Jim’s Blog

In an early work, Jung wrote the following: “The neurotic is rather a person who can never have things as he would like them in the present, and who can therefore never enjoy the past either.”  It’s funny how often in psychological works, the “neurotic” is spoken of in the third person, as if the reader and author have no first-hand experience of neuroticism.  Using Jung’s definition, aren’t we all a little neurotic?  For me the striking thing about this sentence is the hope of change implied therein.  I may become aware of my present unhappiness not only in its own right but also as a manifestation of my not allowing myself to be satisfied with things as they are or not allowing myself to take the steps to change my situation so I will like it better. Every day and indeed every moment offers us a chance of becoming aware of our role in creating our dissatisfaction with the present.  The solution may not be available or clear, but framework is there: “How am I in this moment rejecting what is and longing for something different?  And what could I do differently?”  Even if I don’t know the root causes of my neuroses, I always have the ability to try to answer these questions.  At best, I change my situation and work through a block to my own peace.  At worst, my efforts produce no change but I get clearer about what is not true–still valuable!

From Fritz Perls’ The Gestalt Approach and Eyewitness to Therapy (1973, p. 65):

For awareness always takes place in the present.  It opens up possibilities for action.  Routine and habits are established functions, and any need to change them requires that they should be brought into the focus of awareness afresh.  The mere idea of changing them presupposes the possibility of alternative ways of thinking and acting.  Without awareness, there is no cognition of choice.  Awareness, contact, and present are merely different aspects of one and the same process–self-realization.  It is here and now that we become aware of all our choices, from small pathological decisions (is this pencil lying straight enough?) to the existential choice of devotion to a cause or avocation.

I grew up in a household where Dad was seemingly always angry in a slow-burn way.  He did his best to hide it but it came out in the tension of his body and the frequent muttering under his breath.  Mom was often depressed.  Looking back, I can see a woman frustrated by the limited options for a professional woman who also loved being a mother.  At the time, all I could understand is that somehow being at home with us kids made her unhappy.  Their unhappiness was palpable but indirectly expressed.  Mom might make a martyr’s statement about having to carry her burden, and Dad would deny that anything was ever wrong. In such an environment, I as a little child felt that things were wrong and suspected they were my fault but was clueless about what to do.  Maybe if I suffered too then it would make up for whatever I was doing wrong.  And maybe my distress would distract them from their problems and have them take care of me, which felt really good.  And the rage I feel about being in this confusing, frightening situation–well, where else can I turn it but inward?  The rage at them then becomes deep guilt and shame that I am hard to please or “demanding.” All in all, it’s a perfect recipe for suffering being the default feeling or way of being in the world.  But as a fish would not be able to describe water, so too I was largely unaware of the medium I was swimming around in.  Moments of satisfaction or joy were the exception to the rule.  It was not an easy path to figure out all of the above and get to a point where I was brave enough to hope for more from life than suffering and deferred gratification.  And it is still a strange world such that I have to guard against reverting to the old assumptions, passivity and helplessness.  We never fully arrive at a destination of contentment or satisfaction–more like a calculus differential, ever approaching infinity but never reaching it.

Insight and catharsis are fine, but the biggest struggle in therapy is putting new behavior in place.  In my own life, I have identified a pattern whereby when I was a kid, I received love when I fell apart.  And it seemed I received more love by falling apart than by taking care of things.  So even though the falling apart has not elicited the result I want in many years, a primitive part of me still keeps using that strategy. Choosing not to fall apart makes me feel very angry and very sad for a while.  But I know that in time I will feel good about having accomplished something.  And I make it that much easier to take care of things next time I fall apart.  But in the midst of feeling the strong emotions, I struggle to think and not trust these feelings this time.  That’s very hard to do especially for those of us who rely on our feelings as a way of making decisions and making sense of the world.

The most meaningful and productive therapeutic work that I have been a part of has resembled being in school–both for the client and the therapist.  Both participants enter the relationship with a keen curiosity about what will happen between them.  The client, of course, wants to learn what is causing her pain or stopping her from being who she wants to be.  Sometimes it is tempting as a client to come to therapy hoping the therapist will diagnose the problem and prescribe a course of action, but this is seldom enough to change whatever is not right.  Such a passive approach to therapy is a client’s way of saying, “I want relief but I don’t want the discomfort or pain associated with changing myself.”

The client who takes an active role in learning all she can about herself, the relationship with the therapist, and the tools the therapist is giving her makes the process come to life.  At the same time, she is teaching the therapist about herself.  So she is student and teacher simultaneously.

The therapist too is both student and teacher.  When I am working with someone, I am excited about the opportunity to instruct the client about using the tools my training and experience have given me.  And I am a student of the individual in front of me.  No matter how much training I have had, this person is unique.  It is quite possible that I am mistaken when I think I understand what she is saying.  And so therapy becomes a dialog of instruction, and the more actively involved each participant is, the livelier the therapy is and the more quickly the two of us move to new discoveries.

A name can be a powerful thing.  I’m struck with the elation my transgendered clients feels upon choosing a name that fits their true sex; being called “Jennifer” instead of “Steve” for the first time is like finally finding the suit of clothes that truly fits. Sometimes we wait, in effect holding our breath, until we achieve the status that we are aiming for.  But what is stopping us from being the thing we want to be right now?External acknowledgement and achievements are important supports for an identity, but ultimately, is it not we ourselves who determine who we are?  I may be employed as a cashier, but if I know inside that I’m an actor, doesn’t the check-out counter become a stage if I want it to be?  Or if I’m a teacher longing to be a businessman,  each interaction can become a form of commerce–perhaps not with money but using some other, less obvious currency. This is not wearing rose-colored glasses.  This is becoming the author and director of our own lives, using the actors and props available to us and giving the best performance we possibly can.  How will the thing we want to change ever change if we do not first believe that it has already begun to change.

How hard it is to be struggling for change and not to feel that change happen!  It does not seem fair–if I’m working this much and I’m doing the things I’ve been told to do to feel better, why isn’t it happening? I think two things trip us up in this situation.  One is that we have a vision of relief that is categorically different from what we’re feeling now.  We believe that if we try hard enough, we will have an a-ha experience that will produce irrevocable change and lead to the state that we have longed for.  There is an all-or-nothing error here.  Although we do at times experience life-changing epiphanies, they are not the change themselves but the bright flash of light that makes clearer the heretofore obscure situation we found ourselves in.  We still need to put into action the ideas that the epiphany produced. More often, lasting change comes about incrementally.  It is often so subtle that it is only in looking back over a period of months that we are able to appreciate the difference. The second thing that trips us up is that we focus on the goal rather than the process.  We think that when a certain set of circumstances change for us, then we will have arrived.  But of course that is not how life works, and that’s a good thing.  Would we really want to achieve a state in which there was no room for improvement or growth?  In the midst of our pain, perhaps we say yes.  But life is about the process rather than the goal.  Goals are important but more as a guiding light rather than as objects of devotion. It is the set of choices we make day to day, moment to moment that make up the sum of who we are. If my goal is to be a writer, then how much have I written today?  I do not somehow arrive at the identity of being a writer through some series of stratagems; I make the statement “I am a writer” true every day by writing–no matter how poorly.  If I seek to be outgoing, or confident, or skilled, I do not arrive at those states of being at some distant date.  I create the reality of being outgoing, confident, or skilled by doing those things, even if only I know that I’m doing them or even if my efforts fall short of how I would wish myself to be.  Life *is* change, and when we change with awareness, we are truly living.

A boundary is a psychological term that delineates the point at which the individual ends and that which is not the individual begins.  It is a fluid phenomenon, fluctuating over time and across different situations.  We hear about the importance of boundaries in reference to codependency–often an overly porous boundary leads to the individual being taken advantage of and having insufficient sense of self.  In Gestalt, we understand the boundary as the place of contact between the individual and the world.  We may choose to have lots of interaction across this boundary such as when we are taking from and giving to others or when we are actively grasping and taking in what we need form the environment.  This level of interaction creates high levels of stimulus and excitement; there is much to consider, evaluate, experience, integrate, or reject.  At these times we are taking in the raw materials of emotional growth and may be actively interested in growth and being influenced by what we come into contact with.At the extreme, the individual’s boundary might be so open that confluence might result.  Confluence is an interaction style in which the individual experiences little difference between themselves and the environment.  We may have a momentary experience of confluence with another person at the height of lovemaking or perhaps in a moment of intense, shared grief.  Confluence can become habitual, however, and when that happens we risk losing ourselves.  I may, intentionally or unintentionally, mould myself to the thoughts, emotions, and behaviors or another person or group of people such that I lose a sense of who I am.  Over time, life can become dull.  It is not merely the interchange of ideas and energy across the boundary that causes excitement but also the friction that results from the differences between the individual and the environment.  For example, think of how much livelier a conversation is with someone who has a different view of the world than with someone who agrees completely with all that you say.At other times, we may choose to create less porous boundaries between ourselves and the world.  At those times, our focus may be turned inwardly, and we may deflect energy from the environment away from us and retroflect or hold in energy, emotion, speech, or actions that we might otherwise put out into the environment.  These firmer boundaries serve us particularly well if we are in an unsafe environment or if we have just finished an exhausting period of growth or challenge such as completing a difficult class or coming home from a visit to the family in which we have stood up for ourselves.  The firmer boundaries may allow the time to integrate and consolidate the new experiences generated in the time of more open boundaries.  At the extreme, overly firm boundaries can isolate us emotionally.  I miss out on opportunities to interact with and learn from others because of the tight container I have constructed around myself.  Sometimes, the firm boundaries are selective, e.g., I may interact freely with my friends around offering and providing them things they need, but I may tightly control my spontaneous emotional reactions to them.  In this way, we often hold on to anger or resentment because we have introjected or taken in whole the belief that we are not allowed to express anger toward others.  The container around the anger allows no way of release or dissipation of the feeling, and so the anger builds over time.  As it builds, we devote more energy to reinforcing the container to the point that just living day to day can greatly tire us.  This is one of the ways that depression takes hold: we are stuck with intense feelings without any way of handling them and so the body overloads and shuts down.  I find it useful to check in with myself periodically and explore how rigid or loose my boundaries are at that moment.  Next I get curious about whether that level of porousness serves me or not.  In other words, do I want my boundaries to be this rigid or loose in this moment, or am I reverting to familiar ways of being?  For example, I may default to overly loose boundaries in that I assume others know better than I do and it’s best not to question or resist.  Or I may fall back on overly rigid boundaries because there was not adequate safety when I was a child, and I forget that my environment has changed since then.  Finally, once I have a sense of the boundaries I would like to have or try out, I may design ways of experimenting with a different boundary, e.g., taking the risk to voice a differing point of view when I usually keep quiet.  Or seeing what it’s like if I don’t take responsibility for my siblings problems. 

Our bodies are a treasure trove of information about what is going on with us. Here are some ideas for finding and making use of those treasures.

First, we must approach the process of detecting sensation and developing awareness with an open mind. That means getting interested in whatever we many learn from our bodies. We may have a particular focus, e.g., learning more about the depression I feel or a curiosity about a particular habit or a certain part of the body. But within that focus I will gather the richest results if I let myself be open to whatever arises.

I may begin the process by noticing my breath and scanning my body, becoming aware of any sensation–positive, negative, or neutral. I give myself time for the process to unfold and I know that any insights I develop may take time to present themselves. As I slowly become aware of the tightness in my shoulders, the full feeling in my legs, and a slight, twitchy feeling in my face, I spend some time just noticing each of these sensations. (I may also notice the absence of sensation.) Inevitably, one of these sensations will attract my attention more than the others.

At this point, I may focus on just that sensation and get curious about what else I can learn about it. If I am interested in the fullness in my legs, I may choose to experiment. For example, I may notice how the sensation changes as I sit compared to how I stand. How does it change when my legs are still as compared to when I walk or crouch? At this point, the experiments have no other purpose than to deepen my awareness of my legs. This approach requires patience. We so often want results or an answer from what we do. But if the answer were easy to discover, we would have discovered it before.

As I explore, I may feel emotions or think of images spontaneously. For example, as I stand on my legs and tighten them, I may feel a little fear or I may have an image of kicking someone. These may turn out to be valuable parts of the exploration. I need to go slowly and see what catches my attention. It is quite likely that the train of images, sensations, and emotions that I experience may be surprising and different from what I had expected. This is a good thing. If we stay only with what is expected and familiar, we lose access to other parts of our experience that for whatever reason are not easily accessible.

In this example, I may end this part of my exploration with some tantalizing bits of experience but with no coherent meaning. A fullness in my legs is heightened when I stand and tighten them; I feel some fear and an image of kicking someone when I exaggerate the tightening; I may also feel vaguely uncomfortable and want to stop focusing on my legs. What, you may ask, is the point of the exploration if the result is just this? Well, it is difficult to say. It may be that over time I will continue to be curious about my legs and will experiment at different times and have similar experiences. I may get curious about the experience and ask myself if it feels O.K. to have an image of kicking someone. Does that thought amuse me? Does it terrify me? Does it make me ashamed? And is the fear I feel similar to any other fear I am already familiar with? What is my experience if I stand but with my legs so loose that they barely hold me up (which is an exploration of the other end of a continuum of rigid leg/loose leg)?

The asking of these questions may or may not yield something profound or interesting. But engaging in this process regularly builds a supply of raw data about yourself and heightens your understanding of your body. As you think about and discuss with others what you notice, you have the opportunity to make connections and develop understanding out of the raw data you have mined.

Recently, I have been reading books by Caroline Myss who identifies herself as a “medical intuitive,” someone who senses the presence of medical issues or problems in an individual by being with that person and sensing her/his energy. At one point she writes that our bodies’ pains or discomforts may be valuable indicators of a system out of balance. Although there is a danger in being too literal about the correspondence between symptoms and psychological or spiritual issues (in my opinion), our bodies often can suggest points of exploration of our psychological reality. For example, in conversation when I feel restless or have a weighted feeling in my legs, neck, and shoulders, I have learned that I may be retroflecting, i.e. stopping myself from saying something I want to say.

These sensations are a gift my body gives me, but it would be easy to lose sight of this gift. Instead of getting curious about the sensations and exploring what they might mean for me, I might respond to them instead with irritation. What is upmost in my awareness, then, is not the original sensations but my reaction to them, and I may respond to the irritation with some form of escape such as drinking some alcohol, eating, sleeping, surfing the Internet.

As Myss says, most people seeking to learn how to be an intuitive like her already possess a good connection to their own intuition. Frequently, however, they do not trust or do not listen to what their intuition is saying. From a Gestalt perspective, I would say that I often do not take the time to get curious about the sensations–especially the unpleasant ones–and develop a sense of what is going on with me. Taking that time means being O.K. with being in the unpleasant sensation–something I like to avoid.

My goal for myself right now is to be grateful for the unpleasant sensations in my body and the chance to find out more about what they mean for me. The meaning may not come immediately or at all, but the quest for deeper understanding inevitably leads to being more genuinely myself and more awareness of all the parts of who I am. Soon I will say more about how to approach that process of developing sensation awareness and making meaning of that awareness.

I have read Myss’ “Sacred Contracts” and am currently reading “Spiritual Anatomy,” and I recommend both.