Being Authentic

I'm not sure when I heard Dr. B bring up the notion of authenticity.  It should be so easy to do, shouldn't it?   Just be yourself.  Say what you think.  Be who you are.  It's not even easy while lying on a couch in a somewhat safe sequestered space where someone is encouraging you to revel in your authenticity.

                                                   Authenticity 1, Sue Priest



Even more bewildering and frustrating is my wavering confidence that I am being authentic, even when that is probably the case.  I suspect the reason is that being authentic reveals so many different conflicting feelings.  Being authentic almost guarantees that you will sound inauthentic, or perhaps the better term is inconsistent (or by your detractors, hypocritical).

I've been practicing being authentic.  It is hard work.

Last summer, I got in touch with one of my oldest dearest friends.  We were childhood playmates and high school buddies.  During the seventies, we engaged in long thoughful phone conversations daily.  We parted ways when I left New York for south of the Mason Dixon Line.  Since then, we have reconnected briefly, a phone call here and there.  I was overjoyed when she flew down south for my wedding eighteen years ago.

So when our high school class started planning a 43rd Reunion (I suspect because we had all turned 60), my friend and I tentatively started to write emails back and forth.  This led to weekly, then semiweekly phone calls.  On the one hand, I experienced the cozy comfortable feeling of having someone in my life who seemed to have known me forever, who could anticipate my next sentence, and could empathize with with my unhappiness and my joy.  On the other hand, we discovered we had grown into adults with diverging beliefs about religion, politics, and healthcare (holistic vs. traditional).
 
Over the course of a few months,  it became apparent that my friend could not tolerate my authenticity.  I tried to stay clear of the subjects upon which we had different beliefs, but that severely limited the scope of our conversations.  Our connection broke one evening when I authentically told her about my religious beliefs, which are quite fuzzy.  I suppose I consider myself an agnostic, or perhaps just aperson who accepts there are questions which will always remain unanswered.  My friend is a follower of Sai Baba, a Hindu guru who died fairly recently.   Since, from her point of view, he still exists, she is still one of his devotees, although she has found a new personal guru.

Although I always accepted whatever she wanted and needed to tell me about her religious beliefs and practices, and how they influenced her daily experience, she was unable to accept mine.  In other words, there was no space for me to be authentic.  I tried to maintain our connection because our friendship has such a long history, because I do care about her, and primarily because she was a wonderful friend in some important ways.  Eventually though, I could not sustain the ruse.  We no longer speak.  We don't even exchange emails.  I miss her, but I can no longer tolerate a relationship where I am not permitted to be who I am.  Sometimes, being authentic has it costs.  In this case, I suffered a loss of a friend (at least for now), but at least I have me.

Prayers Answered

A woman I know has decided to proceed with her scheduled knee surgery tomorrow.  What was surprising to me is that she had waited to make her final decision until this morning.

                           The Lacemakers of Ghent at Prayer,  Max Silbert

She told me that she had been praying for a sign.  Her prayers were answered when she awoke this morning and discovered that the pain in her knee had become excruciating.  That was her sign.  As a result, she is calmly awaiting her twenty-minute laparoscopic procedure to repair a small meniscus tear.

I envied her faith.  I've talked to Dr. B. about my general lack of what people refer to these days as "faith".  Since she is my analyst, it is her job to "be with me" as she calls it.  She never outwardly shows any sign of whether she agrees or disagrees with my beliefs; rather, she attempts to experience the world through my belief system, or one might say, my non-belief system.  Frankly, I have no idea what her beliefs are.  That frustrates and annoys me.   I'd love to know.  It might help me have some faith.  But that would be cheating.

The Inner Judge

My inner judge is relentlessly telling me what I should and shouldn't do.  For example, I bought a red floral frilly blouse for the season.  I've always had a penchant for floral prints, and they seem to be in style this Spring.  On Thursday, I decided to wear it for the first time.  I am not exaggerating when I say that I spent about twenty minutes procrastinating as to whether I should  or should  not wear it.  Yes, ambivalence was kicking in full steam ahead.  Ambivalence emerged from a harsh place inside me.  "I adore this blouse and would love to wear it today, but, is this too young for me"?  Or even more harshly, "This IS too young for me".   I finally decided I would wear it because I like it and I wanted to, and when fully dressed thought I looked rather fine and frilly, indeed.  Still, my inner judge kept reminding me that perhaps I looked terribly foolish.  I imagined strangers saying to themselves, "What a ridiculous looking old woman".  But then, something remarkable happened.  At the end of my dance lesson that afternoon, a young man who couldn't have been more than 25 came into the studio to wait for his lesson.  Mind you,  I'm self-conscious just dancing alone with my instructor.  With an audience, I found myself stumbling and forgetting moves I thought my muscles had memorized.  So, when I left, I felt compelled to say to the young man, "I'm a BEGINNER!".  To my surprise, he said, "Well I'm a beginner, too.  Maybe we can dance together sometime.  You're pretty and you can dance". Pretty!!  Music to a sixty-plus woman's ears!  Although I suspect he was just being polite, I didn't care.  I'm so glad I permitted myself to wear my red floral frilly blouse.  Guess what?  I'm going to wear it again today.

Grief

Since I've entered analysis, I've revisited some old grief, and discovered some sublimated grief.  So much to grieve over, and so little time.  Death is such an obvious loss and, subsequently, an obvious source of grief (for most).  Yet despite, or perhaps because of my analytical ruminations regarding the death of my father when I was fourteen, it continues to hold a powerful grip on my psyche and I can't let go of the pain and sense of disbelief that he's gone.  As of late, it seems to have become even more intense. This permanent separation and its consequences never seem to lose their power to literally stop me in my tracks.

Anger

                                        Anger Managed, by Jason Nuttall





Most people who have entered into any type of psychodynamic therapy have probably been told that suppressing anger is a surefire way to induce depression. Why is it then, that it is so difficult to unload our anger at the appropriate time in an appropriate manner toward the actual source of our anger? I am still stewing over some month-old anger. I discussed this particular thunder cloud of anger in a previous post.  Now that I think of it, my ambivalence has fueled my anger in that case.  I've been trying not to misplace my anger.  As you probably know, if you have read this far, this is extremely hard to do.  I'm not depressed at the moment, but thinking about my rage and discussing it in analysis is certainly taking up a lot of my time.

Separation

My analyst will be "out of the office" for two weeks beginning Monday. I am dreading her absence. Last week, at the end of Thursday's session, my analyst did something entirely out of character for her. I was about to leave and had my coat on.  She stepped out of her office before I opened the door to leave and told me that I am unable to allow people in, including her.  As a result, I won't be able to keep her inside me when she leaves.  Thank you for that, I thought.  I also thought, we don't have enough time to process that before you leave next week.  Thank you, again.

Unfortunately, she was correct.  Separations have always resulted in tremendous anxiety, loneliness, and despair. I loathed sleep-overs.  Prior to leaving for summer camp, I would cry for months, and for at least a week after I had arrived.   I've been living in an empty bubble for as long as I can remember. At least since my father died. Decades and decades of emptiness. I am an aging analysand in an empty bubble.

Psychoanalysis is Lonely Work

              The Phrenological Location of Faculties and Organs of the Brain, William Windsor


I have been in analysis for almost five years with a wonderful analyst I will refer to as Dr. B. Psychoanalysis is not only hard work, it is lonely work. This might be a lonely blog.  At least I have begun to blog.