Have you ever betrayed your analyst? – 7/2/2023 – The Worst of the Week
[ad_1]
Humberto wants to know if I’ve ever had two analysts at the same time, “without one knowing about the other”. The question would be very strange, were my answer not even more grotesque: I already had three analysts at the same time.
About six years ago, I attended a Winnicottian couple therapist (who chose the other side of the story to hold), a Lacanian analyst (who honored me with the most brilliant dry cuts, until I got pregnant, full of manias and passed having a mortal affliction of her washcloth forgotten on top of the desk) and a Jewish therapist and writer with whom I had very important maternal transferences and who gave me fundamental psychic support in the midst of crazy hormones.
The couple therapist was not part of my betrayal, she was the exclusive analyst of a little monster formed by the amalgamation of two individuals struggling to make their selfishness sound less grotesque when confronted. But the Lacanian and the Freudian thought they were unique and I never had the courage to tell them that my unconscious was jumping the fence (and my financial reserves were collapsing before me).
It is said of some traitors, regardless of gender or non-gender, that they are split beings, incapable of truly loving the partners with whom they have sex, or of satisfactorily smearing themselves with those they respect to the point of constituting a family. Therefore, to live a relationship that completes them, they always need two or more partners. Today I conclude that, at that time, I took this maxim into my life as an analysand.
The woman was my warm soup, my uterus, my schizoid lullaby (pregnancy can be quite paranoid) and she even gave me tips on books, series and movies. The man said uncomfortable things to me, he always translated my dreams into soap operas and his couch seemed to have needles or sharp thorns (I will never forget when he said, very seriously and sipping tea, that good anal sex without fear was the only thing that would solve a syndrome irritable bowel —which was definitely not an invitation, before some unsuspecting person wants to revoke the diploma of a profession without a diploma, was his very accurate explanation (I love the desire I had to use a word with ass here, for symptoms arising of repressed tyrannical perversions).
For more than three years, I kept both of them in my life. Stuffed with associations and interpretations, I began to imagine myself as that husband in the story by Nelson Rodrigues, forced to have dinner with his mistress and then at his own house (or was it the opposite?). I wondered, after all, which one was my house and which one was the lover? I would stay with the lover, certainly. Unable to answer, I ended up with both of them and today I only have one psychoanalyst. This yes, my home, my lover and my desire to stay somewhere. And that’s where, my friends, things got really complicated. But that’s for another text.
Tati Bernardi answers the most unusual questions and strangest comments from her readers. Do you want to participate in the O Pior da Semana column? Send your message to [email protected]
PRESENT LINK: Did you like this text? Subscriber can release five free hits of any link per day. Just click the blue F below.
[ad_2]
Source link
