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A Psychoanalytic Journey Published Weekly
Diary of a Psychoanalysis: Failure to Mean
31 — I forget everything that matters. Then I write it down.
I may entirely misrepresent my analyst. And psychoanalysis. And even myself. Beyond the words spoken, countless more remain unspoken, making each session a labyrinth where light cast onto one path leaves other paths shadowed in darkness. The words I share will be the ones from which I make meaning. That’s why this true story is all lies.
The lilacs are in bloom. For two weeks the entire city will swell with that earthy sweetness. It’s difficult to focus on a destination when I’m in my jeep, doors off, sun warm, wind cool, fragrance dizzying. It helps being in the jeep. Never in a hurry to get out, so never in a hurry to get anywhere.
Today in class, I learned about a psychotic woman who waited for her abusive father to die before she could go mad. Her madness was a communication, and she couldn’t bear to “tell” him what she knew. That had me thinking about mentalizing. Vacating the Symbolic Order gives you the wind, but you need the jeep. You can sit outside and breathe the blooms, but I like chasing the scent.
