Being a Shrink
“Are you seeing a psychiatrist?”
This question nowadays gets a punch in the nose, but for many decades it was an ice breaker to share a common positive ground. It implied you were intense, sensitive, interesting – and neurotic. For those too young to remember, a neurosis was a social, sexual, or personal maladjustment, real or imagined. You took your neurosis to a psychiatrist to be cured by analysis. This was based on Freud’s theory that people have repressed sexual matters resulting in mental illness – only a psychiatrist could get to the matter. And getting him to analyze them cost you plenty. This took years, but it left you completely scoured. You knew it was over when the psychiatrist explained you were happy now or ‘cured’. This was sometimes correlated with the doctor becoming bored you running out of money. If you had plenty of neurosis and money the end never came.
It couldn’t get any better. A few times a week a Magus concentrated on you alone. Like God, he knew you better than yourself, but unlike God he wasn’t going to punish you. Nothing was ultimately your doing or fault. Usually it was your mother’s. You were unique, complex and fascinating. You might question the GP, but you didn’t question the shrink.
Then, times changed. Rather than changing square pegs to fit round holes, people made square holes. People dropped the psychiatrists and started pouring out their souls to friends as you once did to the analyst.
Then the medications came. The primary care physician could prescribe them. We have pills to calm you down, perk you up, even out your mood swings, bring down the highs, and elevate the lows. We even have pills to convince people they are not the latest Prophet from God or being pursued by the FBI.
The pills work better, faster, and cheaper, However they struck a blow to the one’s pride. In analysis we were made up of things that were unique to us. Now we are merely a bunch of chemical imbalances common to anyone. Millions take the same antidepressant, the same traquilizer (usually at the same time each day) with the same good and adverse effects. It’s dull too. Medicine pills pay no attention to our motives and inner drives. The psychiatrists became like any other MD, doing 15 minute medicine check ups.
I miss the analysis. They made us interesting. Although we are saving money and getting better faster we are nothing special any more. Rather depressing.
This question nowadays gets a punch in the nose, but for many decades it was an ice breaker to share a common positive ground. It implied you were intense, sensitive, interesting – and neurotic. For those too young to remember, a neurosis was a social, sexual, or personal maladjustment, real or imagined. You took your neurosis to a psychiatrist to be cured by analysis. This was based on Freud’s theory that people have repressed sexual matters resulting in mental illness – only a psychiatrist could get to the matter. And getting him to analyze them cost you plenty. This took years, but it left you completely scoured. You knew it was over when the psychiatrist explained you were happy now or ‘cured’. This was sometimes correlated with the doctor becoming bored you running out of money. If you had plenty of neurosis and money the end never came.
It couldn’t get any better. A few times a week a Magus concentrated on you alone. Like God, he knew you better than yourself, but unlike God he wasn’t going to punish you. Nothing was ultimately your doing or fault. Usually it was your mother’s. You were unique, complex and fascinating. You might question the GP, but you didn’t question the shrink.
Then, times changed. Rather than changing square pegs to fit round holes, people made square holes. People dropped the psychiatrists and started pouring out their souls to friends as you once did to the analyst.
Then the medications came. The primary care physician could prescribe them. We have pills to calm you down, perk you up, even out your mood swings, bring down the highs, and elevate the lows. We even have pills to convince people they are not the latest Prophet from God or being pursued by the FBI.
The pills work better, faster, and cheaper, However they struck a blow to the one’s pride. In analysis we were made up of things that were unique to us. Now we are merely a bunch of chemical imbalances common to anyone. Millions take the same antidepressant, the same traquilizer (usually at the same time each day) with the same good and adverse effects. It’s dull too. Medicine pills pay no attention to our motives and inner drives. The psychiatrists became like any other MD, doing 15 minute medicine check ups.
I miss the analysis. They made us interesting. Although we are saving money and getting better faster we are nothing special any more. Rather depressing.
posted by Ur-spo at 7:06 AM
2 Comments:
I'm in therapy until I can swim and play piano. Not simultaneously, I might add. But since I can't perform either I'm using them as the big sign for my 'breakthrough' moment.
"...I think your mother was lessing than loving; her words can't hurt you any more. And, oh..by the way..you can now play the piano..."
I'm just saying.
I had equated therapy with the Roman Catholic sacrement of Confession. (I know they call it reconciliation now. I think confession is more appropriate.)
Confession, in its truest sense consisted of you going to a priest, telling him how horrible you are, and he tells you God loves you. You are not as horrible as you think you are. The things that seemed unmentionable and unforgivable can be brought out into the light and can be forgiven.
In therapy, you tell the therapist the horrible, terrible things about your life; the things that if people knew, they would hate you for. Then the therapist lets you know that you are still lovable and the therapist still cares about you, even now that he knows your deepest, darkest.
I think they both fulfilled the same purpose. Then confession became "make up some sins and get it over with." This way of thinking totally removes the actual "confession." And I think it is the confession that leads to healing.
(This from someone who has had over four years of therapy.)
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