a tea shop or take up Bikram yoga. However in terms of night time dreams I have had two.

Dream number one was a bit on the X-rated side. I won’t go into lurid detail. I will just tell you that Javier Bardem and I were doing things that birds and bees and educated fleas do. What felt important in this dream was the level of connection Javier and I had. And Javier’s instructions to me felt VERY important. Javier was very keen on me “opening up to him”. It seemed that he was trying to open me up so he could fill me up(metaphorically). Please, stay with the metaphor—this isn’t about sex, it’s about metaphor—really. In the dream it felt like Javier and I were very connected and I trusted him and I did open up to him. I told Igor all of these associations.
Continue reading ‘Three Types of Men: Foreign lover/Abusive father/Good father’

Tory Burch shoes and subtle sexism by, *ahem*, psychology professionals

First I feel that I must tell you something that I am sure goes without saying, I take my professional life VERY seriously. When I go to work I dress professionally. It is important to me to communicate to my clients that I take our work together seriously and part of how I do that is through how I present myself visually. Actually, and I say this not out of any kind of hubris but based on somewhat objective standards that I feel sure that most of you would agree with (and, yes, I appreciate that you have a bias that would favor me as you are my friend or at least a friendly reader who has bothered to read this far), I am fairly confident that I dress better than your average therapist and I, without question, have nicer shoes than your average Rockport/Mephisto/Birkenstock wearing male-therapist.

When my toe was broken and I had to wear Tory Burch thongs to work (as it was the only thing I could get my foot into) I HATED it. I hated that my shoes might in anyway communicate that I am not a professional and that I take my work with my clients anything less than 100% seriously. I tell you all of this to tell you what some of you already know, the guy that I rent my office space from(who is also a therapist) had the nerve to ask me if my $320 Tory Burch Leopard Pumps were “professional?”. I answered reflexively, “Why do you say that?” and I feel sure my face added the non-verbal address of , “you,  in those shoes and that outfit are daring to ask me about my shoes”.  He fired back without any indication that he was aware that he was entering some seriously dangerous territory in which I was, given the time and space, capable of invicirating him even though I am declawed and highly proffesional, “well,” he went on “you are psychoanalytic. And aren’t you supposed to be a blank screen? And those shoes are kind of wild-woman.”  As soon as he completeted his accusation I  heard the door of the lobby open, my client had arrived. I left my clueless colleague behind and walked away in my beautiful shoes. I greeted my client and invited her into my office. Want to know the first thing she said to me before we sat down? “I like your shoes.” I thanked my client and we immediately got to work.

It was when my work day was over and I was on my way home that my mind returned to my colleague’s uncalled for comment and it was then that  I had the time and space to think about what exactly my colleague was saying. How dare he question my professionalism, it wasn’t like I was wearing lucite stripper heels? I was wearing designer shoes that I bought at Neiman Marcus. It wasn’t the cut or quality of the shoe that my peer had a problem with, it was the print. He was saying, in the subtext of his question, that leopard is a symbolism of sexuality. He was inferring that I was too much of a sexual object to be a professional. He was saying that my shoes made me seem like a “wild woman”.  His comment was telling me that he, when he saw me in those shoes, no longer saw me as a professional but rather as a sexual object. And you know what, that ain’t my issue. That is his. He needs to get his Dockers covered ass back into therapy and look at why he has to split women into either “professional” or “sex object”. And I have to wonder if he would say something like that to some therapist dude in a surf shirt and faded and un-ironed trousers? Would he dare to bring his professionalism into question?  Would he point out the impact of such thoughtless and unprofessional attire? I doubt it. Grrrrr!!! This leopard wearing therapist is mad.

The more I thought about his sexist and inappropriate comment the more that I wanted to go back and give him a taste of how fierce this leopard shoe wearing woman was.   The image of him in his camp shirts and his Dockers and his VERY bad shoes and his incredible gall to infer that I was in anyway unprofessional had me in a wild fury of contempt. It has been several weeks since this happened and I am still mad about it—yet I have said nothing. And I know why, I fear that if I say something that I will lose my office space. I don’t want to have to find another office space. I am not proud of this reason for not confronting him about this–but it’s the truth.

I hadn’t planned on telling you about this here as I already vented about this a bit on Facebook but then I ran into subtle sexism from a psychology professional #2 and it started to seem like a theme in my life that I can’t ignore. Actually, I am not sure how subtle either of these examples really are. Okay, so I was in my psychoanalytic psychotherapy class and the analyst in charge was lecturing on the three different Freud’s: the American, The British and the French. All was well until we get to the French Freud and the instructor started talking about Lacan and this is where everything went pear shaped. So the instructor asked if any of us had read Lacan, before I could raise my hand, a guy in the class blurted out “I was in a practicum in which this Lacanian analyst was speaking and she was a typical French bitch.” I tell you, my friends, I almost lost my mind. I feel sure that my eyes turned into the size of buffet plates and that my jaw hit the desk below me in disbelief; I looked like an animated cartoon character. I could not believe my ears, which in true Warner Brother’s style, had steam coming out of them. Happily the instructor stopped him from further slurs with a “Hey now, guy!”.

Even as the instructor moved us onto the impact of Lacan on psychoanalytic theory and away from this guy’s gender and Xenophobic slurs, I couldn’t get past what had just been said.  If the Lacanian analyst had been a man he would have called him a jerk or dumb or pompous or ill-informed but he wouldn’t have likely attacked his gender. If she or he had been from Canada he wouldn’t have brought her nationality into the equation. But because she was a French woman he attacked both her gender and her country of origin. I was relieved to see that his diatribe wasn’t going to be allowed, however something happened in that “French bitch” comment. He had, with that comment, told me a lot about who he is and, if I should I dare to say something he disagreed with, what the consequences would be. If I were to raise my hand and say that I actually like Lacan a lot and that I found Ecrits to be a fascinating extrapolation of Freudian theory that I might get dismissed and be boiled down to a stereotype. He, with that comment, silenced me and perhaps the other women in the room.

All weekend I have been thinking about this guy. I have thought about writing an email to the instructor and thanking him for not allowing that kind of speech to stand. I have thought about calling the head of the program and sharing with her that in truth I don’t think the instructor took a strong enough stance and that it is my wish that someone talk to this guy about that comment. I have decided instead to wait to talk to Igor today and see his take on this. I guess what’s holding me back is that I feel some concern that I am overreacting. Maybe I am being too sensitive. Maybe by saying anything to the instructor or to the head of the department that I will get identified as an over-sensitive troublemaker. I don’t want that reputation and yet, to tell you the truth, I can’t stop thinking about this guy’s inappropriate outburst and how it has changed my feelings about being in the class. I guess the thing is that I don’t want to be the Anita Hill of the psychology set. It didn’t go so well for Anita and, as you know, Clarence still got the job even after she dared to speak up. I will admit that I have had fantasies that I could go into class week and belt out La Marseillaise in resistance ( I can’t see this scene in Casablanca without crying)—too bad I don’t have the voice or the words, or the courage.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYSqnq3roMg

Animus

Long before I knew about Jung I knew about animus. I didn’t know what the name was, but I had known my animus for YEARS. There was the dark animus who had harassed me since I was ten. In my nightmares this faceless man had chased me and threatened me and insisted I didn’t look at him. I thought, as most would do at 10, that he was my bogeyman and it certainly didn’t occur to me that he was a psychological complex and/or an archetype.  Years later there were positive animus figures who showed up in my dreams and they completed me. With him I felt strong, self-confident, smart and  loved. Now that we were together  all would be well forever….but then I would wake up and I would be crushed and completely lost without him.  The details of some of my positive animus dreams have stayed with me longer than memories of actual men I have dated.

Just in case you don’t know anima from anime, let me try to break this down for you. The first task of individuation, consciousness or just not being an unconscious git is to pull back our projections and become aware of our shadow. Once we have done that we then need to integrate the inner opposite gender aspect of ourselves and/or, in fancy terms we need to integrate our unconscious contrasexual nature, or we haven’t become all we can be (I didn’t intend to quote an Army commercial but my animus inspired Muse made me do it. Stay with me, men have anima figures, that function as their soul, and women have animus figures.

The anima is something each guy has, no matter how butch or bad ass or unevolved he may be, he has an inner feminine even if he is completely disconnected from it—it’s there. Really, it is, trust me—I am a paid professional. When you think of anima think of Dante’s Beatrice, Jerry McGuire and the gal who completes him or the other one who makes him jump on the couch like it was a trampoline at a kid’s birthday party, or that Twilighty vampire guy and the human he loves too much. These are literary versions of what happens internally. Dante needed his anima, his soul, or he was in hell. Jerry needed Renee Zellweiger or he was just a soulless agent. Vampirey guy has no soul and so he needs Anima figure to get one and he also needs sunblock but that is a different post. And women have animus figures, this is really at the core of every romance novel. “He completes me.” But the he that completes you is in fact an inner he, he is your animus.

Note to reader: please read the following in your head or out loud in a thick Swiss accent. If you can’t manage that at least have a cup of Swiss Miss as you read the following:

Every man carries within him the eternal image of woman, not the image of this or that particular woman, but a definite feminine image. This image is fundamentally unconscious, an hereditary factor of primordial origin engraved in the living organic system of the man, an imprint or “archetype” of all the ancestral experiences of the female, a deposit, as it were, of all the impressions ever made by woman-in short, an inherited system of psychic adaptation. Even if no women existed, it would still be possible, at any given time, to deduce from this unconscious image exactly how a woman would have to be constituted psychically. The same is true of the woman: she too has her inborn image of man.

“Marriage as a Psychological Relationship” (1925) In CW 17: The Development of the Personality. P.338

The animus, according to Jung, is both a personal complex and an archetypal image that exists within all women.  This is not easy stuff to boil down, so let me have my good friend Carl Gustav Jung say it for himself (and no he doesn’t have a blog and you can’t friend him on Facebook).

The animus is the deposit, as it were, of all woman’s ancestral experiences of man-and not only that, he is also a creative and procreative being, not in the sense of masculine creativity, but in the sense that he brings forth something we might call . . . the spermatic word.["Anima and Animus," CW 7, par. 336.]

That is the last I am going to quote Jung for a while because he had some serious issues about women with large animus figures. Really, it is almost unbearable to read his writings on the subject without wanting to cast dispersions on his manhood and suggest he get a sports car and a Costco size vat of Viagra. Let’s just put it this way, I think he had a very small *animus*, if you get my drift. Truly, for a guy being surrounded by super smart women he had some serious biases about women. I know it was the time in which he lived but it can still be hard to read his theories on women without occasionally wanting to throw out the Basel-born Jung with the bath water.

Back to the the animus. The animus in women isn’t so much a soul figure, as the anima is in men. The animus is more of an inner guy  who is loaded “with fixed ideas, collective opinions and unconscious a priori assumptions that lay claim to absolute truth. In a woman who is identified with the animus (called animus-possession), Eros generally takes second place to Logos.” I was, prior to lots of work, such a gal. I had a serious animus complex. I tended to idealize the masculine and logos over the feminine and feeling. Being as Athena daugter of a Zeus father, i.e. born out of the head of my father (if you have no idea what I am talking about I will include a link to a mythological Cliff notes on the subject). The animus is also a bridge to the Self (yikes, me trying to explain the Self could take a while. Suffice to say the Self is what you are after in Jungian psychology and it is the more transcendent/trans-personal part of yourself). Here is what my dead and somewhat sexist friend and the Father of Analytic Psychology has to say on the subject:

Like the anima, the animus too has a positive aspect. Through the figure of the father he expresses not only conventional opinion but-equally-what we call “spirit,” philosophical or religious ideas in particular, or rather the attitude resulting from them. Thus the animus is a psychopomp, a mediator between the conscious and the unconscious and a personification of the latter.[Ibid., par. 33.]

Differentiation is the key in working with animus. The animus, tends to be bossy and opinionated and has answer for everything…mine certainly did/does. What one wants to do is differentiate the messages that come from you( the ego) and those that come from the animus and that way you are conscious of where these messages come from and that gives you more freedom to take or leave the Old Testament truths that the animus likes to bust out ( lots of rules, thou-shalts and general Super-ego kind of statements that can at the very least be oppressive and at their worst they can be paralyzing).

And since my animus was unusually large, before I learned to differentiate my animus, I had a hard time being around groups of women. This made attending grad school in my chosen field a little hard( as of late Psychology has become a mostly female profession)and made it harder still to attend a conference given by Marion Woodman, the grand poobah of Jungian Femininity, on the Feminine in which  all of the attendants were garbed in shawls and gypsy skirts and Goddess necklaces. My animus was repulsed by the idea when I suggested we attend.

“Are you kidding me?” My animus asked. “We got to get out of here. This isn’t for us. This is too touchy, feely. Where is the intellect? Where is the logic? Where is the objective????? Hell no, we won’t go.” It shouted in a chant of self-preservation.

There was a big part of me that agreed with my animus and wanted to hightail it out of the Hilton Ballroom that this estrogen rich event was happening in. I was ready to go  faster than you can say “Sororities, Knitting Circles, Estrogen, and Ovaries”. However I knew that my animus had been running the show for far too long and at the time I was trying to learn about mothering, as most of my practice had been filled with college aged girls who had mother wounds and my mother wound had left me feeling like it was MUCH better to identify with the masculine. I knew that Marion Woodman had something to teach me about the feminine. So I did some differentiation work with my animus. In my imagination I  booked my animus a suite at Caesar’s Palace. I gave him cigars and booze and chips and gift certificate’s to steak houses and strip clubs. I told him to leave me alone for the weekend so I could get to know myself independent of him and that I would be back for him on Monday. My animus agreed. And it worked. This was the beginning of me differentiating from my animus. I began to see what thoughts, ideas and feelings were mine and which were from the animus. This was big and it was totally worth being a part of Shawl Fest 2006. That said, I am still pretty identified with my animus—only now my animus is more positive and not the dark one that so long tormented me.

Speaking of the dream that I had for decades in which the dark animus was chasing me, what I have come to realize is that I wouldn’t have died if I looked at him. He would have died. He was afraid of the light of consciousness and so he lied to me and told me that if I looked at the complex it would kill me. Guess what, I am still here and he is gone. The positive animus remains.

So, ladies, any animus figures in your dreams? Fellows, any anima dreams????

*************

More on animus:

Hereherehere here and here.

If more than two people are interested in this topic, I could write a post about how our animus or anima can create acrimony in relationships with *real* men and explore Jung’s idea of marriage as a psychological relationship. If you are interested vote with your comments. If you aren’t I can always write about shoes, Igor, Lily and how much I hate L.A. No hard feelings. ;-) My positive animus’ feelings won’t be hurt.

Space: The Final Frontier

No, these are not the days of the Star-ship Enterprise. This is me thinking about why exactly I signed up for the Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy Program. And it all comes down to space.

The first time I saw Igor I was astonished by how much space he created for me and still felt close, there and with me. The first session was especially palpable as I had never been in that kind of space before. And I had done a whole lot of therapy prior to finding Igor, through out my 20′s and 30′s and there had even been some back in the tweens and teens. I tell you that not to dig up the painful truth that I have spent as much money on therapy as I have grad school and I have likely spent more time in therapy than I have at the beach, parties, and or any other recreational activities( in my defense I must say that I am not big on recreational activities).

Soon after I began with Igor an old boyfriend came to mind and how whenever I left Igor’s office I never thought of this guy. This is where things get tricky so I will type slowly and expect you to read slowly, as it is going to be tough to follow this logic. Okay, so for the ten years that I saw the yellow toothed Jungian, after almost 80% of our sessions I would think about this guy. And as I was just married and wanted to stay that way I wasn’t all together thrilled about this guy popping up in my consciousness post-session. I thought it meant that I was a hot mess and that I was drawn to something self-injurious. Why exactly was I thinking about this guy who was as healthy a choice as a heroine-speed-ball-Oxycontin cocktail with a vodka-hemlock chaser? I told old Yeller and he never had an answer. He would say “interesting” and then go off about some obscure Minoan fairytale and how the Princess wanted to date a poisonous snake.  I would say “uh-huh” knowingly and nod my head and pretend I had some idea what he was talking about. But the truth is that I didn’t. We kept up this farce for  TEN years( feel free to laugh at me in the comment portion of this post).

On the way to Igor’s office each week I pass the condo of the parent’s of the poisonous snake. I can’t help it. They live in a condo on a main street and to avoid them like some kind of black cat would take a lot of traipsing around circuitous side streets. Driving L.A. is difficult enough without adding unnecessary side-streets. So I didn’t. And each week I passed their condo and each week I passed the church I imagined we might marry and each week after Igor’s I wouldn’t think about him. He just didn’t come to mind.

After several months of seeing Igor it came to my consciousness that I hadn’t thought about him and so I told Igor. As soon as he heard of my decade of post-session rumination he asked me what my associations to poison paramour were. I explained that he was VERY bad for me and yet when we had been together there had been enormous intensity. It was one of those toxic relationships that required me to keep a shot of adrenaline around as when I would hear his voice I would go into near anaphylactic shock. Igor, upon hearing my associations immediately had an interpretation. Your mind was trying to tell you something: 1)It was trying to tell you that the relationship with your old analyst lacked intensity and so it picked a symbol to compensate for the lack of connection. Secondly, it picked a symbol of a man that was clearly not a healthy choice. Your mind was saying: You need a therapist where there is more connection and this guy you are seeing is not a healthy choice. He was right. The yellow-toothed Jungian was highly-intensity impaired. His passion level never got about a Nordic high of cool, calm, collected and, perhaps, a bit constipated.

I remember one session with Yeller in which I was totally overwhelmed by all the things that I might chose to talk about and so I just sat there. I sat there for five, ten, twenty, thirty-five, forty, fifty-minutes, The  session was over and I did not say a single word. Old Yeller never said anything.  And on sessions when I did say something I never felt like we connected. There seemed to be this constant missing. I would say something and he wouldn’t get it and then he would go an scholarly diatribe about what Jung said or what the Greeks said or some other ancient culture said and he would  carefully stay far away from what I said.  Each week I would leave feeling confused, unheard and, to be honest, incredibly stupid. As I look back I don’t know why on earth I stayed so long. I guess that the truth is that I thought he was the best because he was so smart that I had no idea what he was saying. Note to all who are considering therapy: My reasoning was ridiculous. One should be able to understand their therapist. One should not need to speak ancient Greek or Aramaic in order to work on one’s father complex. I think that the other issue is that I thought be being there and sitting at his feet, I thought that it meant I was smart. It did not.

With Igor I feel a connection. He is there and with me and totally attuned and yet I have plenty of space. When we first started to work, I marveled that one could be connected and still have space ( this tells you everything you need to know about my family of origin issues).He gives me space when I need it and he somehow knows when he needs to interrupt my silences. Igor would NEVER-EVER-EVER let me get away with 50 minutes of silence.  NEVER. And that is a good thing.

Almost as soon as I experienced the space that Igor created for me I knew that I wanted to create it for my clients. I wanted to learn how to do this and this is why I enrolled in the program. I enrolled because I want to became an inner architect. I want to create spaces that contain. I want to create environments where change can occur. And I wouldn’t hate it if I ended up getting some referrals out of it. I also wouldn’t mind some personal growth. And to be completely candid, I get a hunch that it will be good for my writing, but that isn’t something I admitted to on my application for the program. I don’t imagine Psychoanalytic Institutes like to think of themselves as memoir and blog fodder.

Projective Identification and Prince Charming the Conceptual Artist

When as a MFT trainee I first started seeing clients I had normal bouts of self-doubt and fear that I wasn’t at all ready to be seeing them yet.  Usually after a few minutes into the session I would remind myself just to be there with the client and listen and respond authentically and that all would be well and that was usually enough to make my self-doubts go away. However there was one client that I was seeing that whenever I would sit with him/her no amount of self-soothing or self-talk could make my self-doubt go away. And strangely, even if I had been feeling confident, competent or otherwise effective, as soon as he/she would walk into my office my positive feelings would be replaced with ones like, “You will never amount to anything” or “You are hopeless and you should just stop this now.” I tried to push these thoughts away and just be with the client—only these thoughts and feelings wouldn’t budge. By the time the session would end I would feel like a complete and total failure and an absolute fraud.

At the time I was lucky to have  a WONDERFUL supervisor whom, upon hearing how I felt when in session with this client, introduced me to the concept of Projective Identitification. She explained to me that the client was unconsciously communicating to me about their subjective state via how I felt about myself in this client’s presence, i.e. the person was projecting their inner state onto me. The client said with his/her words that he/she was doing okay and all was well but via their unconscious they were communicating to me how he/she really felt about him/herself. As soon as I heard my supervisor’s interpretation it made sense to me. Once armed with this insight I was able to understand the subjective states as transference and what had once felt intolerable now felt like valuable clinical information. However, if I had not had the supervision I might not been able to differentiate my feelings from what was in fact a classic Projective Identification as this is a psychological state that can be difficult to differentiate without a skilled someone on the sidelines.

All of the above is just my attempt to introduce you to the concept, in case this is an idea you are not yet familiar with( and I am sure that many of you are and/or have at least experienced this dynamic in your life with other humans). So when I got back from my trip to Portland I was feeling extremely numb. I felt that I wasn’t able to love. I couldn’t feel my heart. I felt totally disconnected from myself. I had no idea how I was feeling and my thoughts felt strangely distant. My inner life felt foggy and far away and when I tried to access it I felt like I was trying to make out the words and melodies to a song playing on a far away radio. It took me almost four full days for me to figure out that what I was feeling was in fact a Projective Identification.  It is not me who is numb and who can’t love or feel my heart or  can’t access my thoughts or feelings. I am, for all of my many faults, a person who loves, feels, and is totally connected with my inner life.  As soon as I recognized that I was in the midst of a P.I., and that I was feeling the feelings of another who shared my week long journey, I felt the way you do when you are dreaming and you know you are and you want to wake yourself up from it, but you can’t.  Don’t get me wrong, knowing it is a Projective Identification makes the pain of being numb less painful—yet I don’t feel fully out of it.

Igor is away on vacation this week and so I don’t have him to help me process all the feelings I had during the trip nor to help me free myself from the Projective Identification that I presently find myself in.  It helps to write about it. It helps to have to use my mind and words and notice how I feel as I write them, to do so feels a bit like how when your leg goes numb and you get up and try to shake out the numbness and tingling.  Strangely exercise also has helped. Last night was the first time since I broke my toe that I was able to run and feeling my body and my breath and feeling myself move through space also seemed to bring me back to myself a bit.  All that said, I still feel a little numb and a little distant and not 100% myself.

The good news is, that even though I have not woken from the Sleeping Beauty sleep of Projective Identification, I have been dreaming. I have been dreaming lovely dreams. Two nights ago I dreamt of being at a gorgeous Italian villa that belonged to a dear friend and I was very happy to be there. Last night I dreamt of an extremely positive Animus figure (i.e. a super hot guy who knew my soul) and we were very much in love. My Prince Charming was an artist who was working at Neiman Marcus doing art installations on all three levels of the store. All was well until we met my mother for lunch and then He left me. I chased after him in the parking lot and tried to get him back to me. I got him to come back into the store. When we went back into the store we saw this kind of sculptural office/playpen set up in which these two parents had created as a way to keep their kids close by as they worked. My Prince saw this and was upset that they had only one way to move and so he was going to create a swing (shaped like a tube) that would allow for more freedom of movement.  Both seem like surprisingly positive dreams considering how I am feeling.

Neiman’s, I think, is symbolic of a commercial palace—the kind of palace that I can, on occasion, be imprisoned by. Also, as dreams love word play, it is interesting to note that Erich Neumann was a writer who wrote the definitive work on the Great Mother archeptype. My positive animus is played by a Post-modern Prince Charming( an artist/ a creative/ a guy who works with ideas as the source of his creation). I believe this Prince has been sent by my psyche to wake me from the sleep that the dark witch(played by my mother in the dream). Only the dark witch separates me from the Prince in my dream—it is when I try to get nurturing from the feminine (go to lunch with her) that I lose the relationship with my Animus.

I leave the palace (the mother) and go to the parking lot (where drive is stored) and we come back together through his seeing children merged to their parents. The dream concludes with the Animus attempting to create more movement for the children. My Animus, I believe, is telling me that the way to reconnect with my Self and to separate from the dark mother is through creativity. I think he is telling me that there is a way to be connected to family without being imprisoned by them.  I wish that he would have just kissed me and woken me from this Projective Identification I find myself in and besides a kiss is much less work, and he was really hot.

Leaving in a S.U.V., do know when I’ll be back again

Tomorrow we are leaving. And I feel all kinds of nervous and fidgety and ill-prepared. I haven’t gone to the bank. My nails aren’t done. I have a pile of clothes on top of a bench in my bedroom–but as of yet there is nothing that has made into the yawning abyss of my orange suitcase. I do have my emergency kit packed. I am taking a large bottle of Ambien  even though I only need 10 of them; something about not taking the whole bottle makes me feel like maybe those ten little pills might get lost without a container holding them safely with all their other Ambien friends. Then there are the other mental health tools that I am carrying with me at all times: ear plugs, journal, I-phone, Ativan, Rescue Remedy, Calming aromatherapy oil, lavender hand cream, chocolate and Advil.

I am also taking books (more than I will be able to read in a week)–lots of books. Oh, you want to know which books? You Can Go Home Again: Reconnecting with Your Family,  The Myth of Sisyphus & Other Essays by Camus, The Plague by Camus too and a whole bunch of books on psychotherapy: In Session: The Bond Between Women and Their Therapists , Inside Therapy: Illuminating Writings About Therapists, Patients, and Psychotherapy, and Developments in Infant Observation: The Tavistock Model. I do think that there should be a couple of lighter books that might make for good vacation reading but the truth is that I am not really one for light books intended for vacation reading and, anyways, my book bag is already really heavy.

I thought I was going to make travel themed play-lists for the trip. I would create an amusing and inspired array of songs about travel and home coming and maybe about fathers. Maybe Vacation by the Go-Go’s, The Passenger by Iggy Pop, Graceland by Paul Simon, On The Road Again by Willy, and Daughters by John Mayer, etc. No such play-list exists. Then there was my plan to go to ToysRus and buy travel games. I thought it might be fun to play Scrabble on a magnetic board once I got tired of counting cows and I had run out of amusing things to say and He-weasel had gotten deep into the Zen of driving. However, I have not managed to make it to the store to buy Scrabble: The Travel Edition. I hate ToysRus. It is an evil store that those who are childless not by choice should never have to enter. Maybe it isn’t too late to make a play list.

I was hoping I would have a dream before the trip. We psychodynamic therapists are big on what dreams happened prior to big life events.  I have been waiting all week for such a dream. No dream. I am writing this Tuesday night…so there is still hope for a big dream or a little dream or some kind of dream that might give me the smallest clue about what my psyche thinks about this journey. I think that the reason that I am not dreaming this week is that I am really tired. I am the kind of tired that has you falling asleep during your favorite show. When He-weasel convinces me to get off the couch and go to bed, I am the kind of tired in which I seriously consider not brushing my teeth, washing my face or applying the various creams, potions and jams and jellies that make up my pre-sleep ritual. I have interpreted my extreme fatigue and my inability to wear anything for the last week but the same black Gap tank top, black yoga pants and a black long sleeved tee, that I wear when I get cold because the air conditioner is too high and yet if I turn it down I will be too hot, as a depression. Only I don’t know what I am depressed about. I have nothing to be depressed about. I have asked myself if maybe I do and if I do what it would be—no answers have come.

It’ll feel strange for 12 noon to come tomorrow and to not be at Igor’s. If I was there instead of driving on the 101 I would have told him about how K-LineMardel and I were Tweeting and how out of some jokey banter I came to realize, thanks to K-line, that I have this phobia that I have never told him about. Actually, I have never told anyone other than K-line and Mardel about it. He-weasel doesn’t even know and I didn’t even realize that I had never told him. When I go shopping I have a completely irrational fear that something will fall off the shelves and into my purse and I will leave the store and I will be stopped by store security and I will be in BIG trouble for stealing something that I didn’t take and I didn’t know that I had. The only way that I can preempt my fear of accidental shoplifting is to be sure that my purse is completely zipped up and snapped shut—even that doesn’t always prevent the anxiety. The theme of this fear is that I am afraid of getting in big trouble for something I didn’t do and that no one will believe that I didn’t do it. I think this all goes back to being born to parents who weren’t married. I arrived into my family BEING in BIG trouble even before I had taken my first breath. My Aunt wouldn’t talk to my Father because I was born. My grandparents disapproved of my arrival. I had, without doing anything, caused a lot of trouble. And I didn’t, for years, know why everyone was so upset. No one told me.

Last weekend I bought a pair of sandals at Macy’s. I decided that I wanted to wear the shoes out of the store. I sat down in the shoe department and I put my new shoes on in full view of the salesperson who had sold them to me, the shoes that I had paid for, and then I started to panic (mild panic). I imagined that store security didn’t see me pay for my shoes and that they were on their way  down to come and get me.  In preparation for their arrival I got out the receipt and  had it ready for theml and I walked nervously out the door—preparing to be stopped by security. No one stopped me. They never do. It has never happened. This fear is completely baseless and knowing that doesn’t stop me from having it.

Did I mention that as of yesterday I can no longer read the Tivo menu on the television without my glasses? That has to be symbolic of something. The timing of it is too weird to just write off as normal and devoid of  any  kind of greater meaning. Okay, gotta go, I have packing to do. Next time you hear from me I will be out of L.A.  I liked writing those words…I think I’ll do it again. I will be out of L.A.

Things that may have more meaning than would appear to the unsunglassed eye

Whenever something changes and all of a sudden I love something I previously hated or I stopped doing something I have always done  or something uncharacteristic happens, I have two choices,( at least) I can: 1) Ignore the change or 2) I can ask what is the meaning of this shift/change or desire is really about. Today I will do the later.

Lucky Charms

While they are magically delicious and that is enough reason to crave them if you are 12, I haven’t had any since I was in my 20′s and I can’t understand how this Irish themed cereal found its way into my consciousness. I tend to stay away from this LSD of cereal (seriously, who needs a cereal that creates avarice, greed and hallucinations of leprechauns). In my darkest days of depression my carbohydrate comfort food of cereal has come in the form of “oh Captain, my Captain“. But for the last couple of weeks I have found myself dreaming of pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, and green clovers. And I feel sure that there is no nutrient in this cereal that my body is craving as I feel sure that this cereal is devoid of all nutrients. So why Lucky Charms? Maybe because it is the only cereal inspired by the charm-bracelet( this is true) and I love a good charm bracelet. Maybe I feel the need to indulge my inner child. Perhaps I have been too much of a “High-fiber, no sugar and no TV until you have finished your homework” kind of mother to my inner-child. Maybe I need to lighten up ( even thought the LC will do nothing to help me lose any weight, so the only kind of lightening-up would be around internal rules). Or maybe I feel the need for some luck. Perhaps this cereal is the culinary equivalent of a rabbits foot or a good luck charm. It could be that I am trying to become more charming through my child-like food choices. I will admit that I caved  into my craving and I bought a box. If I hear from the agent and she takes me on as a client all of the credit will go the the cereal. So far no news, but I have only eaten one bowl.

Sunglasses

I have lost two pairs of sunglasses in the last month. Two. One pair were from Target so I didn’t shed any tears over them. The other pair came from Giorgio Armani and so there were metaphorical tears which led to metaphorical puffy eyes and the need for non-metaphorical sunglasses.  My take on the case of the missing glasses is that I need to see something clearly and maybe, like my reporter friend, I need to see and be seen in a different way. Or perhaps my perspective has changed and so it is time to put on a new lens of perspective. However this could just mean that I am careless and distracted and I need to stop treating $300 sunglasses like they were throw aways from Target.

All of a sudden I am finding “True Blood” to be boring

I think I don’t need to analyze this one. I just am not loving all the vampire/werewolf drama.

Ava the avocodo

I am not a house plant gal. It is enough that I manage to feed and water and walk Lily. I don’t have anything left over for a ficus trees or an indoor palm. I have never had a green thumb and if I did I would likely find my way to a dermatologist to see what kind of cream I needed to be rid of the unsightly affliction. When He-weasel and I decided to take the pit from an avocado that we had enjoyed and put toothpicks on it and let it grow roots and excitedly watch it grow big enough to plant, I knew something was going on. We are loving our new house guest, Ava the avocado. As of today Ava has 12 leaves. I am so excited about Ava that if I was tech savvy I would start an Ava the avocado cam so you too could watch Ava grow. Yes, I know that you might not find Ava’s growth as riveting as we do. But we are goo-goo-gaa-gaa over her. This has to mean something. Doesn’t it? We are excitedly watch something take root. We are dreaming of the day when Ava will be big enough to bear fruit. We have even discussed how at some point we might graft in another kind of avocado plant and produce our own variety of avocados and I have read broadly on the topic of the best plant food for my lovely Ava.

So what exactly are avocados symbolic of? The ancient Aztecs believed avocados were an aphrodisiac. The Aztecs called them Ahacatl which means “green testicle”. The Avocado is widely understood to be a symbol of love.  So we are growing roots, an aphrodisiac, a testicle, and love?  I am still confused. What about Ava? What does the name Ava mean? Life, serpent or bird, according to Thinkbabynames.com. Now I am even more confused.

I am mad for gorgeous older women with white hair

Yesterday I discovered Mary L. Tabor’s blog and it is gorgeous and I can’t wait to read her book—but that isn’t what I want to talk about today, I want to tell you that when I saw her I was awe struck by her hair and how gorgeous she is.  It made me realize how whenever I see a woman with white hair who is gorgeous I can’t stop myself from staring at them. Recently at Costco, in the frozen food section,there was a 60-something goddess with the most gorgeous head of white hair I have ever seen and I had to go up to her and tell her how beautiful she was. When I told her how I couldn’t help myself but tell her how beautiful she was the women lit up like I was Ed McMahon with a big check in one hand and a bouquet of helium balloons in the other. It was a really nice moment.

I think that my love of gorgeous women with white hair is an attempt at self-love. Because under my blondish-reddish mane lies a mass of white hair. I am a 100% white. No grey, no brown, no black…all white, all the time. And I think in my appreciation for Mary and Carmen Dell’Orefice and women like them, I am telling myself that white hair doesn’t mean death, decay, dentures and Depends.  White can be gorgeous, sexy and awe inspiring. It is easy to be gorgeous when you are 16. It takes a little more effort to be gorgeous at 70–but it can be done( great bone structure and a gorgeous face don’t hurt).

I am wanting to read Camus again

I haven’t read any French philosophy  in a long time —so long ago that I was sporting a Jennifer Anniston hairdo and I thought 30 was really old. So why the call to Camus now? Maybe it was all the stuff we talked about in our last session, I mean post. I think I am going to read the Myth of Sisyphus again. This last paragraph of Wikipedia’s description of Sisyphus is exceptionally meaningful: “The truly tragic moment, when the hero becomes conscious of his wretched condition. He does not have hope, but “[t]here is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.” Acknowledging the truth will conquer it; Sisyphus…keeps pushing. Camus claims that when Sisyphus acknowledges the futility of his task and the certainty of his fate, he is freed to realize the absurdity of his situation and to reach a state of contented acceptance…Camus concludes that “all is well,” indeed, that “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” All of this is ringing a few personal bells: he doesn’t have hope; must keep pushing; fate; freed by accepting the absurdity of the situation and that all is well.  This sounds like a recap of my last several posts.

I have had the J Crew Fall catalogue in my posession for the last week and I haven’t even looked at it once.

This is a weird one. Not sure what to make of it. Maybe, like with True Blood, maybe I am just bored with it.  Perhaps I just don’t care about J Crew as much as I used to. Or maybe it is just August and I don’t want to torture myself with the promise of Fall.

About Me

My name is Tracey, aka La Belette Rouge. I am a psychotherapist and the author of Freudian Sip @ Psychology Today. I blog about psychology, my therapy, dreams, writing, meaning making, home, longing, loss, infertility and other things that delight or inspire me. I try to make deep and elusive psychodynamic concepts accessible and funny. For more information, click here .

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