by Luba Palter, MFT

I have this secret passion, no, an obsession to see psychoanalysis everywhere. I hear it in music, in everyday conversations between non-therapist coworkers, during Judge Judy reruns, in line at the grocery store as I watch a cashier interact with a customer, while I listen to my favorite fiction author’s interview, and as I read poetry.

You might as well know this, if it has not become obvious by now, one of my goals as the Editor-In-Chief of Impulse has been to introduce psychoanalytic ideas in a relatable and approachable way. I want to take away the elusiveness and exclusiveness of analytic ideas. Perhaps not everybody needs this. But I have often felt intimidated in psychoanalytic circles because at times those environments felt overwhelming for someone who deeply feels first and thinks second. I mistakenly thought that I needed to know all the theories in order to have a coherent and intelligent conversation. I was certain that my version of analytic practice was not legitimate. That was my story. That is now an old story.

Psychoanalysis for me is the ability to plunge into the depths of who or what is in front of me, lose myself temporarily, and then come back to myself and think it through. A patient asked me recently why I do this work. I do this work because it connects me to the humanity of others and thus connects me to my own. I read in an old relational text that empathy is a boundary breach (Women’s Growth in Connection, 1991). To feel into the experience of another can be a temporary loss of self. For a moment, I am deep inside the terror of confusion, loss, and grief. I forget to breathe. I forget that I am sitting in my office, listening to my patient describe her struggle with food, her mother, and her aliveness. What do I need to come back into my body? Moments later I breathe into my separate body and return to my chair in my office. I come home to my heart and mind as I sift through where she and I just traveled together. Which piece of this communication does she need me to store for safe-keeping inside of me, what does she need me to metabolize, and what part of this information can come out into the room with us? What part of this storm is mine and was evoked by my old wounds? Which split-off piece of her psyche can travel back to her? I wonder what to share and what to take to consultation. Can I decipher this now? I listen for clues about what she could tolerate hearing from me now, what she needs from me at this moment, and remind myself to pay close attention to my own bodily cues and sensations.

This interweaving of psychoanalytic concepts, consultation, my personal work, and my internal experiences continues to fuel my growing and embodied experience of psychoanalysis.