Many people have wall charts in mind on which they get a gold star for concealing distressby Anna Blundy / November 13, 2014 / Leave a comment
“On Friday I went out, got drunk and embarrassed myself.” No, not me (or, at least, that’s not relevant here). My patient wept, telling me about The Shame of the morning after as though alone in having this experience, or because she felt so alone. She described scrolling through excruciating texts she didn’t remember sending, the concerned phone calls she received the next day. She was surprised that anybody could express concern over behaviour she had already judged to be abhorrent.
Desperate to know what, exactly, she had done, I listened to five more minutes of hangover remorse before ploughing in. I turned my question into an interpretation to satisfy the imaginary supervisor at my shoulder. “And I think you want me to wonder what exactly you did on Saturday night?” “I didn’t strip or anything!” she said. So, that’s what she assumes others think of her, or what she thinks of herself. “No. Well. I did dance a lot. Then I was flirting. But, the worst thing was—I cried. I was sitting on the pavement crying.”
Though she is a divorced mother of three with a successful career, she looked, at that moment, face streaming with tears, like a four year old in need of a cuddle, a glass of warm milk and a story. The thought of her on the floor with nobody to look after her was heartbreaking and, I thought, an accurate picture of her childhood acted out by her unconscious. It’s something I often think about patients (and not only patients)—they just need a cuddle, or they’ve never really had one. It is a touch simplistic, but I wonder if the containment of the consulting room and the acceptance of the therapist might serve as a virtual cuddle. But Kleinian theory (Melanie Klein was the foremost 20th-century post-Freudian theorist), the basis of my own training, is not very cuddly—all envious, greedy babies punishing their mother for her munificence.