an ambivalent heritage

PERSONAL VIEW

An Ambivalent Heritage

Rosemary Jackson

I have always felt a profound ambivalence towards the legacy of analysis and therapy,on both personal and political levels. This has taken me in and out of practice as apsychotherapist and in the summer of 1989, whilst still seeing clients, I found myselfwriting out some of the contradictions in the form of fiction. It started with a story about apsychodrama workshop - based loosely on a weekend I had attended - its protagonist beinga man familiar with psychoanalytic work and theory. He was highly sceptical of theapparently rapid healing on offer through the catharsis of group theatre and his doubts andmisgivings run through the resulting tale, `Future Perfect'. Like him, the narrative is tornbetween analytic insight and a less detached position that asks whether his scruples andknowledge are not after all the very things that prevent him from participating fully and sobenefiting from the experience.

Other stories quickly followed, exploring parallel and related themes, and a collectionof tales about psychotherapy emerged and was published early in 1991 - The Eye of theBuddha and Other Therapeutic Tales (Jackson 1991). There are many dilemmas beingworked out through them, but one of the key ones is the tension between what we mightterm `orthodox' analysis and more radical or `new age' alternatives. The title story, `TheEye of the Buddha', is perhaps the closest to an allegory of the various conflicts I wastrying to resolve. There an analyst (male) is married to a Buddhist (female), and although Iuse to the full the licence of fiction to exaggerate, their rather extreme positions are in factonly magnifications of arguments I have actually heard. On the one hand, thepsychoanalyst's dogmatic defence of his profession and what he regards as its monopolyon truth, on the other, the mystic's turning away from what she sees as the bigotries of adepressingly rational science - though her embrace of alternatives may be an even morefanatical and exclusive belief system. Their conflict comes to a dramatic head and putstheir marriage dangerously on the rocks, as Ilse attacks her husband's analytic colleaguesand assumptions.

'They're a dour lot, if you ask me ... no sense of humour, pompous, no that's not quite the rightword, sanctimonious: they've found their holy of holies in the psychoanalytic encounter andanything else is definitely, but most definitely, out. Garbage. And you're rapidly becoming one oftheir neophytes, and that really depresses me.' 'If only you'd go into analysis, you wouldn't feellike this. You're angry because you're feeling excluded, rejected.' 'Well who wouldn't with somany cold shoulders to rub against? Don't you see, Sam, I DON'T WANT TO HAVEANALYSIS, I DON'T NEED IT ANY MORE THAN MOST OF THIS GLOBAL VILLAGENEEDS IT, AND I'M NOT GOING TO HAVE IT. I need other routes to sanity. Other kinds ofpeace.' 'Oh, I know, Ilse. The mantra meditation exercise. Hands at solar plexus pointing to theearth. I am. I am at peace. I am a thought form of the universe of

Dr Rosemary A Jackson is a former university lecturer and practising psychotherapist. She nowwrites full-time. Address for correspondence: The Old Bakehouse, East Pennard, Somerset BA46TW.

British Journal of Psychotherapy, Vol 8(3), 1992© The author

308 British Journal of Psychotherapy

light. That's real sanity.' 'Oh, piss off, Samuel. You're always right, aren't you?' 'It would seem so.'

That was the rub. Behind their increasing sexual and emotional rift, this utter incompatibility ofideas about the path to truth. (p. 134)

The story leaves it open to where truth finally resides: in Samuel, the analyst, witherudite publications on narcissism to his name, or in Ilse who has renounced thetemptation of a talking cure for the equally seductive embrace of silence.

Obviously any fictional exploration, like a dream, is an attempt to resolvecontradictions in oneself, and I see now that in all the tales I was trying to name andclarify some of my own inner debates. But I share with Freud a conviction that ourindividual histories simultaneously contain with them phylogenic material, and that withinour separate struggles lie representative ones. Because I believe that many of the puzzlesand conflicts I have experienced around analysis and therapy are not mine alone, but arealso a mirror and manifestation of what is happening in the collective, I am writing thispersonal view. Firstly, from an autobiographical perspective very much from the inside,then moving into a more detached view which ponders on some of the implications for thetherapeutic world as a whole.

My first encounter with analysis was, in fact, a very academic one, which is possiblywhy I have found it hard to dis-invest it of many assumptions and projections of academicand masculine power. I lectured in literature for many years, and though I had initiallybeen drawn to Jung, a dauntingly clever colleague informed me this was my trouble. 'Youneed to take on Freud,' she told me. So I did. I positively drowned in him throughout thelate seventies and ended up writing a study of the fantastic in literature (Jackson 1981)which relied heavily on the theoretical work of Freud, Lacan and Kristeva, the popular 'heavies' at the time. So much for my conscious performance. My unconscious, however,had its own momentum, was unscathed by any of this sophistication and threw me out ofacademia in a very sudden fashion to face unemployment and the brick wall of my psychein the suburbs of North London.

It was the early 1980s and my life, to put it mildly, was in disarray. Yet I went onreading and studying psychoanalysis as if it held the key. I still read voraciously -progressing to Klein, Balint, Meltzer, Bion - and went to any lectures I could. I was surethat if only I could 'get in' to what felt like a very closed analytic cabal, I would beenlightened, but I had no money to embark on the costly training nor on private sessions,and I had to make do with abstract knowledge and second-hand experiential accounts. Myown 'work' on myself started soon after, with a transactional analyst of high repute, but thestrange thing was that the more we entered the uncharted territory of my unconscious, theless relevant the Freudian or Lacanian atlas became. I could find no connections betweenthem. My head paid automatic homage still but my heart and soul sailed off in entirelydifferent directions.

They took me next to the South West, and if I could have forgotten my analyticinsights, I could have found there grace abounding. For there was every kind ofalternative therapy burgeoning, radiating in the area around Bath and Glastonbury as if itwere the kingdom of the Grail. Gestalt, psychodrama, encounter groups, neoReichianbodywork, transpersonal psychology, workshops on death, life and transformation. Ilocated one of my stories there - 'The New Jerusalem' - an exploration of some of the moredubious qualities of new age practice (1991 p. 87):

Amazing mantra sounding phrases everywhere. If you can walk you can dance. if you can talk

Rosemary Jackson 309

you can sing. You Are Beautiful, You Are Free, You Are True: You Were Born That Way. Whatmore could one ask for? It's all here, the dawn of a new age, a new humanity!

But when the psyche is desperate for healing, it does not stop to discriminate. I didgestalt therapy for some time, then - frustrated by what I experienced as its shortcomings- looked around for something that would be more nutritious to intellect and soul. By thistime, my conscious mind had persuaded me back into teaching, but I was feeling yetagain that academic work was a terrible cul-de-sac, and the title of the department I wasin - School of Humanities - a vast misnomer.

I turned to humanistic psychotherapy as an attempt to move forwards on both fronts,personal and professional. I was fortunate enough to find a very good and experiencedtherapist to work with, then a part-time training programme and in time I saw clients whochallenged me on every level. For a while, I thought I had found my metier. Mind andheart no longer had to be split; conscious and unconscious dynamics could beincreasingly synchronised. But the context in which such work exists impinges onpersonal practice, and I grew increasingly disillusioned with psychotherapy as aprofession.

What I saw around me, as alternative therapy in the area expanded, was a terriblewar. Squabbles between one therapist and another, between one form of therapy andanother, schisms, back-biting and competitions that increase as 1992 gets nearer and thefight for accreditation is on. It was as if everything I had sensed was negative about `pure'analytic training - the exclusiveness, the rigidity - had given way to its opposite - abarbaric free-for all and, though much humanistic work pays more than lip-service toFreudian theory, I found it appalling that much of the training and practice I came acrosscould not even scrutinise the transference and counter-transference at work in its ownback yard. I even started to feel nostalgia for an analytic world I had never even had butimagined must exist.

In April 1988, I went off hopefully to University College, London, for the conferenceon Psychoanalysis and Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy, looking for a rational bridge thatmight heal a gap that felt to be ever-widening, a gap that was both internal and external. Isuspect it was some of the feelings left in me by that event that surfaced again in theBuddha stories, for far from showing me a way forwards, it confirmed a sense ofirreconcilability. When therapists queried any analytic privilege or premise, it wasinterpreted as `envy' - the classic way of dismissing attack. Indeed, every time I questionthat world now, the word envy comes flashing up like a green traffic light, and I have todoubly scrutinise my motives. But whatever the origins, that - and other - encounters withthe analytic community have left me angry. Angry at its reluctance to question its ownassumptions, angry at its accumulation of professional, intellectual and social supremacy.Angry at its cost - not only fiscal - angry at the difficulty of open dialogue with it.

Yet when I return to the chaos of the alternative world, a world increasingly desperatefor self-definition, institutional credibility and survival (euphemistically called `pluralistic'), I yearn for the meticulous thinking, the developed theories and excitementsof analysis, such light years away from the muddle-headed intellectual laziness prevalentin so much of the alternative sector. The more I see, and know, of individual practice, themore I lose respect for much of the 'new age' and the many Tom Cobbleys of alternativetherapy.

So where to go from there? How to act with integrity? I'd always found a lot of solace


in the work of women writing about their personal experience of analysis - MarieCardinal's The Words to Say It (1984), Nini Herman's My Kleinian Home (1988), H.Doolittle's Tribute to Freud (1970), Marion Milner, Alice Miller - and I did what they didand started to write.

Later, I found parallel articulations of some of my doubts in Peter Lomas' reassuringbook, The Limits of Interpretation (1987) and in Jeffrey Masson's strident critiqueAgainst Therapy (1990). Some of their convictions I shared: the intrinsic imbalance ofpower in the therapeutic relationship, for example, the supremacy of theory over humanreality, the readiness with which many therapists - orthodox and radical - have exploitedthe intimacy and dependency of the therapeutic relationship for their own sexual andfinancial ends. But I must have chosen to write fiction rather than non-fiction because Iwanted to use a language that could allow for paradox and depth - a language that canhold contradictions in tension and say yes and no simultaneously.

For one of the ironies of my book is that even those stories which offer some kind ofcritique of psychoanalysis -'The New Jerusalem', `The Eye of the Buddha', `The LastSession' - do so in such a paradoxical way that, far from undermining, they vindicate ananalytic reading of their plots. If in places a Freudian tradition comes under attack for itsself-righteousness, in others homage is paid to it as a tradition whose humanism cannot bequestioned. It is represented as a necessary antidote to many of the seductive offers ofnew age, fast food therapy, and welcomed for giving us a language in which to read themas the magical thought modes they so often are. There is an analytic sub-text throughoutthe tales, which provides an ironic reading of the anti-analytic heritage which has tried torefute it.

Once I had written The Eye of the Buddha, it was clear to me that my priority was nottherapy, but writing, but it took the writing and reception of it to make that known. Thetalking cure, for me, developed into a writing one, so gradually I wound down my ownpractice and once more entered a life of poverty. On a personal level, I can see that thiswhole pattern, this whole so-called trajectory, is the result of my unconscious strugglingtowards a form of life that best suits it. The dilemmas articulated through The Eye of theBuddha are not abstract debates about the status or situation of psychotherapy, but verylive issues in my own psyche as opposing factions - represented by, say the oppositionbetween Freud and new age, analysis and mysticism, masculine and feminine - playthemselves out.

On a personal level, too, if I take the self-analysis to an extreme, what I realise is thatI wrote the book as I was moving into the final stage of my own therapy. The act ofwriting it was itself a confirmation that I had found the work I wanted to do - notteaching, not therapy, but writing - but what I wrote was also a reflection of where I wasin relation to my own therapy at that particular time. As one reader has remarked: `Yougive therapists a bad press'. And this is true. Therapists in my book are fallible creatures.They make mistakes, they do not necessarily know more than their clients, they havemajor blind spots. I was unaware of it at the time, but the stories were one way in which Iliberated myself from my own therapy, so it is hardly surprising they are full of images oftherapists collapsing and disintegrating - my own way of `killing off the therapist - boththe one I was seeing, and the one I was being for others - the therapist role from which Ihad to disengage. Hence the pun of the book's sub-title - 'and other therapeutic tales' - isdoubly significant.

On a less personal level, there are other ways of saying similar things.


Freud himself knew that his heritage would not be an easy one. His reputeddeclaration as he sailed to the United States on his first visit was that he was introducing `the plague' - a graphic image of the Pandora's box that his work was to open. He rightlyanticipated considerable hostility and gave innumerable warnings to his followers thatthey would meet resistance to the spreading of his ideas. 'People just don't want to beenlightened', he told Jung (Mitchell 1974).

But hostility was more welcome to him than the supposed acceptance and assimilationof his theories that amounted to misrepresentation. He was deeply uneasy with theprospect of facile reproduction of his work - an impression of ease that militated againsthis more complex understanding of unconscious processes - and in this sense, repudiationof his ideas was something of a vindication. Better enmity that was explicit than imitationand derivation that altered the nature of the analytic enterprise in the name of continuingit.

This perhaps is one reason for the rigidity of training and protection around theanalytic enterprise. For when one looks at the plethora of alternative therapies that haveburgeoned under the shade of the analytic tree - some effective, no doubt, othersexploitative and self-deceived as well as deceiving - it is hard not to retreat into asomewhat purist position. One returns to Freud's words with a sense of relief at his refusalto compromise or to mask complexity. He never promised the instant or shortterm curesthat are part and parcel of so many new age therapies. 'My discoveries are not primarily aheal-all. My discoveries are a basis for a very grave philosophy. There are very few whounderstand this, there are very few who are capable of understanding this.'

This was not patriarchal arrogance but real acknowledgement. There are few peoplewho want to take the trouble to come to terms with their own unconscious processes: ourown age, with its craving of fast food for mind as well as body, bears out his fears.Wilhelm Reich made an unusually astute prediction in the 1920s, when he wrote 'Thoseanalysts who are optimistic about the popular propagation of psychoanalytic ideas aremaking a big mistake. It is precisely this popularization which is a symptom of thedecline of psychoanalysis' (Mitchell 1974), and you could say that his pessimism has beenendorsed by current trends.

The problem is that the two polarities provoke one another into ever greaterdifference. On the one hand, the rigidification of psychoanalysis into a defensiveorthodoxy, clinging more and more to its own rituals of institutionalised professionalismin order not to be subject to charges of quackery. And on the other, the spread ofpsychotherapies of all shapes and kinds, wandering further and further away from thetenets and tenor of their unacknowledged origins - and losing many essential qualities inthe process - not least of them the awareness of processes of transference and counter-transference, without which they are treading dangerously murky land.

As Anthony Clare (1981) pointed out in his critical examination of many of theseoffshoots - Let's Talk About Me - the very flavour of these new therapies is in directcontrast to the Freudian mainstream. Developing the ideas of Lasch, Wolfe, Roszak andRosen, Clare indicated how far the alternative therapies had moved from the austerities ofanalysis and were pursuing much more immediately pleasurable ends. Against analyticthoughtfulness and rigour, they posit freedom and liberation - the heady hedonism ofpersonal fulfilment and self-realisation. From Rogerian notions of self-actualisation,gestalt's spontaneity and self-awareness, EST, encounter groups, to the increasing cult ofthe physical body as the locus of satisfaction, the new therapies promise self-fulfilmentand betterment. Their dominant imagery is that of holism,


rebirth, healing, personal growth and their emphasis on self - self-actualisation,selffulfilment, with its roots in the 'me decade' - can be seen as symptomatic of that verynarcissism which Freud was at such pains to eradicate and understand.

The major unifying thread connecting these new age therapies is their ultimateoptimism, whereas Freud's stance was fundamentally pessimistic. He never believed inthe perfectibility of man: indeed, he regarded us as riddled with neuroses which wereuniversal in origin. It is this basic disbelief in human betterment which lies behindremarkable statements such as the one I quote from Freud as the epigraph to my bookJones 1961):

The unworthiness of human beings, even of analysts, has always made a deep impression on me,but why should analyzed people be altogether better than others? Analysis makes for unity, butnot necessarily for goodness.

Surely this absolution of the analytic profession from making morality a primeconsideration is something that has to be questioned? If a system and method as powerfuland influential as psychoanalysis does not have anything to do with how one behaves,with `bettering' in the simplest sense, then are we not being lumbered with anotherFrankenstein monster, a great body of knowledge without morality?

But a system that is based on a total lack of any spiritual faith is hardly going to putmorality high on its agenda and psychoanalysis is, after all, firmly rooted in atheism. Thisis what I regard as the major blind spot of Freud's heritage and it means that spirituality isstill one of the key areas which dominant psychiatry and psychotherapy have yet toaddress adequately. As Dorothy Rowe points out: 'Religious beliefs that patients hold are,at best unimportant, and, at worst, evidence of neurosis or psychosis' (Masson 1990).Such neglect is one of the inevitable results of a model of therapy built upon foundationsof atheism as marked and adamant as Freud's.

His - I believe mistaken - rejection of mysticism as being part of the same magicalthought mode as infantile or primitive superstition is a prejudice from which the Westernworld is still suffering - and will continue to suffer as long as dominant models ofpsychiatry perpetuate the confusion. In fact, since I first encountered Freud and histhought over a decade ago, I have come to regard his hostility to things of the spirit asmore and more disquieting. The more I think of it, the more his intransigent atheism feelsmore than anything else like a defence mechanism, a construction against his own fear ofthe unknown.

It was with thoughts like this in mind that I wrote the final story of the book, 'The LastSession'. For I came to be intrigued with how Freud might have reacted if, when he died,he found that human thought was not as powerful as he had assumed. What was it like forhim, I wondered, as he slipped away on the eve of World War Two, sensing theinhumanities about to be staged, if the god he had so vehemently denied was not a mythafter all, but existed as strongly as he had refuted him? How would he respond - do whathe had done in life and modify his ideas on the basis of hitherto unavailable evidence, orcontinue to deny, insist on dragging with him his denunciation of such notions asdelusory?

Of course, I have no way of knowing whether Freud was proved wrong or not, nor ofhow he might have responded, but 'The Last Session' is an imaginary reconstruction of thepossibilities (p. 196):

He had gestured towards the peak of an iceberg that cut down into bottomless seas, but only nowdid he begin to have an apprehension of the immeasurability of the world buried beneath.


A world of paradox, which was also above. He had approached with a kit of understanding andreason, but what a tiny flame before such dark enormity.

The `new age' therapies have tried to redress the imbalance produced by anexclusively materialistic model of analytic thought, and in this they owe much to Jung.Unlike Freud, they are characterised by a widespread optimism. Their dominant languageand imagery connote healing, rebirth, growth, perfection, transformation. And this is whythe two forms of therapy are so strongly polarised throughout my stories - they representcompletely different world views and, as such, it is hard to see how they can be madecompatible. One of the main ironies, though, as Clare suggests, is that the very thing thatpsychoanalysis had been intended to supplant and refute - mystical and religioussensibilities - have now been reinstated and become a central pivot of many new agetherapies. The therapist takes on the role of the secular priest, and psychotherapy assumesits function as the religion of a secular culture.

The institutionalisation of analysis has made it resistant to change. Far less than Freudare subsequent trainees and analysts now prepared to modify their theories in the light ofevidence. Even if Freud came back waving a crucifix with him, he would be ignored. Likeall institutions - religion, education - the institutionalisation of analysis has reified thevery thing it was established to keep alive. But that this should have happened topsychoanalysis, the most revolutionary of theories, with such potential for flux andmovement, with such emphasis on resisting stasis, is profoundly dispiriting.

As well as theoretical differences, the politics of analysis and therapy are equallyimportant. New therapies have, till now at least, been less hampered by the institutionalexclusiveness of psychoanalysis in its 'purest' form. They've been less obviously themonopoly of those who can afford on-going high fees, and because geographically morewidespread, have been more accessible. But as the spectre of 1992 looms closer and asalternative therapies desperately seek respectability through accreditation, they are nowcompelled to reproduce in miniature the hierarchical models they once repudiated.Controversies about training intensify; competitions between and within old and neworthodoxies become more bitter and more acute; one watches a depressing display offights for personal and ideological survival, with that undercurrent of sibling rivalryproviding an inevitable unconscious backdrop. Ilse witnesses it in 'The Eye of the Buddha'(p. 132):

She'd been moving between them with wine, peanuts, olives, catching fragments of theircompetitive talk about credentials. One had come from the B.A.P., another from the I.G.A., thatbalding overtalker from the W.P.F., letters shooting around, GAS, CAC, BAP, CAP, SAPP,YAPP, killing all illegitimates outside their own orthodoxies.

Even with the respectability conferred by accreditation, many Institute analysts do notwant to acknowledge the effectiveness of bastard therapies; nor do they want to takeseriously the criticisms that are perennially made against the institution of analysis as asocial and political practice. But we are in a social context that cannot afford such nicetiesand prejudice.

I still believe, as Anna Freud wrote to Max Schiller in 1946, that psychoanalysisoffers a perspective on human experience that nothing else can provide (Young- Bruehl1988):

I am so glad that you have begun to be a bit of a psychoanalyst. There is no time or age limit tothe pleasure and benefit one gains from looking at oneself and at other people that way. So far itis the only thing I know which makes this difficult life easy.


But as she also wrote, to Lou Andreas-Salome in 1926 (Young-Bruehl 1988):

It is not the analytical work that is so difficult, for one can accomplish that with some humanreason, it is the everlasting dealing with human fates. That comes even more to the fore if one isnot dealing with real pathology.

The everlasting dealing with human fates. The larger panorama that cannot benegotiated with human reason - the unpredictable play of events: the unnameablesomething that Freud and his heritage never quite accommodated. As the therapist reflectsin another of my tales, `Rough Edges' (p. 41):

Then it all became so much bigger, somehow, than Freud had envisaged: it was no longer just amatter of individual neurosis working through, but a collective destiny, a merging of fates, thatillegible system of concealed connections and paths to which (an Indian colleague) used to givethe name karma, but which here, unblessed with the recognition of words, remained all the moreconfusing.

What I try to reveal, through some of the complex patterns and plots that emerge inthe lives of the therapists and clients in my stories, is that we are constantly up againstrealities that are larger than reason, in its limited Western sense, can deal with. Theysuggest that one of the major limitations of psychoanalysis, with its pretensions to statusas science, is that it cannot be stretched to accommodate experience outside its ownmaterialistic discourse. Yet we live with that experience all the time.

There has to be some synthesis. The language of psychoanalysis and the less-verballanguage of other forms of therapy and knowing have to come together. In the end, theambivalence in my writing about psychotherapy is a sign of wanting the two worlds: ofmaintaining the insights that analysis permits and of insisting on the reality and value ofwhat its blind spots - spiritual and social - have hiterto tended to ignore.

Ambivalence, in the sense in which Freud developed the term from Bleuler, suggestsno resolution. Deep ambivalence of feeling, the most basic of oppositions felt at the sametime, `wherein affirmation and negation are simultaneous and inseparable.' The co-existence of love and hate in relation to the original love object. `Conflicts in which thepositive and negative components of the emotional attitude are simultaneously inevidence and inseparable, and where they constitute a non-dialectical opposition whichthe subject, saying 'yes' and `no' at the same time, is incapable of transcending' (Laplanche& Pontalis 1973). But when it comes to analysis, what is wrong with saying yes and no atthe same time? Jung did, after all.

It was Jung who said 'I have never encountered a difficulty that was not also truly thedifficulty of myself' (van der Post 1976). So now, thinking of the conflicts in the world ofpsychotherapy, I come back to the conflicts within myself. Outer and inner mirroring oneanother. If there are difficulties out there, it is in here that the solution has its roots, tryingto reconcile the part that wants to institutionalise and rigidify with the part that is intuitiveand chaotic. Masculine and feminine, they have to come together within us first.

Jung was there at the starting point of this journey, though I got deflected from him bymy clever colleague. Maybe he is also pointing the way to the end of it. For towards theend of my writing, I had a dream of him - Jung, sitting in the woods, quietly waiting.

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