Analysis Interminable
(March 02/06)
Six years ago this month I started a most incredible journey, an invasion, a tarriance, a mountainous trek into the innermost recessions of my self: psychoanalysis. I have pillage, plundered and marshaled salvos deep into the darkest crannies of my self, my unconscious self. Some were successful, others the cause for more excavation, further exhumations. I lost myself often, resurfacing in places and thoughts as yet unknown to me; places that needed to be explored and understood. Capturing moments, instances of substantiation, perhaps a second of blissful recognition of what it would be like to be ‘one’, at one with the autonomy of the self. My diggings brought me fear, happiness, anxieties, and peace, though often fleeting and undecipherable repose. I searched for beginnings and ends, moments and things in between, and those yet to become, those things on they’re way, those becomings.
Six years ago this month I started a most incredible journey, an invasion, a tarriance, a mountainous trek into the innermost recessions of my self: psychoanalysis. I have pillage, plundered and marshaled salvos deep into the darkest crannies of my self, my unconscious self. Some were successful, others the cause for more excavation, further exhumations. I lost myself often, resurfacing in places and thoughts as yet unknown to me; places that needed to be explored and understood. Capturing moments, instances of substantiation, perhaps a second of blissful recognition of what it would be like to be ‘one’, at one with the autonomy of the self. My diggings brought me fear, happiness, anxieties, and peace, though often fleeting and undecipherable repose. I searched for beginnings and ends, moments and things in between, and those yet to become, those things on they’re way, those becomings.
Being is a fractious term, one Heidegger, with his cunning linguistic inversions, left unfound and still becoming, being becoming Being. Freud has taught me much, tutored me in the salience of self, of ego, id and the self-destructive nature of the super ego. How to punish myself in lieu of a punisher, as a proxy to the punishing ‘other’, the paternal voice that reverberates and pounds one into sycophantic compliance. He showed me how to be more understanding, empathetic, seeing and listening for the slightest nuances in others tone, speech and feelings. A facial movement, a grimace of pain yet uncovered, concealed beneath years of repression and fear. Freud showed me the way out of the warren, the self-destructive coffer where I had lived a meager unfulfilling existence, a not quite there existence, a not being there.
There is never a right time, the perfect moment to end analysis, as it has no ending, no beginning, but a timelessness that ends with death, with the death of the self. After six years searching high and low in the tallow light of Plato’s Cave, I have learned much, those things and yet to be things that are indispensable to me, the becoming of me, the me as me. To Doctor M I offer my greatest thanks and warmest sentiments. Of hope, some fear, understanding and a feeling of autonomy, a sense of what it is, and could be, to be a self bereft of self-loathing, self-punition and fear of not meeting the expectations that were never expectations to begin with, but phantasies and a feeling of childish exclusion. No longer am I an Ego-less Id, I am that which Is, a self, me.
No comments:
Post a Comment