July 2021
Quite a few years ago I had a client who it seemed didn’t wash often; his hands and, usually bare feet, were dirty and, frankly, he smelled. He wasn’t down and out, he had money and a house with working plumbing, but he just wasn’t aware of personal hygiene. I found it difficult being in the same room with him, having my own thing about cleanliness. I was rather too willing to dismiss him, except for the fact that my cat Paschie, loved him. She would race inside and get on his lap and stay there purring happily. He, in turn, was fond of her. He’d pat and talk gently to her. Through watching this interaction I learned probably more about this man than I could’ve just talking with him, at least in the short term.Sigmund Freud acquired a chow dog for his daughter, Anna, and then another for himself rather late in his life. This dog accompanied him into the therapeutic space and he observed what the dog did in relation to the patients. On one occasion the dog got up during a session and scratched at the door. Sigmund got up and opened the door and said, “You see, he couldn’t stand listening to all that resistance garbage. Now he is coming back to give you a second chance.” (p.76, I. Yalom, The Gift of Therapy)
The therapeutic space is not empty of personal encounter on a whole range of levels. The therapist’s idiosyncrasies, whether through the presence of a loved pet animal, the décor of the room, the person of therapist his/herself, is there for the client to engage with, or not. Contrary to what many think of psychoanalysis as a situation that provides a tabula rasa (an empty slate) for the patient to project all the contents of their unconscious onto the therapist in an act of transference, it is becoming clear that even Freud didn’t do this entirely. Freud’s room was filled lushly with Persian carpets, ancient figurines, and books. How could his patients remain unengaged? Traditionally patients had their eyes closed during the therapy, but not when they walked in and out of the room. In modern non-traditional psychoanalysis, bizarrely, the tabula rasa idea attempts to persist. This seems to me to require enormous cognitive calisthenics.
I am not a psychoanalyst and did the bulk of my training where the therapeutic encounter, the therapeutic conversation is paramount, so I make little attempt to conceal my presence in that encounter. I do dress professionally and don’t wear house clothes; my hair is brushed and I’m neat. My consulting room is comfortable, and idiosyncratic to a degree, but professional looking. My current cat, Pusski, sometimes comes in, but I always ask my client if this is alright for them. I need to note that I’m not talking here of self disclosure in the sense of revealing my personal life, except sometimes when directly asked, or if I want to suggest that the client’s worry is more common than they thought. Such disclosure is a therapeutic tool and it is not a self indulgence, nor an attempt to get the client to switch roles with me. That is unethical. I am talking about the here-and-now of ordinary encounter, found in the interaction of people in their environment.
Ordinary encounter has many levels to it already. It is interesting that what is an assumed awareness of the things in one’s environment isn’t necessarily so. I have a large Russian toy brown bear called Ruach (Hebrew for spirit, breath, mind) that sits in a corner of the room which not everyone notices. Yes, my clients are mostly preoccupied with their own worries, but seeing, or not, the things in their environment tells me a lot about them: information that comes in handy when I contemplate a therapeutic strategy.
As Freud’s dog and his Persian carpets created a unique comfortable therapeutic environment and tool for himself and his patients, so my room and the sometime presence of Pusski, is useful for me and my clients. All contribute to a place where healing can happen.
