Specialness: all that is most important
What is the most important thing, to you? What does this do to you?
What is the most important thing, to you? What does this do to you?
I was thinking about whether or not psychotherapists care about people. Many don’t, I suppose. They’re rather introverted but they still seem every able to help other people become more themselves – which, in my mind, is all you can do.
But it strikes me that there is a difference between caring for people and looking after them. There’s a certain kind of psychotherapist I have often met who seems vey invested in something about who their client should be. These people don’t care. They look after people.
Looking after people, in the sense I am describing here, usually involves inhibiting them in ways that are not available for discussion. It’s often done secretly or coercively and has a relationship with what has become called ‘co-dependence’. In a way it treats them as mad while the person doing the ‘looking after’ is somehow removed from having to look into their motives with the help of someone else. We are not transparent to ourselves: never.
It doesn’t have to be like this. I might ‘look after’ myself, for example; but even in that there’s a sense I am somehow divorced from myself as I do this. I’m selfish to a point that might extend beyond reason.
Develop your outdoor-eye. That is, every day try and find something special: something you notice, a cat walking across the road in a particular way, a kind of a plant, or a part of a tree, or a strange bird in the sky, or a familiar little bird looking at you. Look into its eye. Life can’t happen without something special.
This is especially true if you’re stuck looking at a screen all day. Screens are predictable and demand your attention because of what you’ve been trained to expect … so look out of the window.
Buy good shoes, the best you can afford, and look after them.
The people responsible for developing social media, making mobile phones, positioning betting machines or marketing alcohol search for any opportunity to hook users in. Content is designed to exploit vulnerability: to find vulnerability in us all.
Mobile phones are not the problem, just as bottles aren’t for alcoholics. It’s the content that matters and, more than that, who’s holding them. What’s inside a mobile phone can be addictive if you need something to be addicted to. There isn’t a magic addiction germ in a text or a Facebook page any more than there is in cocaine, skunk or a bottle of Jack Daniels. Or a Fixed Odds betting terminal. Addiction comes in people. We self-medicate when our anxiety grows unbearable.
Of course there’s another side to this: that the things I’ve just mentioned are supplied by people who seem to be addicted to making money, amongst other things (a look at a the recent President’s Club ball will tell you a more comprehensive story). Money, money, money. The people responsible for developing social media, making mobile phones, positioning betting machines or marketing alcohol search for any opportunity to hook users in. Content is designed to exploit vulnerability: to find vulnerability in us all.
So what can you do? Get angry. Harness your anger like you’d saddle up the Immortal Horses and put your phone down. Stop wiping yourself out. Throw your bottles away.
Anger is the justice emotion: if you don’t know how to get angry, if you feel you can’t assert yourself … life will feel very unfair. You won’t feel part of life. You’ll feel anxious. And it’s anxiety, a reaction to not being present enough in the world (feeling left out, overlooked, ignored, not listened to, a failure, hopeless or any number of similar things), that leads to addiction.
There are ways of dealing with this. Get in touch if you’d like to know more.
It isn’t May, it’s January, and my keyboard insists it’s Cray May, nothing Crazy about it. First it started dropping r’s and then it was z’s after I tried to swap the spring thing under the r and z keys to make the r key work.
Mark E Smith, a genius, has died and I listened to some of his songs last night, on the floor, which was probably right. It’s still the same as when I was fifteen. I get ill after one song. There’s too much of what I like in what he did, like orange juice with the water evaporated out of it, super tart I’d imagine, or super sweet, depending on your orange. There was never anything diluted about the Fall.
You’d have to be an alcoholic to make music like that. You’d have to, or it would kill you off at the start rather than at the end. I suppose that’s why most music’s so boring. Survival strategy #1 for geniuses: you make anything amazing and it will probably kill you, so don’t. Either make do with something melodic that doesn’t hide how torn your heart really is, or do things very occasionally, or you will die. The options for geniuses are limited.
This is why most music is so awful. There are so many spaces to fill. And not only music, I hasten to add. For every book I buy there’s a possible place in a bin. For Each film I watch there’s a likely a wasted half hour, which is roughly how long I think you need to give a film before escaping. People are much the same.
You’d think being good at something would help, not kill you. How depressing. I shall now listen to Live at The Witch Trials.
As a psychotherapist, formerly as a teacher, and sometimes still as a writer, I have met so many people who have found reading difficult. At points in my life, in spite of my love of reading and of books, I have found it almost impossible.
It seems fashionable now to try and look for neurological or other, possibly related, organic reasons for why people find reading difficult – such as allergies. It’s easier to medicate something that seems to have a material cause.
Does this kind of diagnosis ever really help? I’ve met people who can read again, or perhaps for the first time, properly. But the ones I have know, although they feel somehow more free, also seem to have reached a point where something still seems blocked. They can absorb words from a page, but they can’t do things with them that they have an idea they might.
I can suggest here, very briefly, some things that may be blocking your relationship with written words. All of them are things which can be addressed without medication and outside of a classroom.
I should add that nobody I have known finds reading easy. Even the most avid reader has to connect with a book and that reader is sometimes the most lucid in being able to describe what can get in the way. For the sake of simplicity I have numbered these thoughts about reading difficulties. I am aware that if you are reading this you may be experiencing some of them.
I was really much more interested in antisocial, underground things, and I didn’t want anyone choosing material for me. Debbie Harry
I like Blondie. I could write a book about them; but I found this quote and it seems to say more than I’d ever manage to. It’s from an interview where Debbie Harry’s talking about liking X-Factor. But, would she have taken part? No, she wouldn’t.
Doing what other people tell you to do, when you could be doing something else, is fucking life up. There will always be things I can’t but do, but all the time I see people getting on with not doing their own thing because: they don’t seem to know their own thing very common; or they don’t see they’re being told to do something; or they want to get something and they’re happy to eat shit until they do.
Not she (who looks amazing).
or Things You Can Do With Fear.
Sometimes I find people hard to be around and it isn’t easy to work out why. Often I find a feeling that leads me to think of what’s occurring between myself and them as not quite real – that there’s something cartoonish happening, almost. The feeling is of fear, a particular feeling of fear, in the way that the bark on various kinds of tree can be so very different.
Why am I’m thinking of fear and bark together like this?
I thrive on this kind of question. It tends to take me to places that my thoughts don’t naturally go. So I think about how, when I was very young, my father used to have a dog that terrified me, that barked a lot, and that back then I often thought about my father as if he were a cartoon. As I got older I started seeing him as he was, but he still seemed to think about me in ways that never seemed to extend beyond something very basic, like a sketch of me he’d drawn once, at a distance. There was something very true about it and something extremely limited. I might as well have been frozen in space: easy to remember and indestructible.
The fear that I feel around people when I start sensing something cartoonish is going on (and cartoons allow for some very disturbing thoughts to be had amusingly, harmlessly and without getting into what isn’t a cartoon: flesh and blood for example, someone or something so fragile they are real) reminds me that I, the real me, might be the last person actually on someone else’s mind. I suspect that in some way they are very scared and might prefer not to imagine me as more than a glyph.
Who I am to them remains to be seen … but I feel a degree of confidence that I’m trying to remain open to who they could be.
Note: The dog was given away. The first time, I was told by my mother, the owners returned him because he seemed to be barking at ghosts.
People often write about change in psychotherapy. Fewer people seem to write about how changes are noticed and acted upon, especially in clinical teams. This piece is written for people working in teams and tries to suggest a few things about accountability among clinical groups.
When you see something that you believe someone has missed it can feel alarming. (I’ve heard it can also be gratifying.) There’s a kind of noticing which can either be constructive or divisive, depending on how it’s approached, and it goes like this: someone (a therapist, a counsellor, a nurse; let’s not get too hung up on titles right now) is responsible for a client, perhaps something goes wrong or a situation deteriorates, or nothing seems to be happening, and another person is invited in (hopefully by the first person) to take a look at that client as well. I’ve experienced this from both sides.
At worst, the person being called in might see what they call negligence. Negligence happens and is probably as likely as ever to happen now, although I won’t get into that here (if you’re interested, I imagine all would be revealed rather quickly if you watched Ken Loach’s latest film and then read some Adorno on administrative culture). More often I imagine that what might be regarded by the second person as having been ‘missed’ by the first person has actually been subject to one of, broadly speaking, three kinds of process.
The first person may have been aware of what has been ‘missed’ but chosen to approach it in a way that does not seem immediately obvious to the second (process one); or it could have been seen and not considered as important as the second person believes it to be (who may or may not be right in believing this – either way, this is process two); or it could have been become perceptible as a result of the way the first person has worked, but remained undetectable, immediately, to him or her, such are the defences at play (process three).
There’s much I would say about the first two categories of process listed above. It’s the third, however, that I want to say some more about here. If you have some kind of affinity to what’s usually called ‘psychoanalytic’ work then the third category is possibly one that you never let slip out of mind. But I think any experienced clinician, in fact anyone who’s had the regular experience of joining in with work someone else has begun, might recognise that some things will never be immediately perceptible to the people who begin to make them knowable.
Good clinical work is work from which something emerges over time. This calls for a kind of continuity in which accountability is isolated, as far as possible, from blame – where it’s sought after by the person accepting it, rather thrust upon them as part of a move to account for what apparently hasn’t happened, with no acknowledgement of ‘yet’.
The idea that clinical work can predictably happen in the time we would like to allocate to it is of course most seductive. Given the ways in which clients live their lives, how treatment is paid for, and how therapists work it’s almost too much to bear, to think that the most useful thing in someone’s treatment may be happening only unrecognisably so. But holding onto the idea that perhaps something hasn’t happened yet, and that some clinicians are going to complete what they see as their work without perhaps feeling with their client the greater sense of achievement that comes with a life ‘turning around’ calls for a rare and special kind of collaborative work.
Supervision and cooperation must hold strong without starting to become steely. Experience needs to be contained without being restricted or constricted; growth needs to happen while being shaped as little as possible by containing forces (directive work needs at some point to give way to a client finding his or her own direction).
Plato (the Timaeus), Heidegger (Was heißt Denken?, 1954 [What is Called Thinking?, trans. 1968]), Bion (Container and Contained, 1962) and Derrida (Sauf le Nom, 1993 [On the Name, trans. 1995]) wrote about this. Still, it seems somehow to so often become forgotten.
And of course I am not suggesting that certain other important things be forgotten, like looking closely at what is evident to everyone involved and making sure certain parameters are not exceeded: the ones written into the ethical codes we subscribe to and the bottom lines relating to the forms of treatment or engagement we begin. It would be a mistake, however, to believe these things are always decided beforehand, in another place, such as a room inhabited by a UKCP ethics committee. Things begun in those places have a life of their own, too.